Читать книгу The Long Road Home - Мэри Монро, Мэри Элис Монро, Mary Monroe Alice - Страница 15

ESTHER WALKED THE DUSTY distance from the mailbox to her house. Repeatedly, she glanced back again at the tilting metal box with the red flag up and the three numbers half falling down. Inside was her application for a fellowship at New York University—her whole life in an envelope. Her one shot at a dream she’d held since her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, in the town’s one-room schoolhouse told her she had real talent as a painter. She’d known, even then, that it was true.

She peered over her shoulder several more times, just to make sure that bent, rusty red flag stayed up. Then the road curved and her view of the box was lost in foliage. Esther sighed and picked up her pace. There was nothing more to do now but wait.

She had walked the distance from her house to the mailbox every day for twenty years. Once in a while the mail brought a glossy magazine or a letter from Uncle Squire in Florida. Most days there was nothing much except for ads, mail-order catalogs, and bills. The dirt road lined with maples, pines, and here and there seasonal wildflowers was repetitive in its sameness, but never boring to Esther. In spring it was black with mud, in summer it was green, in fall it was orange, and in the cold of winter it was as gray as the sky. But the hues and values changed on cloudy or sunny days, or when the raindrops on the leaves glistened or when a bright red newt slithered into an ink black puddle. Esther approached the house as she always did, lost in her world of colorful thoughts.

“Hey, Es. I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

Her hand flew to her heart and she jerked her head toward the far side of the porch where a young man stretched out on the old sofa.

“You scared me, John Henry.” She caught her breath, then asked with irritation, “What are you doing here?”

He was quick to respond, but not before she detected the disappointment on his tanned face. “We’re supposed to go to the movies. Your pa said to wait, you’d be right back. Come on, Red, don’t tell me you forgot?”

She had. Completely. Her face said so.

“We don’t have to go,” John Henry said quickly. “We can just hang around here.”

“No, that’s okay,” she replied in a colorless voice. “I’m sorry. I got all caught up in getting that application in the mail.”

John Henry’s face fell. “So you went and did it.”

“I sure did.” Esther’s face flushed. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable, telling someone that she actually sent out the forms. Win or lose, she didn’t want anyone snickering at her high hopes behind her back.

Esther looked at John Henry. His slightly dazed expression was the same one he’d worn when she beat him in a fight in the first grade. But today John Henry was different. Twenty years of different. And so was she. A lot of time and love had passed between them in those years. A lot of secrets shared. He’d never hurt her or break his word, she was sure.

“Don’t tell anyone about them forms, now, promise?” She had to say it anyway.

“Of course I promise.” He paused, then waved her over. “Com’ere.”

Esther pushed air out through pursed lips. She just wanted to be alone right now. But she went anyway and plopped on the old sofa beside him. The sofa creaked, complaining at the extra weight on its already bowed out legs.

John Henry lay silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What’s the matter, Red?”

“I dunno.” Then she said in a hushed voice, “I’m scared. What if I don’t make it?”

“What if you don’t? It doesn’t mean you can’t paint anymore. You can do that anywhere. Here.”

Esther didn’t reply. Instead, she tucked her hands tightly between her knees and looked off. How could she tell him that she had to leave here, soon, or she’d be so choked up she’d never paint again. Nora MacKenzie’s return brought back too many memories, vivid recollections that she could not share with John Henry most of all.

It was desperation that had finally made her do what she’d been putting off for months: fill out the application for a fellowship in art at New York University. Her whole being was focused on that little envelope in the mailbox.

She felt John Henry’s hands rubbing her back. Esther knew his touch so well by now that she read in his fervent strokes a plea that she love him. Any talk of her leaving made him nervous. Esther leaned over and pecked his cheek.

He held out his arms and Esther reluctantly slipped into them. He smelled of sweat and the sofa smelled of mildew. Esther lay in his arms long enough to give him a reassuring squeeze. She sensed his need like radar. Wriggling her shoulders, she loosened his hold and quickly sat up.

John Henry grabbed her back, holding her squashed close with arms like bands of steel. His kisses were hungry.

“No,” she said against his lips. “Not here.”

John Henry drew back and swung his leg around, hoisting them both off the sofa. His hands remained around her waist in a possessive grip.

