Driftless (46 page)

The dark grass was wet and refreshingly cool, and her bare feet felt as though they were walking on chilled lettuce salad. The light from the moon allowed ample vision, and she passed quickly, silently, along the lettuce salad to the cherry tree, about twenty yards north of the house. In the silvery light she contemplated the gnarled limbs curling against the sky and wondered what it would be like to be a tree and permanently habituate a specific location in the out-of-doors.

She heard a heavy vehicle, perhaps a van, rattle over Thistlewaite Creek Bridge. It continued toward Words but did not stay on the main road. It turned, and before long headlights swung into view between the trees lining the lane. They continued a little way further, tires crunching hard on gravel, and stopped. The sound of the motor died and the lights went out.

Then the sound of a door closing—not slammed—followed by silence.

After a short while, she heard footsteps on the lane and she stepped to the other side of the tree, placing its trunk between her
and the sound. From there she watched a human figure steal into her front yard, moving quickly, decisively to the front of her house.

Dressed in the blackest of black clothes, it crept beneath a front window and looked in, then moved rapidly to the other window, where it crouched against the side of the house and again stretched to peer inside. The figure then moved to the front door, pressed the side of its black head against the wood, and remained for several minutes, listening. A hand gripped the knob.

Gail watched in horror as her front door was opened just enough for the figure to slip through. Then the door closed, sealing the shape inside.

She shuddered. The situation was almost too appalling to fully comprehend. Her first impulse was to scream, but the more she thought about this, the less sensible it seemed. If there was anything good about her present circumstance it included the fact that she was not inside the house. That fortuity could be quickly canceled by broadcasting her location to the intruder, who could then rush out and find her.

In the pockets of her cutoffs she found several balls of Kleenex, a crumpled receipt from the grocery store, a paper clip, a nickel and two pennies, and a match. She thought of lighting her house on fire, and at first this seemed like a bold yet reasonable plan. She could start the fire and resume hiding. The heat, smoke, and flames would drive the intruder out, and her own whereabouts would never be known.

She could also creep forward, open the front door, slam it, and run away. This plan had the advantage of saving her house, cat, plants, and worldly belongings from incineration, but it also had disadvantages. What if she opened the door and the intruder was just on the other side of it, waiting to grab her?

The safety of her neighbors’ house loomed beyond the hedge, about forty yards away, and she thought about dashing over, pounding on the door, and asking to telephone the police.

This seemed the safest plan so far. But it also meant abandoning her house, which didn’t seem right. An act of personal defiance was called for. Also, the police might search her house inadequately
and leave the intruder inside, concealed in some clever hiding place, waiting.

On the other hand, she could do nothing—just wait for the dark shape to come out again. This would give her a second look at the intruder as well as provide the assurance that he or she was gone before Gail went back inside.

While she was considering her options, she heard her name spoken clearly somewhere behind her, and a throat cleared. She turned and found a very small woman who turned out to be Olivia standing behind her, holding a leash with the white dog on the other end of it.

“Look, Gail,” said Olivia, “this is really none of my business, but you really must do something.”

“Should we call the police?”

“That person should be afraid of you, not the police.”

“We’re women,” said Gail. “No one is ever afraid of us.”

“Still, you can’t let people come breaking and thieving into your house and get away with it. Here,” and she offered Gail the leash.

Gail went forward, carefully opened the front door, unclipped the collar, and aimed the dog inside. With the hairs along her broad back bristled up like spikes, Trixie walked through the opening.

Gail quietly closed the door and hurried to resume her station behind the cherry tree with Olivia.

Soon, a single shriek followed by many furniture collisions moved through the house, beginning upstairs and coming down. The front door burst open and the dark figure flew outside, its feet touching only the tops of the grasses, followed by Gail’s cat, which dashed under Gail’s car, followed some time later by the white dog, which plodded outside, lay down in the middle of the front yard, and rested her head on her front paws. The sound of running feet on gravel ended with a slamming door and the sound of a motor. Then a heavy vehicle could be heard clattering over Thistlewaite Creek Bridge.

