Behind the Bonehouse (37 page)

“His wife's been visitin' some, so that's been good. Goin' cold turkey hasn't been easy, just like you'd expect.” Earl gazed over at Ross, looking self-conscious again, without saying anything for a minute. “So whatta ya figure he was gonna do to Jo?”

Alan shrugged and shook his head, and handed Ross the rubber ball that had rolled onto the grass. “I don't know. I doubt he would've tried to ransom them. I think he wanted to make me suffer more than anything else. I'd like to think he probably would've brought 'em home, once he'd sobered up. But it was touch and go in the houseboat. I don't know whether he threw Ross down, or dropped him accidentally, but he was ready to shoot Jo then, even if he didn't mean to when the whole thing started.”

“Wasn't thinkin' too clear, I know that. How'd he know to act like the neighbor up the road to get Jo outta the house?”

“From when he worked at Equine, I guess. I probably mentioned that Jo and I knew him, and had him over to dinner sometimes. You want an iced tea, or a coffee?”

“Nope. Just wanted to tell ya where things stand, and give ya back the 1911 Spencer used on Butch. I talked the County Attorney into letting it go once all the documentation got done, with your report, and Jo's and all, corroboratin' Spencer's.” Earl took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes, then set them back on his nose. “I'm kinda hopin' this makes it up to you some. For what happened before.” He didn't look at Alan when he said it. He gazed out beyond the pond as though there was something worth looking at.

“You did what you thought you had to do.”

“I did. But it don't make what you went through go away.”

“I can't honestly say that I can look at you and not remember what happened. But I don't blame you, and time'll take care of the awkwardness.”

Earl nodded, and stood up, and set his hands on his hips. “I'm real glad Jo and Ross are okay. I'll talk to ya another time.”

“How's the election looking?”

“I got no idea. Nothin' I hate more than campaignin', but ya play the hand yer dealt, right?”

“I think it backfired when the other guy tried to make a big deal out of you arresting me. I think folks respected you for admitting the mistake in public.”

“You talkin' to the papers helped with that too.”

Earl was walking toward the south side of the house when Alan said, “Thank you for coming to tell me about Butch.”

Earl waved without looking back, then disappeared past the arbor.

Spencer went off to have dinner with Elizabeth from the pole barn business, and Jack went home to get cleaned up there, and it was almost eight when Jo and Alan had packed cold chicken and pickled beets, lettuces they'd just picked, a half bottle of good champagne his folks had given them for their anniversary in December, fresh strawberries from Toss's garden, cream she'd just whipped, ice water, and Ross's bottle—and pushed his stroller past the barns, to the old broken-down log and stone cabin on the south end of their land.

There was a big sweetgum sheltering that side of the cabin, just above a deep ravine, and they settled Ross on a blanket underneath it, and sat on the stone steps beside him and laid out their picnic. They'd given Sam and Maggie and Spencer's horses carrots on the way past their paddock, and they could see them grazing and looking pleased with themselves from where they sat in the shade.

They'd brought real plates and silverware, and they were balancing them on their laps, laughing at Ross playing with a stick instead of the toys they'd brought. Emmy was lying there next to the blanket, her eyes clamped on the stick as though she thought it ought to be hers, which made Jo say, “That stick is
not
for you!” while she patted Emmy's shoulder.

“I like the marinade on the chicken.” Alan had opened the champagne and was pouring Jo a glass.

“Ginger and soy sauce and garlic, and the juice and rind of an orange. Isn't it great to be alone? Finally. With nothing terrifying going on?”

“Yeah. Look, he's trying not to fall asleep.” Alan had waved his fork toward Ross, who'd fallen over on his side and was holding his yellow stuffed rabbit against his face, his big blue eyes closing, then flying opening, then closing slowly again.

Alan speared another bite of chicken, but looked directly at Jo before he put it in his mouth. “So how are you doing? Really.”

“I'm okay. If I ever complain about the weather again, kick me right in the shins.”

“You sure?”

“That you should kick me?”

“Very funny.”

