“Just like when you got Chiang.”
“Exactly. He couldn’t accept that a dog could give me something he couldn’t. Now he can’t accept that Forrest can.”
“Is it mainly because Forrest can’t see?” Icy’s voice was gentle.
“Mostly, though he’d never admit it. Pretty narrow minded, huh? But it’s also because Forrest doesn’t have any money, and he’s so far away. He thinks Ramona is Indian territory.”
“Do you have the same doubts he does?”
“Not a shred.”
“Can’t you just leave anyway?”
“Oh, Icy, you don’t have a father, so you don’t know.” A tear, either from the wind or her anguish, trailed an itchy path down her cheek. “All that growing-up I thought I did at The Seeing Eye, it’s gone. I feel like a little kid.” She turned her face to the window. She smelled the acrid odor of burning leaves. “Do you see anybody burning leaves?”
“No.”
“Must be someone doing it, though, somewhere.” She slumped down farther in the seat and rested her head on the window frame. The wind blew her hair back from her forehead. “I don’t think he ever really thought I’d get married to anybody.” In this she had tapped the underlying fear of her life. It hung out there, naked and true. Only to Icy could she have said it. They rode for a few miles without speaking until the coolness of early evening made her roll up the window.
Fall slipped into the long, white wait of winter. Never could Jean be as honest with Mother as she was with Icy. Mother was, after all, Father’s wife. Telling Mother was too close to telling Father just what she thought.
“All you can do is wait and hope,” Mother kept saying.
“That’s all I have been doing. For months.”
Spring came, the season of new beginnings, but no renewed hope welled up in her. There was only a dull ache. Waiting hadn’t accomplished anything.
She noticed that one thing Mother never said was, “I know how you must feel.” Even that would have been something. But, no, Mother couldn’t even bring herself to say that. Maybe because she didn’t feel it. How could Mother read Forrest’s letters for nearly a year and not know how she was feeling? She could only hope the good in this man would be filtered through Mother to Father. In a sense, each week’s letter brought that possibility. Once Forrest let it out that every week he paid back a few dollars to his sister for the ring. Another time he wrote, “Our mothers are reading so much from each of us it’s a wonder they don’t fall in love and get married.” At least that made Mother laugh.
One letter said, “Bought more cattle this week. Now we’ve got 40 head plus the milk cows. What would the governor think of that?”
“What’s that about?” asked Mother.
“Oh, he means Father.” She knew Mother missed the most important word in that sentence. We.
Chapter Seventeen
In the spring, Forrest’s frustration reached the breaking point. He wrote directly to Mr. Treadway:
I can understand why you are hesitant to let your daughter start a new life out here with me, and I don’t want to hold back any truth about who I am or what I have. I don’t earn a lot, but I work hard and I aim to continue if and when you allow your daughter to marry me.
In great earnestness he detailed to Mr. Treadway his assets, his current jobs and his prospects.
I’ll wash windows, I’ll muck stalls, I’ll do anything to prove to you that I can be a worthy husband, if you would give me that chance.
It was a desperation effort.
Three weeks later, Alice announced, “Mail’s here. Letter for you, Forrest, from Mr. Morton Treadway.”
Forrest swallowed. “Lemme hear it.”
Alice got past brief opening formalities, then stopped abruptly.
“Go on. Isn’t there anything else?”
“‘I fear she would lead a sedentary life. Marriage doesn’t work on love alone. The issue is closed.’”
After a moment of stillness, Forrest asked Alice to look up
sedentary
in the dictionary: “Characterized by or requiring a sitting posture; accustomed to move about little,” she read.
He flew into a rage. “The old man has it all wrong.” He stormed through the cabin, bumping his shin on the coffee table. “What does he know? He’s never met me, and he never saw Jean out here on the ranch. Come on, Alice. We’re going for a ride.”
They saddled up quickly and took off at a gallop. The sun was high, and the heat of the day made the horses strain.