“Come on, then.”

“I can’t. I’ve got things to do.”

“Come on,” he drawled close to her ear, propelling her off the porch toward the barn.

Esther allowed herself to be led off to the dark corner of the barn that they often went to when they wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to make love. She wasn’t in the mood, but John Henry’s persistence was not to be ignored.

And she loved John Henry, in her fashion. His need of her was obvious. He wanted so much from her, more than she felt capable of giving. John Henry was one more person who needed her.

Esther relinquished all resistance by the time they reached the dark recess of the ramshackle barn. She’d give in to him, as she always did when he wanted her. He was a good, kind man—her best friend. It was the best way she knew how to show she cared.

His kisses were urgent and his hands grew rough. He pushed her back against the barn wall, hard, and his hands trembled down to her belt and started unfastening it, squeezing her waist as he jerked the leather free.

So, he was going to be dominant today, she realized. He always was when he felt threatened. That application to New York University must have really set him off.

Esther put her hand gently on his, stilling him. John Henry sighed when he released her belt. Esther quickly finished the task and stepped from her jeans, looking over at John Henry as he fumbled with his buttons.

He was a long sideburn kind of man. With his easy manner and his handsome straight nose, not to mention the dairy farm that would someday be his, most every girl in town had set her sights on John Henry Thompson at one time or another. And he strayed from time to time over the years of their courtship. Yet, Esther always knew that John Henry would find his way back to her, so she never worried or got jealous. Some called her lucky. Others called her a fool.

John Henry looked up, caught her eye, and smiled wide. Even in this dark corner, his bright blue eyes twinkled.

Esther smiled back. She really did care for John Henry. She welcomed him in her arms.

Afterward, when they were putting their clothes back on, an uneasy silence fell upon them. Esther buttoned her shirt back up, watching John Henry thrust one leg into his jeans. His leg was long and covered with fine brown hair the same dark color as the hair that spread across his thin, well-muscled chest and massed upon his head and around his ears. Her hands stilled. How many times had they repeated this scene over the years, she wondered? How many more times till they realized that they could not go on like this forever?

As if he read her mind, John Henry shoved his other leg into his pants and said, “I’m getting pretty tired of pickin’ hay out’a my butt. What do you say we make some decisions? Get ourselves our own bed.”

Esther jerked her head down and her fingers began to fly on her buttons. “Don’t be silly, John Henry. You know I’m waitin’ on this scholarship.”

“You’re always waitin’ on something, Esther. After high school it was junior college. Two years later you wanted to finish college in Burlington. Then your sister up and left her husband and you had to take care of her kids. Then your brother—”

“What does Tom’s death have to do with us?”

John Henry looked contrite. “Nothing Es, only…” He picked up some hay, sorted it a bit, then threw it on the ground. “Only you always have some excuse for why we can’t get married. Now you push this New York stuff in my face and expect me to sit back and wait some more.”

“I’m not asking you to wait.” She whispered it.

“I’m twenty-six years old!” he continued, not listening or hearing. “Tell me, Es. Tell me to my face. What am I waiting for?”

Esther felt more cornered by his words than the two walls she pressed against. She huddled over and hugged her knees.

“Please, John Henry, don’t push me.”

John Henry stood straight, his hands in fists at his side.

“It’s expected that we marry.”

“I’ve never done the expected,” she snapped.

John Henry looked as though he’d been punched in the stomach. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Esther instantly regretted her temper. “You know I can’t abide gossips. Oh, John Henry.” She rubbed both hands in her hair with frustration, undoing her elastic and sending the curls flying. When she looked up she appeared as disheveled as she felt.

“Maybe you should start seeing someone else. I’ve said so before.”

“Not this again.”

“I don’t want you waiting for me. I can’t promise my life to you. It’s still mine. Please, don’t ask me to.”

He knelt down before her and tugged gently at her hair.

“That’s just what I’m asking you to do. I know there are other girls, but I don’t want another girl. I want a dreamer who has two feet on the ground. I want someone who speaks her mind, and gives her heart.”

Esther looked at her knees.

“I want you, Esther. Only you.”

Tears filled Esther’s eyes and she reached out for John Henry. Her hand closed around the fabric against his heart.

“I don’t want to make you unhappy,” she got out. “You deserve so much happiness. Please. I can’t marry you.”

