This wasn’t like any of the other kisses we’d shared recently, quick and perfunctory, like acquaintances greeting each other. I didn’t pull back and neither did she, and the kiss took on a life of its own. And when we finally drew apart and I saw her expression, I knew with certainty that I’d done exactly the right thing.
Chapter Eleven
I was still reliving the kiss in the driveway when I got in the car to start my day. After swinging by the grocery store, I drove to Creekside. Instead of heading straight to the pond, however, I entered the building and walked to Noah’s room.
As always, the smell of antiseptic filled the air. Multicolored tiles and wide corridors reminded me of the hospital, and as I passed the entertainment room, I noticed that only a few of the tables and chairs were occupied. Two men were playing checkers in the corner, another few were watching a television that had been mounted on the wall. A nurse sat behind the main desk, her head bent, impervious to my presence.
The sounds of television followed me as I made my way down the hall, and it was a relief to enter Noah’s room. Unlike so many of the guests here, whose rooms seemed largely devoid of anything personal, Noah had made his room into something he could call his own. A painting by Allie—a flowering pond and garden scene reminiscent of Monet—hung on the wall above his rocking chair. On the shelves stood dozens of pictures of the children and of Allie; others had been tacked to the wall. His cardigan sweater was draped over the edge of the bed, and in the corner sat the battered rolltop desk that had once occupied the far wall of the family room in their home. The desk had originally been Noah’s father’s, and its age was reflected in the notches and grooves and ink stains from the fountain pens that Noah had always favored.
I knew that Noah sat here frequently in the evenings, for in the drawers were the possessions he treasured above all else: the hand-scripted notebook in which he’d memorialized his love affair with Allie, his leather-bound diaries whose pages were turning yellow with age, the hundreds of letters he’d written to Allie over the years, and the last letter she ever wrote to him. There were other items, too—dried flowers and newspaper clippings about Allie’s shows, special gifts from the children, the edition of Leaves of Grass by Walt Whitman that had been his companion throughout World War II.
Perhaps I was exhibiting my instincts as an estate lawyer, but I wondered what would become of the items when Noah was finally gone. How would it be possible to distribute these things among the children? The easiest solution would be to give everything to the children equally, but that posed its own problems. Who, for instance, would keep the notebook in their home? Whose drawer would house the letters or his diaries? It was one thing to divide the major assets, but how was it possible to divide the heart?
The drawers were unlocked. Although Noah would be back in his room in a day or two, I searched them for the items he would want with him at the hospital, tucking them under my arm.
Compared to the air-conditioned building, the air outside was stifling, and I started to perspire immediately. The courtyard was empty, as always. Walking along the gravel path, I looked for the root that had caused Noah’s fall. It took a moment for me to find it, at the base of a towering magnolia tree; it protruded across the path like a small snake stretching in the sun.
The brackish pond reflected the sky like a mirror, and for a moment I watched the clouds drifting slowly across the water. There was a faint odor of brine as I took my seat. The swan appeared from the shallows at the far end of the pond and drifted toward me.
I opened the loaf of Wonder Bread and tore the first piece into small bits, the way Noah always did. Tossing the first piece into the water, I wondered whether he’d been telling the truth in the hospital. Had the swan stayed with him throughout his ordeal? I had no doubt he saw the swan when he regained consciousness—the nurse who found him could vouch for that—but had the swan watched over him the whole time? Impossible to know for sure, but in my heart I believed it.
I wasn’t willing, however, to make the leap that Noah had. The swan, I told myself, had stayed because Noah fed and cared for it; it was more like a pet than a creature of the wild. It had nothing to do with Allie or her spirit. I simply couldn’t bring myself to believe that such things could happen.
The swan ignored the piece of bread I’d thrown to it; instead it simply watched me. Strange. When I tossed another piece, the swan glanced at it before swinging its head back in my direction.
“Eat,” I said, “I’ve got things to do.”
Beneath the surface, I could see the swan’s feet moving slowly, just enough to keep it in place.
“C’mon,” I urged under my breath, “you ate for me before.” I threw a third piece into the water, less than a few inches from where the swan floated. I heard the gentle tap as it hit the water. Again, the swan made no move toward it.
“Aren’t you hungry?” I asked.
Behind me, I heard the sprinklers come on, spurting air and water in a steady rhythm. I glanced over my shoulder toward Noah’s room, but the window only reflected the sun’s glare. Wondering what else to do, I threw a fourth piece of bread without luck.
“He asked me to come here,” I said.
The swan straightened its neck and ruffled its wings. I suddenly realized that I was doing the same thing that provoked concern about Noah: talking to the swan and pretending it could understand me.
Pretending it was Allie?
Of course not, I thought, pushing the voice away. People talked to dogs and cats, they talked to plants, they sometimes screamed at sporting events on the television. Jane and Kate shouldn’t be so concerned, I decided. Noah spent hours here every day; if anything, they should worry if he didn’t talk to the swan.
Then again, talking was one thing. Believing it was Allie was another. And Noah truly believed it.
The pieces of bread that I’d thrown were gone now. Waterlogged, they’d dissolved and sunk beneath the surface, but still the swan continued to watch me. I threw yet another piece, and when the swan made no move toward it, I glanced around to make sure that no one else was watching. Why not? I finally decided, and with that, I leaned forward.
“He’s doing fine,” I said. “I saw him yesterday and talked to the doctor this morning. He’ll be here tomorrow.”
The swan seemed to contemplate my words, and a moment later, I felt the hairs on the back of my neck rise as the swan began to eat.
At the hospital, I thought I’d entered the wrong room.