Gail and Olivia sat on the wet lawn beside Trixie, looking at the moon and listening to night noises.

“Thanks,” said Gail. “I guess I’m in your debt.”

“I guess not,” said Olivia. “I’m so far in debt to everyone and for everything that no one will ever owe me anything. Besides, I can’t
tell you how many times your music has helped me. When you play your bass at night and sing, well, it’s like hearing a human voice from a cell.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t say this, but you seem depressed,” said Gail.

“I am, but it’s nothing for you to worry about. My misery will go away as soon as I stop causing it. Every inch of it is my own making. I pray you will never know anything about these kinds of things.”

“I do though,” said Gail. “It’s like trying to outlive yourself, and you can’t. We’re carved into certain people—trapped by a past that keeps making the future look just like it. Do you want to come inside? I can make coffee. We can talk. My house is always a mess but I have a lot to drink.”

“No, I’ve got to go back before my sister wakes up. She sleeps like the dead between one and three, but after that she’s unpredictable. I appreciate the offer, though. You have no idea how much I would love to sit with you in your messy house and drink, but I’m afraid, as you say, my past won’t allow it.”

“Wait, don’t go. I want to ask you something,” said Gail.

“What is it?”

“Do you think it’s wrong to love another woman?”

Olivia sat in the wet grass and thought about this for a long time, and then asked, “In what way?”

“In all ways.”

Olivia sat for a while longer. “Why are you asking me?”

“Because you’re here.”

“Do you mean wrong in terms of society, the church, the mental health community, or do you mean
wrong
wrong?”

“I don’t care about those other things, so guess I mean is it
wrong
wrong.”

“Hell no.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely,” Olivia said, and stood up. “Come on, Trixie, we’ve got to get back before Vio wakes up.” The big dog lumbered to its feet and they walked through the hole in the hedge.

Gail tried, unsuccessfully, to coax her cat out from under the car.

Inside, she picked up several pieces of furniture and looked to see
if anything was missing. As she looked, she found the cardboard box that Grahm and Cora had given her under a pile of clothes in the spare bedroom and then remembered that she had moved it from downstairs to make room for winter boots.

She returned outdoors and succeeded on the second attempt to get her cat to come out from under the car. Inside again, she locked the front door and drove several nails through the back door—which didn’t have a lock—and fastened it to the door frame.

As she tried to sleep, robins, blackbirds, and finches were beginning to stir in the morning light.

VALUE

J
ULY MONTGOMERY FOLLOWED THE WINDING RIDGE ROAD FOR several miles. In the ditches, wild daisies and lilies reached out in blue, orange, and yellow splotches of color. Overhead a red-tailed hawk sluiced through layers of rising hot air, its wings upturned on the ends.

On the road to the old mill, July slowed down while three deer crossed. Later, a bevy of turkeys—adults and young ones—scurried into an open field.

He turned into the drive between the two stone pillars and continued to the horse barn beyond the house.

July found the Appaloosa’s stall and carried in the first two bales of hay from the pickup. He broke one open and tossed the end slice into the manger. The spotted horse stuck her nose into the hay, smelled, and chewed. Strands of dried grass stuck out of both sides of her soft curved mouth. “Good stuff,” said July, stroking the smooth neck. “I made it myself.”

“Bee Jay says you should stay for lunch,” a voice said behind him, and he turned toward a young black woman, her head shaved. She wore sandals, khaki pants, and a violet blouse. She reached over the gate and scratched behind the Appaloosa’s ear. “I see you found something she’ll eat. Poor thing hasn’t eaten for three or four days.”

“Must have gotten into some moldy alfalfa,” said July. “The marsh grass will help.”

“So are you staying for lunch?”

“I’m afraid not. I appreciate the offer, though.”

The young woman walked back to the house and July continued carrying in the bales and stacking them next to the Appaloosa’s stall.