“That man doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Forrest shouted. The two horses ran side by side, and for a while he rode in steamy silence, gripped by the agony of being misjudged, the frustration of not being permitted to do what he knew he could do. The trouble with kindness toward people who can’t see, he thought, is that everyone thinks he knows what you can do better than you do. But this man should know. Because of Jean he should know better than the rest of the world. That made his letter hurt all the more.
“Talk about sight. Her father has about as much sight as a mosquito with a blindfold on.”
They went to Indian Rock, their usual ride, but Forrest didn’t stop there.
“Sedentary, hell.” He spurred Snort. “He probably sits at a desk all day in a fancy office.”
Alice sneezed in the dust raised by Snort’s hooves. She had to spur Pronto to keep up and ahead of Forrest.
“Sits there making money so he can give his family the perfect life.”
They crossed the valley and cantered up the hills on the other side, working the horses hard.
“I guess that’s not far different from what I’d like to do—work hard to give a family a good life.” The thought melted some of his anger. He slowed Snort to a lope, stroked him on the neck and found him wet.
“Let’s let ’em walk, Alice.”
Alice breathed heavily. “Good.” They took another route home and walked the horses in silence for a while.
“What’s the old man testing, anyway? Trial by endurance?”
“He probably doesn’t trust any love based on only two weeks of time together,” Alice said.
“But we aren’t kids.”
After they crossed the highway and the horses were on the dirt of the Holly property, Forrest dismounted and walked next to Snort back to the barn. By the time they got to the corral, Snort’s side wasn’t heaving any more and his breath was back to normal.
“I’ll take care of the horses, Allego.”
“You haven’t called me that since we were kids.”
“You go on back. Thanks for the ride.” Dust coated the inside of his mouth.
The horses walked to the hitching rail. Forrest kept his hand moving over Snort’s neck and head as he reached for the bridle. He felt foam. “Oh yeah, you’ve had a little exercise, haven’t ya? And it’s mighty hot, too.” Forrest spoke softly. He removed the saddles and blankets and slung them over the corral rail to air. One at a time he ran his hands down over the horses’ thighs and hamstrings and felt their hocks and fetlocks. He leaned against their haunches and picked up their hind legs to examine the hooves. He discovered a few stones and picked them out, then went to the front legs.
He supposed the old man was just trying to take care of someone he loves. Grudgingly, he allowed him that. He led both horses into the barn, up to the feed trough, and fed them oats and molasses. He reached for the curry comb where he kept it on the shelf and gently curried the sweaty hide. Then, with long strokes, he brushed down the neck, withers, back, shoulders and flanks, then the legs, the mane and forelock and tail, loving the feel of the animals, prolonging the task. This time alone with the horses was always precious to Forrest, a time for communication of love by touch. He did his most serious thinking when tending the horses. Over the years much of his own pain had abated in this healing atmosphere. He did all he could for the horses that had performed for him, and then he let them out to the corral and water trough. He went back into the barn and came out with a flake of hay for each one.
The sun slanted on his face at a low angle, but it was still hot. He stood awhile and then walked back into the coolness of the barn and slumped on a bale of hay. He sat motionless, beaten, until he heard someone come into the darkened barn.
“You in here, Forrest?”
It was his oldest sister, Elizabeth, home for a visit. He’d learned much from her while he was growing up. Once he’d told Jean “I went to school to her.” Her very presence soothed him.
He grunted. His forehead felt tight, drawn into a scowl.
She came to him slowly. “Forrest, you know you’re going to have to love that man.” The words exploded in his ears even though her voice was soft. “Especially if he’s going to be your father-in-law.”
“But he doesn’t have the right—”
“Your willfulness isn’t going to make him change his mind, so you’d better stop being so self-righteous and begin to see him as only loving the same woman you love. Maybe he’s not loving her the way you think he should, but it’s still love.”
That was a big idea for him to chew on. He remembered he’d said nearly the same words to him on the phone more than a year ago, a big idea to chew on. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t even move.
“Think about it, Forrest. If I were in Jean’s place, Dad might have done the same thing.” Elizabeth touched him on the arm just above the elbow for a moment. A cat meowed. Then he heard her go back to the house.
