House of Gold (39 page)

"And Chesterton loved smoking. I swear, this dog would drink Scotch and smoke cigars if dogs could. But what about you, El? Do you like it?" he asked.

She didn't smile at all. He had hoped–

"What does it matter if I like it?" she snapped.

She could be cold sometimes. Most times, lately, in fact.

"I'm giving you veto power, El."

"Why?" she said, reaching for an apple.

She plucked
it and put it into the bucket hanging from the ladder.

She wiped her brow, and looked toward the houses.

"Because Grace loves the dog."

She didn't answer him for a long time. To him, it seemed like an hour.

"I like the name," she said, finally looking up at him, her eyes watery.

Good girl,
he thought.

She tried not to resent his little ways, but this was taking a lot out of her. His simple, relentless
ways.

Yes, they were simple, but she knew he was doing that–
that thing
–he could do, old world or new.

Taking a big axe and chopping things down.

Unless a seed falls to the ground and dies,
she thought, relaxing her jaw.

She had watched Buzz do the same thing to Sam, bringing him slowly to the faith with his videos, his riddles, and his basketball games. She had heard the stories about the Man;
how Buzz went to Hal Smith's porch time and again, like a stray mutt, tongue hanging out.

The big lumberjack had walked across the whole damned country, killed a man on the way, buried his dead. Buzz Woodward was a persistent bastard, and in her way, she did not mind.

And deep inside her, in a place she did not wish to explore in the daylight of consciousness, she knew that Buzz was a hard man.
And that Sam–had not been Buzz.

And they both knew he was right. But he was still waiting on her. That was the part of it, the waiting for her, that kept her from resenting him. Buzz had loved Sam, too. She had loved Mel.

Simple.

"Chesterton it is," he said finally, sadly.

At least he's not rubbing it in, acting happy,
she told herself.

+  +  +

Sunday. Sponge-bath day. They still had soap, which
was nice. Tommy said somebody was making soap in Pittsburg, and that he was going to take the wagon up there soon. Chesterton was with Tommy today, helping him herd some sheep Tommy had found wandering on the other side of Bagpipe. The farmer had promised to keep an eye out for an abandoned water pump.

After breakfast, the prayers, and the haircut, Buzz Woodward asked Ellie Fisk to walk with him.
It was August. The days were perfect, but the early mornings were sometimes chilly already. Not today, though. The morning was warm.

He led her into the woods. She was holding Grace, even though he had offered to carry her. It was a path she did not recognize, because she had taken a different route the other time. They came to the river, and there it was, the stream. The rocky hill.

You're a
cold bastard,
Ellie thought, not really angry at Buzz. She willed the body-falling image out of her mind.

They carefully hiked up to the safe-place, Buzz leading, turning frequently to take her free hand to help her keep her balance.

They reached the little cabin on a small, natural plateau by the stream. He went into the cabin to retrieve the stool for her. Then he pulled a large, flat rock from
the stream for his chair, and sat down next to her. Ellie lowered Grace to the ground.

It was a spectacular view–but weren't they all in the North Country?–to the southeast; they could see part of the road near the topside of the homestead (but not the houses). Mostly, they saw wilderness.

"I haven't been here since last summer," he began.

"I have," she replied, but immediately regretted her words.
Sam had been his friend, too.

He let it bounce off him, and showed her this with a smile.

She decided to start.

"You've got to start paying attention to Grace," she told him.

It wasn't an accusation. It was true.

He seldom held the baby unless Ellie needed him to do so for a practical reason. He did not play with her. Grace was almost crawling now. Ellie knew how he had been with his boys. Always
wrestling and jumbling around on the floor. She had seen him administer Startle Training many times in the old days.

In fact, his playfulness, which seemed almost completely purged out of him now, was something about his fathering she had admired. She remembered how she had wished for Sam to be more playful with Christopher when the boy was younger.

"But Grace reminds me of Mel," he admitted.

So it's truth-speak time,
she thought, looking at Grace, who was backing into the little stream now, smiling brightly, daring them to stop her.

Another Mel,
Buzz thought.

The water was no more than a trickle at this height, so they decided to let the baby have her fun.

"That's not fair to Grace," she told him.

Buzz turned, and he leaned in on one arm, placing his hand on a wooden brace under the
stool. She knew he never did anything arbitrarily. He had gotten the stool just so he could lean next to her like this, with his face close to hers. He had chosen this very place last summer, and he was choosing it now. He was choosing everything.

But he's waiting for me,
she thought, looking him in the eye.