On the last trip he saw Barbara Jean come out of the house and walk toward the barn.

“Yesha says you won’t stay for lunch,” she said.

“Sorry, but thanks anyway.”

“Is that the hay you talked about?”

“Yup.”

“Looks like it did the trick,” she said, watching the mare. “Where’d you learn about horses?”

“I spent some time in Montana.”

“When?”

“A long time ago.”

“How much do we owe you?”

“Nothing. The hay belonged to a neighbor and he wouldn’t take anything for it when I told him it was for your sick horse.”

“I don’t like being in debt.”

“Say, Bee Jay, did Gail Shotwell play her song for you?”

“Yes.”

“What did you think?”

“It was a wonderful song—a little rough around the edges, but very good. I can’t work with her, though. She’s too edgy, emotional.”

July peeled off another slice of hay and set it in the manager. “And you’re not?” he asked.

“Of course I am. What I mean is, I can’t work with someone like me. She has an attitude and we’d fight all the time. She’s also young eye-candy, and that’s always trouble in a group like ours. Are you sure you can’t stay for lunch? Yesha’s a great cook.”

“Sorry, I’ve got too much to do.”

Driving away from the horse farm, July continued along the river road and turned into an asphalt drive. It ran uphill toward a brick house overlooking the river valley. He parked in front of the greenhouse, walked between two long rows of raised flower beds, and knocked on the door.

A thundercloud was growing in the west, and its surrounding steel gray occupied a third of the sky.

“Oh, July,” said Leona Pikes, a lively, trim women in her seventies. “Come in. Timothy said you might be coming this week. It’s not going to rain, is it?”

“I hope not,” said July, stepping inside.

“Tim’s on the back porch. I’ll bring something to drink. What would you like?”

“Do you have beer?”

“Is a dark Guinness all right?”

“Sure.”

July walked through the recently renovated home across polished hardwood floors, over the floral carpet and onto a large, screened-in porch overlooking the boathouse and the river.

Seated in a wicker rocking chair, Tim Pikes looked up from his
New York Times
and smiled, his face finding a few new vertical wrinkles.

“Sit down,” he said and lowered the rimless glasses on his nose. He slid the folded paper onto the table.

July sat on the wicker sofa. “I’m here to make the last payment.”

“Nearly thirty years,” said the old lawyer. “A celebration is in order. Now the farm is entirely yours.”

“I want to thank you again for giving me the land contract and all the patience you’ve shown. You took a chance on me.”

“You started out a better farmer than I ended up, July. Leona and I completely failed at farming.”

This was mostly true, July knew. Years ago, the bank had begun to repossess the property and everything on it, and had sold off most of the land. The contract with July allowed the Pikes to narrowly avoid bankruptcy. Even so, they had been generous to him.

Leona Pikes arrived with a beer and two glasses of iced tea. She sat next to July on the sofa.

“I hope this won’t end your visits,” she said. “You used to come all the way into Madison when we were going to law school, and you seem like family.”

“You also brought fresh milk, eggs, and vegetables,” added Tim. “For several years your visits were the only time during the month when the children had enough to eat.”

“You’re exaggerating,” said July. “I’m afraid I have another favor to ask—a big one. Now that the farm is paid off, I wonder if you could arrange a trust for me. I have some things I want done.”

“What things?” asked Tim, sipping his tea. “Leona is more qualified to talk about estate planning. That was more her field.”

“First, I want to keep farming as long as I can.”

“Of course. It suits you.”

July pulled a rectangular piece of newsprint from his cotton shirt and handed it to Leona. She read it and carried it over to Tim, who readjusted the glasses on his nose.

“That’s a letter to the editor, written last winter,” said July. “And since then, things have gotten worse. I want you to represent them.”

“Leona and I are retired,” said Tim.

“I’ve been thinking about this for a long time,” said July. “Like I said, I want to keep farming. After I’m no longer able, you or your children can have the farm. I don’t have any family.”