He picked out a piece of straw from the bale and bit down on it, but his throat was tight and dry and his mouth tasted sour. He spit it out. He hated to admit she was right. His anger felt better than her calmness. Yet staying angry would be a denial of his private ethic, the affirmation of the power of love. Love had power. He’d seen it before with his own dad. And love could be felt even when it’s not said. He knew his horses felt it when he curried them.
Idly, he wondered if he could think something kindly about the governor for five minutes solid without any resentment creeping in. He heard the cat meow every once in a while. He decided to try to think kindly about the governor from one meow to another without thinking anything negative about him. Any shred of anger and he had to start again, he told himself. When the cat meowed, Forrest went over in his mind all the good things Mr. Treadway had done for Jean. How he had given her a good education, how he sent her on wonderful trips, how he provided music lessons. He thought how he had lent that neighbor kid money to go to college even after he’d caught him peeking in the window. A lot of good the old man’s generosity did now. Misplaced, it was. And maybe even phoney. Why can’t he be as tolerant with me when I have such good intentions?
He felt himself heating up again. Each time he started out with new resolve but each time he spoiled it by frustrated bitterness. His stubbornness wouldn’t let him give up. When the cat meowed, he started again. He had no idea how long he sat on the bale of hay wrestling with his resentment. Sedentary, he thought, and chortled. This time he caught himself before he went further. Eventually he did it. He filled the time between two meows with only positive thoughts of this father from the east who thought protection was love. He felt he’d washed himself clean of rebelliousness. He stood up, stretched, and made his way toward the corral to get Victor Mature to help him find the cows. The air was cooler. He thought the sun must be setting low over the mountains to the west. Late again for the cows. That wasn’t kind to them. He shuffled along faster.
Summer came and the Treadways ate their breakfast on the screened porch outside the dining room. Early morning on the east side of the house was the nicest time of day. A slight breeze brought gooseflesh on Jean’s arms. She heard the leaves brush against each other on the hickory trees in the grove. She heard the cicadas as she had every summer as long as she could remember. She heard the sound of silver on china, and she heard Father put down his newspaper.
“Well, if we’re going to have a wedding here, we’d better think about putting up an awning on the terrace just in case it rains.”
Jean froze. Mother didn’t say a word. Neither did Lucy. The sounds of silver on china stopped. Father folded up his paper and walked into the house. Jean pinched her eyes closed. Let me be awake. Let this be real. She didn’t dare say anything until she heard his car leave for work.
“Did I hear him right? Did you hear him Lucy?”
No one said anything.
“Does he mean it?”
“He wouldn’t have said it if he didn’t mean it,” Mother said.
“He’s never gone back on anything he ever said that I can remember,” Lucy joined in.
“What made him change his mind?”
“I don’t know,” Mother said, “but it doesn’t surprise me. The major things have always had to be his decisions.”
The reality began to register. It was as though some wall of suspicion had been penetrated, some mental breakthrough had taken place, some prejudice had dissolved.
“Then why wait any longer. I’ve waited forever. I’ve got to tell Forrest. I’ve got to call him. No, he’s still asleep there. Let’s plan it right now.”
“Right this minute, Jean? You haven’t finished your breakfast.”
“So what?”
Jean stood up quickly. The wrought iron chair caught on a crack in the cement and tipped over backwards. She left it for Lucy to set right. Mother followed her to the sofa and writing table in the living room. They started making lists. An hour later, Jean phoned Forrest.
“I had a feeling it would happen soon,” he said, his voice sounding older, wiser.
Once Father had decided, he was absolutely cooperative. He told her she could have any kind of wedding she wanted. Anywhere. In the days that followed, he asked more questions about Forrest, about Ramona, about the ranch. He asked where they would live.
“Hermit House.”
“Not suitable. You have to have a separate house, a real house, not a room. Is there anything else on the property?”
“Yes, Lance and Mary Kay have a big turkey ranch on a hill nearby, but they’re all settled. They built it. But Helen and Don live in a little wooden frame house on the ranch just temporarily.”
“Temporarily? Until when?”
“Until they get enough money to buy a business. Then they’ll move.”
“Fine. Ask them if they want to sell it for cash. The money they make could start them off.”