He kept his face close to hers. He searched her eyes. She felt his physical presence,
maybe for the first time since he had come down the hill. She was so used to Grace, the sprite. So tiny. He was so–large.

She was not afraid; she knew that he could crush her, but this made her feel safe. He had not told her the details about Rheumy Marks.

She did not look away.

He wasn't going to do this with words, she realized. But he was forcing the issue, because winter was coming.

"Okay,
you win. I guess we have to," she conceded.

Have to what?
his eyes asked.

She wanted to look down. But she was Ellie Fisk, and she buried her dead, and supposed that she was still doing so.

"Get married," she said. "Get married for Grace."

His eyes watered up.

Mel, forgive me,
he thought, the melancholy of the whole damned thing, the long walk, the Man, the ugly sound of necks and fingers snapping,
the dog saving him in Magalloway Mountain, the five graves–
two big/three small
–the graves he avoided looking at.

All of it welled up.

The worst part now, he realized, was that time was passing, healing all wounds, and his memories of Mel were fading. It had been ten months since he had seen her last. He definitely did not want time to heal this wound. He wanted to mourn her forever.

But he was
still holding onto the boys–in a secret place. He had stowed Packy and Markie in the secret cache inside–a safe place–and he would continue to do so, even if this meant bearing incredible pain.

Somehow this kept them alive, kept them from–fading into the past. And he was used to pain.

That's not fair to Grace,
Ellie had just said.

He knew this, of course, but he couldn't help it. Not yet.

She
saw the sadness. She knew he wasn't looking for sympathy. Just that he was hurting bad.

Paper, rock, scissors,
she thought, giving in to his simple way.

Still sitting, she forced herself forward. Feeling like a puppet on her own string, she reached up carefully and placed her forearms around his neck–and pulled.

When she came to him like this, he forced himself to put his free arm around her thin
ribs; and a word entered his mind:
cling.

They clung to each other like this, awkwardly, to the music of flowing water. She gave her weight to him, and he held her up, taking care to balance for them both. She was beautiful, and he was strong, but their bodies did not react. The embrace remained chaste.

Still friends, they were consciously placing their friendship on an altar of their hearts,
pulling out the blue-tipped match, striking the friendship aflame, making it an oblation in exchange for another's life.

For Grace.

She allowed herself to cry small tears, for a time, until the baby, noticing that something had changed, crawled over, and climbed on her knee.

The moment ended. The decision was made, and agreed upon. They pulled away, which was easy.

He drew off the rock, and flopped
onto his back in front of her.

Ellie looked at her wedding diamond, his face below it, and like the climbing of this very hill, accepted the situation for what it was.

She screwed it off, along with her engagement ring, and focused on the tender-white shadows left behind on her finger. Then she held the diamond up to the sun, and he saw this–and the sparkle.

"You don't have to take them off,"
he told her, looking up.

"Sorry, Buzz. Don't go soft on me now. You know I have to do this. You know I can't wear these."

He sat back up, in front of her, and held out his right hand, palm open. She dropped her rings into it; he took her wedding ring and put it into his shirt pocket. He closed his hand on her diamond, and held out his left hand.

She looked at him. He nodded.

His ring. She pulled
it off; it was quite loose. He had lost so much weight. The baby reached up for it.

"Let her have it," he said.

Ellie let the baby take it. Grace dropped it into the dark soil. She looked down to the child, away from him.

He took her left hand, and held it, then, tenderly brushed the back of it with his fingertips. He brought his lips to Ellie's hand, and kissed her.

His simple way,
she thought.

He followed her gaze to the child. He saw Mel; he couldn't help it.

We can't waste anything in the new paradigm,
he thought, Sam-like, knowing what he had to do next.

Buzz gently placed the engagement ring back onto Ellie's finger.

It was Buzz's ring now. And hers again.

Her face remained turned; he watched her set her jaw. He was a witness to her successful effort to not cry again.

"For better
or for worse. For Grace," he whispered hoarsely.

Oh Mel!

"Til death do us part," she replied.

Good-bye, Sam.

He put a thumb to her hair, and brought it up over her ear. He wanted to see her.

"I know it's not the same–as Sam," he said.

Now you're gonna start talking again,
she thought.
Now that it's decided. Now that you've cut it down.

But she did want to hear what he would say. She didn't hate
him. She loved him.

She remembered the first time she had ever really understood him–had accepted him as her friend, during the first waltz. The night he had saved her marriage before it began, when Sam had gotten the fool idea that he couldn't go through with the wedding.

