Stony River (62 page)

When in the pale dawn she sat up in bed, disoriented, the storm was shrieking just as fiercely as the night before—its vitality seemed boundless. The temperature in the apartment hadn’t kept up with the frigid blast, and she went to turn up the thermostat. But just as when she’d been asleep, the dream had seemed real—so now to be awake seemed a dream. The only thing that was real was her painting. She sat down to it and didn’t stop again until it was finished.

Then she staggered to her feet, surprised to see it was already growing dark again outdoors. She felt a bit of triumph. By staying hard at work all day she had managed to keep edged away the despair that hovered always so near; and tonight she would be among friends who would laugh and talk and pull her back to a normal sphere where everything was not crashing down in a glacier-melt of broken pieces. When Willy came for her at seven, she had the door open before he even had time to knock.

“How’s the project?” Willy crossed in a direct course to the table. “Hey—that’s not the one from the book.”

“No, that one took me over with a life of its own.”

“I’ll say.” He was studying the canvas closely. “This piece breathes; it has a mood that snatches you into it. What did you paint it from—a picture?”

“Only a picture in my mind—the wilderness, as I remember it.”

He laid the board down and turned his attention fully to her. “You look even more stunning than usual,” he said engagingly. “Ready to brave the Siberian Express out there?”

“Yes.” Her head was high, and an inner desperation was adding to her sparkle tonight. “More than ready.”

In a sudden urge of protectiveness he couldn’t explain, Willy took her arm and guided her down the stairs to his waiting car—to which action she didn’t object or pull away.

When they appeared on the generous porch of the old-fashioned, two-story house across town, Len opened the door with Ralf just behind him. “Oh, it’s you.” Len looked crestfallen when he saw Willy. “We were hoping you’d forget to show up. We have a rack of beer we were hoping to keep all to ourselves.

“So keep it.” Willy was unable to disguise his full lack of concern as he stepped in. “Then I won’t have to worry about sharing this with you—” and from the recesses of his overcoat, produced a bottle of very old cognac.

“Wait a minute,” Len said, collecting it from him speedily. “I almost forgot. What are friends for? Share and share alike, isn’t that right, Ralf?”

While the men were quibbling, Sevana hunted up Jillian in the living room. “Have you seen Len’s painting?” she asked.

“Not yet,” Jillian replied from the stuffed chair where she was curled up in an oversized sweater perusing a magazine. “He’s being pretty secretive. It’s probably a black ship on a black sea on a black night,” she added pleasantly.

“Or a caricature of Willy.” Sevana felt brighter already. She didn’t see much of Jillian between her two careers and garage hobby, but she knew her well enough by now to appreciate what time she did spend with her. For though it could never be guessed from her indecipherable paintings or quirky personality, Jillian possessed a level-headed equability that made her a sane and comfortable person to be around.

They were both laughing when Willy appeared with two glasses of cognac, one of which he presented to Sevana. She took the glass but wouldn’t let him refill it after that, even though he offered several times. He couldn’t know she was keeping her promise to Joel, even if Joel wasn’t there—wouldn’t ever be there again—to see.

It being Sevana’s first visit to Len’s house, despite the unaccommodating weather she must be shown the garden in the back yard, which Len had designed and planted, and Ralf grudgingly helped maintain for part of his rent—with many pointed remarks about Len’s delicate side. But Len delighted in fine and beautiful things, and the garden was one outlet for that passion. And truly, the yard was such a showcase under the strategically placed outdoor lights—even now in late-season, when only the trimmed shrubs and hedges were still at their prime—that Ralf’s caustic comments were lost on the other viewers; for even a person who didn’t love gardens or landscaping had to be impressed by that inspired botanical display.

When they had reassembled inside and warmed their chilled hands and faces, Len unveiled his painting, literally—pulling a percale bedsheet off a large canvas with maximum ado on his part and no lack of less-than-generous conjectures from his dearest friends. But after all the verbal abuse, the exhibit proved nothing to joke about. It showcased a filmy stream cascading into a fern-enclosed pool Len had discovered along a trail in Waterton, and everyone agreed it was wonderfully done. Sevana liked it especially because it reminded her of the waterfall on Avalanche Creek, and she found her eyes drawn to it often over the evening.

There was more art talk after Len’s work had been sufficiently analyzed—recent news of Chace Woirheye and other area artists’ accomplishments, as well as their own current projects and ideas. But Willy had a surprise. “Not to steal your thunder, Len,” he said after a suitable length of time, “but I have something here I’d like your opinions on.” And from out of nowhere he presented Sevana’s latest homework assignment.

“Willy!” Sevana sat straight up. The cognac wasn’t the only thing he’d smuggled in under his coat.

“You left it in the classroom.” Willy slanted her an unrepentant grin. “I knew you wouldn’t care if I borrowed it for the evening.”

