Giovanni's Gift (29 page)

Given my general indifference to money—a trait I think I must have picked up from my father, who, like his own father, always paid more attention to the capital interests of countries than to his own—this was a state of affairs which normally wouldn't upset me. But it did, this morning; it troubled me. That I couldn't withdraw from the wire transfer for another several days annoyed me the more. Not that I had anything in mind I wanted to purchase. Just the sinking feeling of indigence. And dependency.

Giovanni Trentas came to mind as I left the bank and began the drive back to Ash Creek. It seemed more and more I was following in his footsteps, all these decades after he'd first come here, from Valle d'Aosta via Rome via Coeur d'Alene, into a community already established with rivalries, attractions, jealousies, and with histories all woven into one great impossible maze. So many willful souls, so many silences that required interpretation—and not a sibyl in sight. It reminded me of one of those Greek dramas populated with gods and goddesses, each more pigheaded and grabby than the next, locked in struggles that were decided by maneuvering naive mortals around, pitching us from this horrid trap to that hazardous fate, from their comfortable remove of, say, a cloud palace or mountain peak. To someone like a Tate or, now I'd begun to believe, like Henry, the primary conflicts always outweighed what must be considered lesser—and that gift of focus served to define their greatness, but also their impurity. What was always the pity—it seemed to me as I ascended the dirt road along the creek, which danced, as ever, vibrantly along in the hollow of browning flowers—was that those gods of Greek and Roman mythology never did seem to learn a lesson, no matter how horrible was their mistake against humanity. Gods never learn because they always emerge unscathed.

Sure, Giovanni may well have died at the hands of some stupid, drunken hunter who had just enough of his wits about him to scramble back out the top end of the gorge after he'd had an altercation, say, with this man who was intent on throwing him off the land, who with his halting English told the poacher to leave, and whom he'd pushed, for instance. Pushed a little harder than he'd meant to push, and saw that the poor fellow had fallen hard, then decided to flee, hike fast back up toward the mountain pass over the summit, where he would find his truck and get away, unseen by a soul. This was, ironically, a scenario that Henry and Tate might well agree upon in the absence of any real proof the death could be pinned on the other. This hunter fable, however, wouldn't explain Giovanni's foot having been removed, unless one were to suppose an accidental murder was made to look somewhat more intentional, or at least weird and ritualistic, by using a deer knife on the innocent remnants of the victim. Noah's presumption that some wild scavenger had done the work seemed no more liable to be the truth than this.

I drove on, for a few minutes, without much further thought. And then I began to see—or, rather,
to feel empathetically
—the filaments that bound Giovanni into a web that had been spun by less merciful and serendipitous weavers than a phantom blundering hunter or ravenous animal. For the first time since I arrived here, I got some insight about just how easy it was to be drawn into the wars of others and to go down never knowing what hit you, or why. Surely this is what happened to Helen's father: he got caught in the middle of a struggle between others, most likely Henry and Tate. I could just
feel
it. What struck me, then, like a blow to the chest, was this: There was no reason the same thing couldn't happen to Helen's lover, if he continued to set himself between them. And this thought carried me back to my original concern, money.

To think, when I'd left the bank, within this hour just past, I had actually considered taking Tate up on his offer of work! Lunacy. Would money have bought me out of my problems here, anyway? Yes, maybe. For one, wouldn't some money buy me a proper escape? (Yes,
that
thought again.) I had just enough to return to Rome, reestablish myself in some small flat, do some tutoring. Why not get out? Simply because of Helen? And if that was the case, then money was not my problem, but love. My head was whirling and I might in my distraction have run him over, if David Lewis up ahead on the road, walking his dogs, hadn't waved his arms to catch my attention.

“Grant,” when I pulled up beside him.

Allowing the engine to idle, I said, “Morning.”

“Glad I ran into you.”

His black hair was loose of its binder this morning and hung to his shoulders; his face glowed in the crisp air.

“Listen. Jenn and I are having a farewell dinner and I've phoned up to the house and spoken with Edmé, but she says no way will Henry come down for it.”

“Well, he's not likely to listen to me.”