Buzz had–intervened–like a white knight from days of old, swooping in, sword flashing. Yes, he had intervened for Sam. But
mostly, Buzz had done it for her, because he loved her, all because of a single waltz. She knew it then, the night before the wedding. She knew it now. His chivalrous love for her had cemented into a deep friendship over the years.

This love between them had never been discussed. Not with Sam. Not between Ellie and Buzz.

She could not recall Buzz Woodward allowing his eyes to rest upon her with
even the slightest hint of desire during the past decade.

"I know it's not going to be the same as Mel," Ellie told-him.

He reached down and lifted the baby. He jumble-kissed Grace on the stomach, bringing a smile.

He was already moving on.

"Thinking about our first waltz?" he guessed, looking at the baby, making a funny face.

He could still guess well. She was not surprised.

She nodded.

"And
I know it's not the same as Sam," he repeated. "But I've loved you since that first waltz. I didn't know it would come to this. Something so bitter."

Baby in his hands, bile in his belly.

On the day of her wedding, at the reception, she had waltzed and waltzed with Buzz. She had been so happy, so thankful to Buzz, so in love with Sam.

She remembered throwing her head back, as Buzz spun her 'round
and 'round, the music in her ears, her dress pure white.

"You're a good waltzer, kiddo," she said as cheerfully as she could, finally looking at him again. "The best ever, Buzz. Perfect for me."

She smiled, making the best of things. Taking the good and throwing out the bad.

"Rocks in a bucket," Ellie's fiancé added, resuming his riddles. "But what choice do you have when you need-water?"

He kept
the baby, and they began down the hill. At the bottom, when they came to the path, before they reached the clearing, she took his hand.

Chapter Nineteen

Five Plus One

They announced the engagement to Tommy Sample that after-noon when he stopped by, as he did on most Sundays. Ellie saw a brief flicker of disappointment in his eyes.

"When is the wedding?" Tommy asked innocently.

Buzz and Ellie looked at each other. Buzz decided to let her do the talking.

"Uh, we haven't set a date. We need to find a priest, I suppose," she said.

"Maybe next summer," Buzz suggested. "We've got a lot of work to do before winter."

+  +  +

Two nights later, Buzz was asleep on the couch. He felt her hand on his shoulder.

"Buzz, wake up," she told him.

"Huh?"

Then he bolted upright, and before she could blink, he had the Ruger in his hands, and was over to the window, peering out.

Chesterton was up and at his side, nuzzling his arm, seeking
affection.

She shook her head with a quick little jerk. Buzz was not Sam. Buzz was–
lightning.

She remembered how they had been on the courts. Sam: smooth, but slow. Buzz: as powerful as a bear, as quick as a cat.

"Shouldn't the dog be more agitated?" he whispered back to her, keeping his eyes out the window, scanning for danger.

She giggled, still kneeling by the couch.

"Oh, Buzz," she called
over in a low voice. "I just wanted to talk."

"About what?" he asked in a normal voice, feeling foolish.

She held a finger to her lips, then whispered: "Keep your voice down. Don't wake Grace."

He padded back and sat down on the center of the couch. Chesterton jumped up next to him.

Buzz patted on the cushion on the side opposite the dog; Ellie pulled herself up next to him.

"It's too silent in
this house at night," he told her in a lowered voice. "When I was on the road, there was always some kind of low-level noise in the forest. Too much silence is a bad sign. I get jumpy. I'm sorry if I frightened you."

"Don't be sorry. You keep your danger cap on."

Her voice was soft–but her tone was hard.

They were both thinking about the same thing. The shooting; their lack of security.

"So what's
eating you?" he asked.

She took his hand.

"I had a nightmare. About your boys. Only it was–it was more like reliving what happened."

There was moonlight. Her eyes were growing accustomed to the ambient light. She could tell he was looking forward. He did not want to talk about the boys. Neither did she.

"And?" he asked gruffly.

Sam had never been gruff.

And Sam never bolted to a window like that,
her practical side reminded her.

"And I know you don't want to hear this Buzz, but the winter is coming. The flu will come back."

She knew how quick his mind made connections. She didn't have to spell it out. She was trying to learn how to communicate with him–more intimately.

There it was. The flu. No medicine. No hospitals.

Grace. The flu.

"We'll stay away from people until the winter ends.
Quarantine ourselves," he suggested.

"That's what I was thinking," she agreed, lightly squeezing his hand.

"But what about Tommy? He goes into the towns. He might pick something up."

She was glad he was talking. Being practical.