His hand quickly covered hers over his heart. He squeezed tight. “I can wait,” he said urgently.

She couldn’t let him do this. He’d waited so long already on the thin hope that she’d come around and marry him after all. Settle down on his dairy farm. He’d told her he liked the bachelor life, had lots of dreams of his own to live out, too. But she knew he was lying. That he’d walk down the aisle in a minute if only she’d walk it with him.

Esther raised her head to his. His eyes were open, pure. If only there was something mean in him, it would make the telling easier. It was hard to be strong for both of them.

“Face-to-face then,” she said. “Don’t wait.”

She saw him pale. “I tell you of my dreams,” she continued steadily, “but you don’t want to see them. I speak my mind but you won’t listen. John Henry, I can’t marry you.”

He dropped her hand and sat back on his haunches. His face was stricken. “Is it someone else? That C.W. fella maybe?”

“No, no, course not. There’s no one else. More like some thing else.”

John Henry rubbed his hands on his thighs and stared at them. So did Esther. He had long, callused hands with short, chipped nails, scrapes and fine crisscrossed cuts. A man’s hands—a farmer’s hands. Esther felt small inside, remembering those hands when they were short, pudgy, and soft. Remembering how, as children, he’d always let her win at jacks.

“It’s this art thing, right?” he said, tapping those man fingers now. John Henry stood up abruptly. His face had never seemed so hard. He waved his arm like a scythe cutting wheat.

“All right. Have it your way. I’m through with waiting.”

He paced three steps, then angrily jutted his finger her way, his face scowling above it. “But you listen to me, Esther Johnston! While I’m off marrying some other girl, mark my words—you’ll still be waiting. Waiting till they tell you they’ve got more than enough artists in New York already. Waiting for me to come ’round again. Waiting till you realize that all you dreamed of was sitting right here in front of you all the time.”

Esther’s heart was near to breaking when she heard John Henry’s voice crack and watched him draw back, slam his hands on his hips and sharply lower his head. “John Henry…don’t.”

He swung around to grab her arm and hoist her up before him. Holding on to her shoulders, his face reddened and his breathing came fast. Esther wasn’t sure if he was going to kiss her or hit her.

“Do you love me?” he whispered, tortured.

“Yes.”

“Marry me,” he said, his eyes pleading.

“No.”

That one word almost killed them both.

He pressed his forehead against hers and they both closed their eyes tight against the pain. Then he quickly released her, almost pushing her away. He turned away with a choked gulp and took several wild, rounding steps across the hay-littered floor, his hand rubbing his forehead.

“John Henry, I’m sorry,” she said, despairing.

He stopped short and his head pulled up. “Don’t you be sorry for me, Esther Johnston! You just be sorry for yourself.”

John Henry turned heel and stomped angrily from the barn.

Esther leaned back against the wall, blood drained and bone weary. From the dark corner, she stared out the empty barn entrance, wishing he’d walk through it. The straw grass waved in the light outside. A few tires tilted beside a pile of scrap wood.

John Henry wouldn’t walk back through that door. Not this time. Esther closed her eyes, forcing back the tears. She’d known this day had to come, but she’d never known how much it would hurt. The pain radiated from some core inside and wouldn’t let up. Esther slumped against the barn wall and brought her knees up to her chest. John Henry’s bitter warnings repeated in her mind. She was terrified that she’d made a mistake. Afraid that she was already feeling sorry for herself.

The bleating of lambs echoed in the valley below. Nora strolled along the road under the noonday sun, passing pastures of brown and gold that were littered with milkweed pods. Some hung fat upon their stalks; others were already bursting forth their feathery seeds, reminding Nora of days she had blown upon the seeds and sent them sailing like a fleet of white ships upon a golden ocean.

She wasn’t headed anywhere specific; she was just getting a sense of where she was. Compared to the confined spaces of the city, everything here seemed expansive: the broad sky, the looming mountains, the vast acres. On her head Nora wore earphones and hummed along. Her pace slowed as she passed a field bordered by a rickety fence. The timber teetered and the wire sagged. Veering from her path, she ran her hand along the fence’s splintered wood and smelled autumn’s ripeness.