“He and I've known each other a long time. I mean, we don't see each other all that often. Neighbors here don't. But if you'd come by with your aunt, it would mean a lot to me and Jenn.”

“I don't know, I—”

“We'd hate to leave the valley with bad blood behind.”

I caught myself looking hard at David Lewis, thinking, How much of your soul has been foreclosed? but scolded myself, even chuckled at my obsessive suspiciousness.

“What's funny?” he said.

“Nothing, I'm sorry. Look. It's up to Edmé. If she'd like to come, and she wants me to come with her, we'll be there.”

“Friday, about seven.”

Today was Wednesday. Something else now came to mind—and I didn't think but simply spoke: “I don't know you, and it's none of my business, I suppose, but may I ask why you're selling your place? Seems too beautiful for anyone to sell.”

Lewis was as awed by my impertinence as I. He said flatly, “It is beautiful, and yes, it
is
none of your business, if you don't mind my saying so.”

“No offense,” I said.

“None taken. I knew Henry was not going to be happy about any of this. I put off telling him as long as I could, because I didn't want to deal with him. The bottom line is, this is the real world, the practical world. Just because somebody wants to develop Ash Creek doesn't mark the end of Western civilization. The homesteader days our fathers knew, where you could settle down on a big piece of unspoiled land for a hundred bucks—those days are long gone.”

“If I understand him, though, I think his position is that there's plenty of land, plenty of valleys where there are people who'd be only too happy to let them bring in the bulldozers. Henry knows Tate must be behind your sale, that Tate wants to move Edmé and Henry out of there for personal reasons that have nothing to do with development.”

“That's not my quarrel. All I know is, the money they offered me was too substantial to walk away from. I don't think we had a choice. I have no evidence they're even going to make all these changes Henry seems to fear so much.”

I could think of nothing to say in response.

“I'll see you, then, if Edmé can come. If not, good luck.”

As I opened the horsegate, farther up the road, parked the jeep, and began to walk toward the house, a cloud of dread settled in upon me like none I'd ever experienced in this place. Ash Creek had always meant serenity to me, distance from the troubles raised by the rest of the world, distance even from my own unhappiness and errors.

This was the oddest sensation. Now I felt I'd been traitorous to Henry and Edmé—but the facts were different, weren't they? I walked up the field and imagined here what Lewis had been unwilling to confirm, a future of shorn forests and pistons, lifts and lines of heavy steel strung between towers, winter carnival sports and other inanities. Or else another vision: this one of more shorn forests and road after road winding up through the fields into building lots, hither and yon, each and every meadow transfigured into lawns. Or even another: this wild earth not tempered and trampled, but all encompassed under the name Tate. Tate's Valley, say, or Tate's Basin—
Tate's Trust.

No doubt my thoughts were given to wandering because I was edgy about what sort of reception I might expect, having now stayed out all night without calling. My parents had always been liberal in regard to my childhood rambling, and were never ones to scold me for coming in late from a friend's. So long as I wasn't in trouble with the law, they figured everything was all right.

My worry was confirmed by Edmé's greeting me with a dark hello. When I asked where Henry was, she said he was in the studio, asked to be left alone, had begun to rebuild his maquettes. A man on a ladder could be heard on the far side of the house, installing a new rain gutter. I'd been so absorbed in fatuous thoughts of Ash Creek ruined that I had failed to notice the workman's truck parked at the upper edge of the field. Life went on here, night visits or not. The pertinacity was impressive. “And so what did Tate say?” Edmé asked.

“Tate is an innocent. A chaste and decent saint who never hurt anyone in all his born days. And he's generous, too. Offered me a job during our game of darts.”

“You played darts with Graham Tate?” she asked, in disbelief.

“We discussed books. It was an education.”

The map no longer existed, I decided.

“And you stayed with Helen, I presume.”

“I stayed there, yes,” glad she'd changed the subject, while at the same time amazed I would welcome discussion of Helen over Tate. Moments passed, measured out by the pendulum of the wall clock. My hands were shoved down into my pockets, and I shrugged, “Maybe it's best I go.” I found myself studying the bowl of oranges at the center of the kitchen table. A beautiful touch; this was a home, I thought. “Surely you don't disagree I've worn out my welcome here, at least with Uncle Henry.”