"We can't ban Tommy from the homestead," she replied. "He's our friend. He's the only person we know up here. He wouldn't understand."

Maybe he would,
he thought.

"Are
we being paranoid?" she added.

Not if you saw what the flu did to the towns I saw during the long walk,
he thought.

"Grace won't get sick," he stated, but none of his usual confidence. "We'll just have to trust God."

She couldn't help it, but she had grown to resent that phrase. Not the concept. Just the phrase.

It reminded her of–all the bad things.

"We can't ban Tommy," he said.

"No, we can't.
He's our friend. He's our link to the outside world."

So they were back to square one.

"What if–" she couldn't finish.

"What if she dies?" Buzz finished.

Ellie and Buzz had been thinking about this dark possibility. Now that they were engaged, they could talk about it. It was one of the grisly bonuses of their pending marriage of convenience. Their engagement allowed them talk to each other more
openly, even if the subject was death or danger; ultimately, this was best for Grace. It could save her life.

"I don't know what to say," he said.

Her grip on his hand tightened.

The Lord's got a big plow ready for you,
the Man had said.

"Say anything," she suggested.

There was a long pause.

He allowed something to flow from nowhere–he had no idea what it would be...

"Did you know the Little Flower's
parents were married as brother-and-sister for the first ten years of their marriage?"

"Brother and sister?"

"Yeah. Saint Thérèse's parents didn't, uh, sleep as man-and-wife. Maybe it was less than ten years. But it was several years. I don't have the book anymore. It was called a brother-and-sister marriage–that is, a marriage directed toward a spiritual, as opposed to worldly, good. It was pretty
rare, even back then, but it happened."

"Is it still allowed?" she asked.

"I don't know. I read that her parents had the same spiritual director. Her father was older, a clock maker. The priest suggested the marriage, along with the brother-sister arrangement. Then, later, after they were married, he suggested they change over to, uh, man-and-wife. And thank God they did, or else we wouldn't have
gotten Saint Thérèse, or her wonderful sisters.

"But I think you and me would need special permission, you know–to get married and live as brother and sister like that."

He had changed the conversation. But she was intrigued by this new twist. She had simply put the idea of–what to do on the honeymoon–out of her mind. She was almost pleasantly surprised that Buzz was indicating that he was not
looking for a physical relationship. Flattered, even, in a weird kind of way.

"Are you saying we won't have to–"

"Yes. I'm saying we won't have to. That is, if we can get permission."

Her grip on his hand loosened, and he felt it, and he interpreted it as a good sign. He relaxed.

"I read once that the Catholic philosopher, Dietrich von Hildebrand, was married to Alice as brother-and-sister," he
added. "Dietrich was much older, dedicated to his work. She was his secretary, but they shared a higher love. Their passion for his work joined them together, made them one. When he passed away, she spent the rest of her life expounding his philosophy. Not that she was any schlep herself."

They had both heard audio tape lectures by Alice. Ellie always found her explanations of married love lyrical
and fascinating. She had always assumed that Alice's profound love for her husband stemmed from a traditional marriage.

Directed toward a spiritual good,
she thought.
Let it be done unto me...

"And Grace is our shared passion?" she asked.

He nodded in the darkness.

"We're already living as brother-and-sister," Ellie mused, feeling a certain elation. A light, distant knowledge that devine destiny
was in this conversation overcame her, but in a hidden, sublime way–the way the tide comes in–slowly, surely, inexorably.

Buzz Woodward, the man, felt nothing, except her hand in his own. Like the natural unity they found waltzing, her hand
fit there.

Serendipity? Perhaps.

It made him nervous.

"Ellie. I do love you. I really do. And you're the most beautiful girl in the world–"

"Sounds like we're
breaking up," she interrupted gently, not concerned. Not ready to let go of his hand, or the feeling that there was a design in this midnight meeting.

"Huh?"

"Like two kids in high school. 'I really like you, but.'"

"You know what I mean."

She reached over with her free hand and slapped him lightly on the shoulder.

"Buzz, I feel the same way about you."

They pondered this. Their hands tightened,
then loosened. She rubbed her thumb on the crest of his rough hand. This was going well.

Buzz knew that there was something else. Something practical to tell her. Never the mystic, yet always a quick-prayer bandit, Buzz prayed:
Saint Anthony.

It came to him.

"In the old days, farm widows and farm widowers often married for–convenience. But that's a bad description. They really married out of necessity.
It takes two to run a farm the right way. A man and a woman."

"And to raise a child," she said.