Jo smoothed Ross's hair, and then gazed down the slope of the ravine. “Something happened in the houseboat.”

“What?” Alan's fork froze in midair, as he turned and stared at Jo.

“Before you got there. Something that made a difference in how I handled it that I don't know how to explain.” Jo stopped then and ate a bite of chicken.

And Alan sat still and watched.

“I knew I was at Butch's mercy. That everything that was happening to me was out of my control. I don't like that feeling at all. Not having any control.”

Alan said, “I know,” and told himself not to laugh.

“I've always wanted to influence events. To have a definite say in what's about to happen. Maybe it was Dad dying so young, and worrying about Tommy during the war, neither of which I could change. And you being arrested made me crazy partly because there was nothing I could do to help.”

“You helped.”

“You know what I mean. So I was sitting there, with Butch getting drunker all the time, waving a revolver in my face, and I knew there was nothing I could do. Ross and I were hanging by a thread being held in the hands of a drunk. And then I thought, ‘No, it's in God's hands. All of it. And who else's would I want it to be in?' And once I thought that, I stopped feeling so panicked. And I knew that how it came out would be whatever way it should. And then I was able to slow myself down, and think more clearly about how to talk to Butch, and try to calm him down. It wasn't me thinking that without help, either. And it did begin to calm him down some. And help him see me more as a person, and not just as his enemy's wife.”

Alan nodded almost imperceptibly before he said, “I know exactly what that's like.”

“France?”

“Yeah. And here. You want more beets and sour cream?”

She shook her head as she watched him, and saw he didn't want to say any more, especially about the war. “You asked me how I'm doing. I could ask you the same thing.”

“It can change so fast, Jo. Life, as we so carefully construct it. Just one phone call, or one—”

“You mean the way the phone rings and someone you don't know tells you your brother was crushed on his motorcycle?”

“Sorry. Yes. Exactly. You know that as well as I do. It could be a lump showing up in an armpit. Or a piece of old shrapnel shifting toward your heart. Or one person like Carl Seeger who wants to wreak vengeance. We can't take this for granted. Food enough for a picnic
tonight
. All of us being healthy
right now
. A house to live in that keeps us warm and dry in a place like this that we love.”

“I know. I do. Just having you here. When the thought of you in jail for years was almost more than I could stand.” She leaned over and kissed him, and dropped a forkful of salad on his knee, before she sat up and listened. “Did you hear something?”

“Yeah.”

“Boots on gravel. Emmy!”

Emmy had leapt right over Ross, and was running toward the south barn.

Buddy Jones, tall and bony and blond headed, appeared around the corner of the south barn, moving fast, excitement sticking out all over him. “Hey! Wondered where you two was!”

Jo put a finger across her lips and pointed down at Ross on the blanket, and Buddy nodded and slowed himself down, and when he got to the lawn leading up to the steps, he sat on his heels and grinned at them, while he rubbed Emmy's chin.

“What's up?” Jo smiled and poked him on the knee. “You look like you won the Triple Crown.”

“You know who Mack Miller is? Trainer for the guy who owns Cragwood Stables?”

“Engelhard. Sure. Mack and his wife live on Morgan Street.”

“Well, I got in touch with him about maybe workin' for him as an assistant trainer, or somethin'. 'Course, he got an anonymous letter from D'Amato like the rest, but he called Mercer Tate and asked him about me, and Mr. Tate explained about me telling him the illegal stuff D'Amato done two years ago, and Mr. Miller's offered me a job!”

Jo said, “Great! When do you start?”

“Well … that's kinda what I wanted to talk to you folks about. Engelhard's horses get shipped all over. They're here in the fall, but Mack moves 'em to South Carolina after Christmas, and stays there till March. They're back here till June, then Saratoga for the summer.”

“Ah.” Alan finished the last of his beets before he said, “So that's a lot of moving.”

“It is. His family goes with him, even in and outta schools and all, and his wife, she's real good about it, makin' it go as smooth as can be. But they got them a house here they can come back to. Mr. Engelhard puts 'em up in places north and south, but I haven't asked how that'd work for me, only bein' an assistant and all. Once I leave Mr. Tate, I won't have me a house here, and Becky, she's never lived nowhere but Woodford County, so it'd be a real big change.”