Nora imagined how the field must have looked generations ago when the old fence was new. It might have contained a herd of black-and-white cows that grazed on a pasture green with forage. Now the cows had long since vanished from the rocky fields and scores of thistle weed and scrubby pines reclaimed the land.

RRRRRRRRRrrrrrr. The throaty call of a chain saw was audible over her music. Curious, Nora followed the sound, trotting around the grotto called Mike’s Bench. There, standing in the sun, jacket off, plaid flannel shirt rolled up at the sleeves and knees bent in a steady stance, a man was cutting away at a damaged maple. He wore goggles and large ear protectors over wild golden hair, but there was no mistaking the powerful visage of C.W. He had already cut and stacked the limbs into neat piles of firewood, but the trunk stooped over a large gaping wound.

She recognized the tree as the one she’d hit. The maple was cracked and bent. A lump formed in her throat as she spied the golden sap oozing from the flesh-colored wood.

Nora watched with fascination as C.W. cut a deep wedge into the mangled trunk. Seeing him doing chores that she could never do made her appreciate how valuable he was as an employee. Logging was hard and dangerous work; the muscles in C.W.’s forearm were rippling as he guided the chewing metal through the wood.

The throaty roar of the chain saw was an exciting sound. To people in the mountains it was the sound of man’s control over the wilderness. The maple trunk began to weave and wobble. The acrid scent of fuel mixed with the sweet scent of freshly cut wood and rose up. A strong, heady odor that drifted her way. She felt the thrill of anticipation.

The chain saw droned again, longer, louder. Then the noise abruptly stopped, leaving her ears ringing in the sudden silence.

C.W. stepped back, setting down the chain saw, and took a last check of the area. She knew the moment he spotted her, for he stiffened, whipped off his goggles and called, “Get out of the way!”

Instantly, she understood her danger and tore off her earphones. Now she heard the tree creak, wood against wood. Looking up, she saw she was standing directly in its line of fall. She had miscalculated the distance. The leaves rustled, the tree groaned, and Nora took three steps back, eyes on the tree. It was shaking, wailing, then it began falling.

Before she could run she felt two muscled arms grab her under her arms and yank her, dragging her feet in the rush, farther down the road. They hit the ground as the tree did—with a graceless thud. Birds cried, squirrels scrambled, and all around her dust and leaves scattered and filled the air. Coughing and rubbing her eyes, she leaned back on her elbows and felt the earth shake around her. When the dust finally settled and she peeked up, she realized it wasn’t the earth shaking, just herself and the thin branches that extended to within inches of her head.

C.W. lay half beside her, half over her, covered with broken twigs and crushed dried leaves. He swatted the debris away with harsh, angry swipes and stood, centered between her bent knees. He stared down at her with a look of controlled anger.

“Are you all right?” he asked gruffly.

She coughed again. “Yes. My God.” She coughed. “I didn’t see it coming.” Her breath was coming fast and her hands were still shaking. “I could have been killed. You saved my life.”

C.W. ran his hand through his hair, then extended it to her. When she placed her small hand in it, he felt it tremble. That was enough to shake away his anger and allow him to see how frightened she really was.

“Don’t mention it.” The lady was turning out to be a nuisance, but he kept Seth’s admonishment in mind.

“And don’t wear that damn thing out here,” he said, pointing at her earphones. “Leave it in the city. Learn to listen to the woods,” he said, placing his free hand on her elbow and helping her up. As she reeled up alongside him, he caught sight of the bruise beneath her hair.

Nora nodded, accepting his words as a given.

“Listen,” he said as she steadied herself on her feet. “What is it with you and this spot? First you run your car into that poor tree, then you stand under it as it falls. If you have a death wish, please let me know and I’ll stop interfering.”

He was smiling and she couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of his words. She laughed, then laughed harder, then suddenly felt herself on the verge of tears, overwhelmed by that sudden switch in emotions that comes when one is uncertain and desperately hiding pain.

He saw the shift of emotion in her expressive eyes. He heard it in her sudden high-pitched hilarity. This was a lady in pain. He recognized pain—knew it well—and felt an immediate empathy for her.

“Come. Sit down and rest,” he said, lowering his voice and guiding her to a marble bench set into the mountain.