She leaned over suddenly and kissed him on the cheek, but instead of pulling away, kept her lips near his ear.

"I love you, Buzz Woodward," Ellie whispered sweetly. "I love how you ran to the window. You're my knight in shining armor."

Now she pulled away, slowly, watching him.

He was a little boy,
blushing.

He turned and kissed her back–on the cheekbone, missing his target–her cheek–just a bit. This was the way he had always kissed her, when she was married to Sam. Like a sister.

He liked being her knight.

"And you're Grace's mom. Kind of like Saint Joseph with Jesus, but just reversed. Or side-ways."

That did it for her. Like the Holy Family. The bolt of destiny locked into the latch of
reality.

This was meant to be,
she thought.

It truly
felt
like Providence. It was gritty enough. The missing piece. Brother and sister. It made sense for the baby. For the commission Mel had given her, long before there had been any hope that Buzz would show up here. (Though, Ellie admitted, Mel had always insisted he would.) She would marry Buzz as his sister, and then, finally, together, they
could buy some time; buy some time to–

Recover,
she thought.

She felt his presence in the darkness, and it comforted her. Made her feel safe, sitting next to a white knight, and his dog, Chesterton. A girl could do worse in this kind of world.

Oh, she missed Sam. He was always there, behind the curtain or in the cupboard of her imagination.

But she didn't think that Sam would mind that she was
moving on–especially in the direction Buzz was taking her. She still had her edge; a sort of self-aware calculation which many children from divorced backgrounds have.

They listened to the dog breathe.

Despite the hand-holding, there had been no sexual attraction between them since his return. She had no inkling that this part of him wasn't working.

As for Buzz, he was thankful that this part
of himself had gone away, even if temporarily. Hot-blooded, he had always struggled with sexual temptation. The outlet for his drive afforded by marriage had been a blessing to him, as it is for most men.

Being shut down in this area was one less cross to carry. His condition had already become just one more item on Buzz's litany of his broken life: drunkard, divorced, suicidal, killer, widower–impotent.

Maybe something broke in my brain when I hit my head, during the coma?
he asked himself now.

It made the idea of marrying Ellie for Grace's sake easier to accept. He believed his motives were pure, untainted with chemical influences.

What if your sex drive comes back?
a trendy little voice asked.

He didn't have the answer to that one. Then it came:

My word is my bond. I will make a promise to Ellie
and that will be that.

He was a man, not a schoolboy. He was not a pig rutting around in the mud. Enough said.

Ellie will find the right priest, then she'll convince him to give us permission.

He knew what she was like when she really wanted something. That priest, whoever he was, even in this world, was as good as found.

"Brother-and-sister, eh?" she asked again, bringing him out of his thoughts.

Buzz and Ellie, alone in a house on a swell in the shadow of Magalloway Mountain. A tiny redhead on a big bed. They were only vaguely cognizant that there was no longer an anti-Catholic culture around to mock their pure desire for a simpler union of souls for the sake of a helpless baby.

Not that Buzz had ever cared what people thought of him. "One of the great perks of being a sociopath," he had
once joked to her, back in the old world.

"You got it. Brother-and-sister, sister," he agreed, smiling in the dark in the new world.

"Amen, brother."

He rose, then walked her over to the door of her bedroom, the dog's claws clicking on the formica floor beneath them; he was still holding her hand. They embraced briefly, then she retreated to her sanctuary behind a closed door.

"Well, there you
go, Chetmeister," he told the dog. "That takes care of that."

He knew that Ellie was barren. Because of his gift, he had also known all along, during her married years, that she had yearned for more children. He realized that Grace was a fulfillment of a soul-deep desire in her. He was happy for her, and for Grace. It did not strike him as ironic that he was impotent and she was barren; it lined
up. It was–poetic.

It was okay.

+  +  +

Buzz and Ellie returned to separate cells that night excited by their first whiff of the sweet perfume of a new destiny breezing in from the heavens. In each of their minds, it fell together simply–

He thought: Mel had already died by the time I left Ohio. Grace is why He inspired the Man to store that gasoline in the boathouse; this is why God helped me
cross the Badlands. So Grace could have a father. So Ellie could have a brother.

Ellie felt: If Sam and Chris had to die, then at least God has given me a reason to live. Mel's baby needs a mother. Buzz needs a sister.

And who could blame them? If God had not arranged this unfathomable marriage of necessity from before the beginnings of time, then He had sure shimmied and shaked to reset the table
to help Buzz and Ellie force down the realities of their post-modern world.