“Of course I disagree. And where would you go? Helen's?”

“Don't think so. But I'm in the way here. You two are used to your privacy, and ever since I showed up, uninvited, it seems to me you haven't had a minute of it.”

“Grant. I won't stand in your way of going, if that's what you want to do, but until you've found a place to stay, you're staying here. You're blood, that's that.”

“Even blood wears thin, Edmé. If you and Henry'd be kind enough to let me continue to use the jeep—”

“You can
have
the silly jeep, Grant. You and your uncle both are at a difficult place, for different reasons. Your father would never forgive me, though, if he knew I let you leave like this.”

“He would say I got myself here, now it's my responsibility to get myself out—and that you and Henry have been perfectly generous to me, and kind.”

“Where do you propose to sleep? In the jeep?”

“I don't know. Maybe.”

“Whatever your uncle said yesterday, he apologized and meant it. We're family. I was thinking last night, when you didn't come back, why not move into Giovanni's cabin until things settle down some— you'd still be here, but at the same time you'd have a little distance, sort of a place of your own. Everybody would have the chance to cool down a bit, and if you wanted to find your own place, if you're thinking of staying, it would give you some time. There's no phone down there, but the woodstove works and the place is clean—I looked this morning—dusty but clean, and you would eat with us when you wanted, and always can use this phone. What do you say? I really don't want you to go. How'd that work for a compromise?”

Edmé walked down with me. I with my half-packed bag, to which Giovanni's box was the only addition since my arrival; she carrying blankets, sheets, a pillow. We made the move before Henry returned from the studio later in the afternoon, because Edmé didn't want him to talk me out of accepting her compromise arrangement, as she said he would lobby for me to stay where I was and she didn't want to risk hearing more words between us other than words of agreement. The cabin stood just on the other side of the creek, not so far from where the old log structure had burned on Labor Day night. Grass had grown up around its rough timber walls sealed with white oakum, and the boughs of water spruce, which had overhung its roof when I was a boy, now canopied the modest dwelling in an embrace of foliage. For the most part, as I remembered, Giovanni did not occupy the cabin during those innocent summers when I visited Ash Creek, but stayed with his daughter in town, in order to give Edmé and Henry their space. Nevertheless I'd always kept my distance, sometimes watching the cabin from afar, like kids do, for no particular reason. We approached, in other words, a locus of mystery about to be unveiled.

“See?” Edmé said, when we entered the haven, and yes, soft sunlight flooded the room, whose spartan chairs, table, bed were veneered by a fine dust film but otherwise quite immaculate. Through the closed windows, perhaps through the walls themselves, you could hear the burbling creek, very nearby. Sounded like so many voices engaged in slippery, gentle dialogue. It occurred to me, fleetingly, that Helen might not like my moving in here—ever protective of anything having to do with her father. But no other alternative presented itself, had it. Edmé had made the best possible proposal. I told her so, smiled as we sheeted a narrow bed, swept the checkered linoleum floor, then mopped it with cold stream water, and just passed a couple of pleasant, mindless hours together, working to make the place comfortable. We carried in some kerosene from the storage shed, filled the two hurricane lamps, replacing the tapers, and I lit a fire in the corner stove, which filled the place with smoke at first. Once the chimney flue had warmed and whatever spider-webs silting the passage there were burned away, the fire drew well. After the smoke cleared, we shut windows and door, and to all intents and purposes I was established down here, where already I felt a little freer, much less a burden to Henry and Edmé and even to myself.

Up at the house, during dinner that evening we spoke tangentially of my meeting with Graham Tate, though I remained mum with regard to his accusation of Henry, of course. Nothing new was disclosed about Tate, nothing I hadn't heard before. But when, tongue loosened by wine, perhaps, I mentioned my confusion about why Willa would stay all these years with Tate, locked in barren marriage to a powermonger, withdrawn like a Bluebeard mistress jailed in his opulent but coarse castle, Henry's face clouded with a subtle, unrecognizable pain.