“You've talked to Mr. Tate? You're ready to leave him?” Jo was cutting her chicken, watching Buddy out the edges of her eyes.

“Yeah. I'd need to give him a couple months' notice, but he's a real kind man, and he wants me to do what I want. You'd lose your babysitter and all, and I don't know, I … It's a real big decision.”

“It's a good one to have to make.” Jo smiled and patted his knee and handed him a strawberry.

“It is.”

“But I guess you need to find out what the house situation would be.”

“Yeah.”

“You been bellyachin' 'bout wanting to be a trainer since I first set eyes on ya, and now you're askin' advice of other folks? You go home and make up your mind, boy, and don't come back till you do!” Toss was walking up behind Buddy, grinning at him while he lit a smoke.

When Buddy got done looking startled, he stared at Toss and laughed.

“Mack Miller is a
real
good trainer. He's honest as the day is long, and he's got him a real good instinct for what every one of his horses needs. That's all I'll say on the matter, till you decide for yerself.”

Buddy stood up, and grinned at Toss. And said, “I'll talk to Becky again, and I'll be lettin' y'all know.”

Jo and Alan and Toss watched him go. Then Toss picked up his half-smoked cigarette butt and twisted the tobacco onto the lawn before he looked at Jo. “I'm fixin' to take a couple days off, pro'bly this comin' week. Haven't seen my daddy's cousin Ruby in a good long while.”

“She the one in Tennessee?”

“Yep. Franklin. She's gettin' up in years, and her son wrote to tell me he reckons she'd like a visit, and now might be the time. That okay with you? Ya figure you can run the farm without getting' kidnapped, or thrown in jail, or anything else drastic befallin' ya?”

Jo said, “I don't know, Toss. I certainly hope so. All we can do is try.”

They all smiled, till a serious sort of silence settled in, and Alan said, “God willing and the—”

“Creek don't rise.” Toss grinned and walked over to Ross, who'd turned himself over on his back and was looking up at Toss as he hunkered down beside him. “Hey there, Mr. Ross. Talk to your Uncle Toss.” He tickled Ross's stomach, which made him laugh, then he picked him up, and set him on his knee and kissed him on the cheek. “You folks ever have another one, I want him named after me.”

“Toss, or your real name? The one you never admit to.”

Toss laughed, and started coughing, and it took him a long time to stop.

“Toss—”

“Don't you start in on me, missy. I know what you're gonna say.”

“Yeah, well, somebody oughtta say something about it sometime. Smoking didn't do Carl a whole lotta good.”

Toss started to bristle, but then he and Jo smiled at each other, and it looked to Alan like it wasn't simple. Like there was sadness in it somewhere, in the ingrained habit of Toss Watkins's family. Of minding your own business and not sticking your nose in, in a lifetime of caring without words getting used.

Jo looked at Alan, as Toss set Ross on his blanket and lit another cigarette, and she shrugged slightly and nodded silently as though she'd read Alan's mind.

I
t's been thirty-three years. And I can look back now on Carl, and the panic I felt because of Butch, and understand why it happened. I've learned by living. Everybody does if they want to. Most times even when they don't.

When somebody's getting talked about in town, I cut off the gossip more deliberately than I used to. And when we find somebody strung up in a straightjacket of their own private suffering, I can sympathize better than I could before, and see more ways to help. I'm not as affected by what other people think, and I'm better at sniffing out bias and carefully glossed-over facts. But trusting in your own understanding's still a perilous path. Solomon's life didn't end well, and he had advantages I don't.

I've seen a lot of choices getting made since 1964 by all kinds of people (including our other two sons, who appeared with their own ways of carving out their lives), and some of those choices are worth writing down.

Alan and I have watched genes and character and upbringing navigate the rocks and rapids in two family businesses that whole time, in ways that can still make me feel for my own pulse, and inflict the details on strangers, when I ought to slip them in a book.