Nora crossed over crunching twigs, small flakes of wood and sawdust. When she reached the cool shadows of the bench, she settled herself in a prim and upright manner.

Remembering his rude comment in the kitchen, C.W. thought it was his company that made her so sour. “Perhaps you’d prefer to be alone?”

“No, please, don’t leave me. Not here.”

He raised his brows in question.

Nora scanned the marble grotto, covered now with moss and mud. Then they traveled to the surrounding slopes. Scores of maple saplings had sprouted through the rocks, and uncounted weeds and wild berry bushes bordered them. What was three years ago a hillside of fern was now little more than a wooded jungle.

“Mike built this,” she began slowly. “The house we designed together, but this bench he built himself. Wouldn’t let anyone help him.” She gave a short laugh. “I thought he’d get a hernia lifting this thing,” she added, patting the marble slab under her.

“You must miss him.”

She gave him a quizzical look. “Miss him? No. Not at all.”

C.W. didn’t know what answer he expected, but certainly not that one. It left him nonplussed, and that was unusual for him. He kicked his toe in the dirt.

“Must have been something to build that,” he said, gesturing toward the big house. “Quite a place.”

“Yes. The main beam is forty-five feet of solid redwood. Half the county came to watch it go up. Mike climbed this mountain, decided this was where he wanted his house site, and bulldozed it into reality.”

C.W. could envision Mike MacKenzie bulldozing any vision—though he had to admit the result of this one was spectacular. Yet, as he looked at the small frame of Nora sitting prim on the bench, still rubbing her ring finger, he wondered what else the Big Mac had bulldozed. Seeing her empty ring finger focused his attention.

“Oh, I found this on the road,” he said, digging into his pocket. “Could it be yours.”

He handed her the small gold ring he had found glistening in the afternoon sun atop a quartz rock.

Nora stared at the gold band lying in her open palm. Her lips worked but no words came. Was this some sign? The ring, the bench; she felt as though Mike’s ghost were hovering about her. Nora sighed heavily. Memories were not something you could just throw away. They kept turning up.

“Yes, it’s mine,” she said, closing her fingers around the ring.

He noted that she did not bother to thank him for finding it. Stepping back, he said, “If you’re all right, then I’m off to the barn. It’s feeding time and those girls complain when I’m late.”

Nora could hear the insistent bleats from the valley and smiled at the image of a long row of hungry, whining ewes.

“Oh yes, go on ahead.”

Waving his hand, he turned his back to her.

“Oh, Mr. Walker?”

He stopped midstride.

“Would you be able to meet me up at the house when you’re done? I need to get a rough grasp on the finances, and Seth says that you’re the man to talk to.”

“Yes ma’am,” he replied in a long drawl. “Four o’clock.” Without another word, he pivoted to leave. “Mr. Walker?”

He stopped again, brows up. “Ma’am?”

“I’d also appreciate your teaching me as much as you can about shepherding. I know there’s a lot to learn, but…” She let her voice trail away.

He paused. “It’s really quick to pick up, if you’ve got the inclination. I’d be pleased to teach you what little I know.”

She nodded, pleased. He turned again.

“Mr. Walker?”

What now, he wondered, scowling.

“Thank you. For everything.”

She smiled, and he felt the radiance of it enter his soul. His senses tingled as he felt some kind of connection with the woman named Nora. What was that Chinese saying? Something about if you save a person’s life, you are responsible for that life forever. Their eyes met and held, and in that moment, he feared that the old proverb would prove true.

The woman’s name was Nora MacKenzie, he reminded himself. The Big Mac’s better half. With a perfunctory nod, he turned, gathered his things, and walked swiftly down the mountain.

Nora watched his retreating figure with confusion. A nice man, she decided, but she sensed layers of complexity behind his eyes. Once or twice they had connected—a special glimmer in the eye, a half smile, before they caught themselves and turned away. She couldn’t deny the attraction, but it was unwelcome. They were just two lonely people.

The wind gusted. Nora shivered and looked around the bench, as though Mike’s ghost haunted it.

“This is crazy,” she said aloud, opening her fist. She picked up the ring with two fingers and stared at it without emotion. Mike was dead. All that was left of her marriage was this band of gold. She was about to slip it automatically back onto her left hand, then thought again. Slipping it onto her right ring finger, she vowed that life went on.