In all my years with Noah, I’d never seen him watch television. Though he had one in his home, it had been primarily for the children when they were young, and by the time I came into their lives, it was seldom turned on. Instead, most evenings were spent on the porch, where stories were told. Sometimes the family sang as Noah played guitar; other times they simply talked over the hum of crickets and cicadas. On cooler evenings, Noah would light a fire and the family would do the same things in the living room. On other nights, each of them would simply curl up on the couch or in the rocking chairs to read. For hours, the only sounds were of pages turning as all escaped into a different world, albeit in proximity to one another.
It was a throwback to an earlier era, one that cherished family time above all, and I looked forward to those evenings. They reminded me of those nights with my father as he worked on his ships and made me realize that while television was regarded as a form of escape, there was nothing calming or peaceful about it.
Noah had always managed to avoid it. Until this morning.
Pushing open the door, I was assaulted by the noise of the television. Noah was propped up in bed and staring at the screen. In my hand were the items I’d brought with me from his desk.
“Hello, Noah,” I said, but instead of responding with his usual greeting, he turned toward me with a look of incredulity.
“C’mere,” he said, motioning toward me, “you won’t believe what they’re showing right now.”
I moved into the room. “What are you watching?”
“I don’t know,” he said, still focused on the screen. “Some kind of talk show. I thought it would be like Johnny Carson, but it’s not. You can’t imagine what they’re talking about.”
My mind immediately conjured up a series of vulgar programs, the kind that always made me wonder how their producers could sleep at night. Sure enough, the station was tuned to one of them. I didn’t need to know the topic to know what he’d seen; for the most part, they all featured the same disgusting topics, told as luridly as possible by guests whose single goal, it seemed, was to be on television, no matter how degraded they were made to look.
“Why would you choose a show like that?”
“I didn’t even know it was on,” he explained. “I was looking for the news, then there was a commercial, and this came on. And when I saw what was going on, I couldn’t help but watch. It was like staring at an accident on the side of the highway.”
I sat on the bed beside him. “That bad?”
“Let’s just say I wouldn’t want to be young these days. Society’s going downhill fast, and I’m glad that I won’t be around to see it crash.” I smiled. “You’re sounding your age, Noah.”
“Maybe, but that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.” He shook his head and picked up the remote. A moment later, the room was quiet.
I set down the items I’d brought from his room.
“I thought you might like these to help you pass the time. Unless you’d rather watch television, of course.”
His face softened as he saw the stack of letters and Whitman’s Leaves of Grass.
The pages of the book, thumbed through a thousand times, looked almost swollen.
He ran his finger over the tattered cover. “You’re a good man, Wilson,” he said.
“I take it you just went to the pond.”
“Four pieces in the morning,” I informed him.
“How was she today?”
I shifted on the bed, wondering how to answer.
“I think she missed you,” I offered at last.
He nodded, pleased. Shifting up straighter in the bed, he asked, “So Jane’s off with Anna?”
“They’re probably still driving. They left an hour ago.”
“And Leslie?”
“She’s meeting them in Raleigh.”
“This is really going to be something,” he said. “The weekend, I mean. How’s everything from your end? With the house?”
“So far, so good,” I started. “My hope is that it’ll be ready by Thursday, and I’m pretty sure it will be.”
“What’s on your agenda today?”
I told him what I planned, and when I finished, he whistled appreciatively.
“Sounds like you’ve got quite a bit on your plate,” he said.
“I suppose,” I said. “But so far, I’ve been lucky.”
“I’ll say,” he said. “Except for me, of course. My stumble could have ruined everything.”
“I told you I’ve been lucky.”
He raised his chin slightly. “What about your anniversary?” he asked.
My mind flashed to the many hours I’d spent preparing for the anniversary—all the phone calls, all the trips to the post office box and various stores. I’d worked on the gift during spare moments in the office and at lunchtime and had thought long and hard about the best way to present it. Everyone in the office knew what I’d planned, although they’d been sworn to secrecy. More than that, they’d been incredibly supportive; the gift was not something I could have put together alone.
“Thursday night,” I said. “It seems like it’ll be the only chance we get. She’s gone tonight, tomorrow she’ll probably want to see you, and on Friday, Joseph and Leslie will be here. Of course, Saturday’s out for obvious reasons.” I paused. “I just hope she likes it.”
He smiled. “I wouldn’t worry about it, Wilson. You couldn’t have picked a better gift if you had all the money in the world.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“I am. And I can’t imagine a better start to the weekend.” The sincerity in his voice warmed me, and I was touched that he seemed so fond of me, despite how different we were.
“You’re the one who gave me the idea,” I reminded him.
Noah shook his head. “No,” he said, “it was all you. Gifts of the heart can’t be claimed by anyone except the giver.” He patted his chest to emphasize the point.
“Allie would love what you’ve done,” he remarked. “She was always a softie when it came to things like this.”
I folded my hands in my lap. “I wish she could be there this weekend.” Noah glanced at the stack of letters. I knew he was imagining Allie, and for a brief moment, he looked strangely younger.
“So do I,” he said.
Heat seemed to scald the soles of my feet as I walked through the parking lot.
In the distance, buildings looked as if they were made of liquid, and I could feel my shirt tacking itself to my back.
Once in the car, I headed for the winding country roads that were as familiar as the streets of my own neighborhood. There was an austere beauty to the coastal lowlands, and I wove past farms and tobacco barns that looked almost abandoned.
Strands of loblolly pines separated one farm from the next, and I caught sight of a tractor moving in the distance, a cloud of dirt and dust rising behind it.
From certain points in the road, it was possible to see the Trent River, the slow waters rippling in the sunlight. Oaks and cypress trees lined the banks, their white trunks and knotted roots casting gnarled shadows. Spanish moss hung from the branches, and as the farms gradually gave way to forest, I imagined that the sprawling trees I saw from behind my windshield were the same trees that both Union and Confederate soldiers had seen when they marched through the area.