The accolades were unanimous and unsparing. Sevana looked around at each artist genuinely commending her talent, and knew she had been accepted among them on the basis of her own merit. It was a moment she’d been waiting for, and it should have lifted her to the heights of happiness.

But as the talk and gaiety continued, the whirl of the evening slid away and she found herself face to face with a memory peculiarly unmoved by it all—the recollection of a dark-haired man come to say goodbye, seeming too big and undomesticated to be confined inside the walls of a city apartment. A man who carried in his experience a whole unspoiled world most people had never seen—who, no matter where he went, would always have the song of a thousand outdoor wonders playing through his soul.

And she knew with profound clarity that art could never be her whole life again. If all she wanted was to paint, then she could be content with this life as Willy and his friends were. But art alone did not consume her—there was the unexpected wealth she had discovered in another place, there was the incomparable friendship she had known with Joel. There was beauty that could not ever be put down on canvas, and had to be enjoyed just for beauty’s sake. The merriment continued, but she felt apart from it—a strange thing for someone who had gone there wanting to be included in it.

It was late when Willy took her home, in a snowstorm that was just beginning to whiten the city. He was too euphoric from the cognac and art conversation to notice her preoccupation as she thanked him for the evening. But as she went inside, quickly closing the door before Willy could invite himself in, she was wondering what good it was to realize that life was not enough, when it was the only one she could have.

The storm wind rose again to a high-pitched wail, and inside the little house Sevana paced from room to room, looking for something she couldn’t find.

CHAPTER 43

Picking her way down the drifted stairs next morning, Sevana met Willy on the walk shoveling a path through the ankle-deep snow. Business was slow that day, for few people ventured out in the first snowfall of the season. In one of the many quiet stretches of the morning, Willy cleared more of the sidewalk. Sevana could see him out by the curb talking to Len in his sedan. In a few minutes Willy stuck his head in the door. “I’m going over to Len’s for a while.”

“His garden,” Sevana suddenly remembered. “It must be buried.”

“That’s why I’m going. He needs help moving all forty trellises and the bower into the shed. Ralf made himself scarce—I have no idea why.”

During the day the wind lost its vehemence and fell to a nomadic wandering over the plain. It was still bitingly cold after work but Sevana bundled up anyway, and with the snow crunching under her boots walked far into the drifted fields—out where there was only flat white land under a flat white sky—having nowhere to go but not wanting to go back.

A car—a tiny toy of one—was coming along the unplowed road, slower and slower as it approached, until it finally stopped altogether and David got out. He walked across the stretch of field to her, struggling to tie down his flapping overcoat. “Sevana! What are you doing out here on such a polar day?” he exclaimed.

“Just walking,” she replied. “Tired of being cooped up inside.”

“Bad storm, wasn’t it? Let me give you a ride into town.”

“That would defeat the purpose of my walk.” She evinced a transitory smile. “But I’ll start back now.”

A gust of wind clashed against the ground and whipped up a shower of snow, so that for a minute they were lost in the swirling crystals. Instinctively they turned their backs to the blast and began walking toward the road. “Did Joel find you the other night?” asked David.

“Yes.” She had to work to keep her voice unaffected. “He told me he saw you.”

“Unexpected, wasn’t it? There wasn’t a lot of time to talk, but I was glad to see him at all. Although I didn’t like the idea of him setting out on such a long trip by himself.”

“Neither did I.” She didn’t add that she would have gladly volunteered to go with him. “It just doesn’t seem fair that he should have to help out his father, when his father’s never done anything for him!” she burst out, expressing the thought that had bothered her ever since she’d first learned of it.

“Well, Sevana,” David said mildly, “there’s no rule that says you should help only those who help you.”

“Yes, I know.” She felt ashamed for being less good-hearted than David, but still was not entirely satisfied.

“It’s no easy thing, is it?” David’s smile was understanding. “Have you heard from him since he left?”

“No, but he said he’d call when he got to Mammoth Creek if he could.”

“He probably had to drive through this same storm.” David brushed the snow from his coat front as they stopped by the car. “Well, Joel’s capable of doing anything he has to.”

She wondered how much Joel had told him about the big events in his life, but it wasn’t her place to ask. “Where are you coming back from just now?”

“I have a few places I like to visit after a storm—Mr. Stackpole, and several others who live alone. Everybody came through it all right, although Mrs. Wagner’s washing machine froze up.”

“Don’t you mind looking after so many people all the time?” she asked curiously, catching back the hair blowing in her eyes.

“Oh no, I enjoy it.” He smiled candidly. “No different than a shepherd looking after his sheep.”

“Just like Joel,” she whispered, staring at him. “He liked it, too.”

“Let me give you a ride,” David insisted again.

“I’ll be fine, David. But it’s nice of you to offer.”

“All right, Sevana, hurry home. I’ll be at the church if you want to stop and warm up.” Briefly she read concern in his face before he got back in the car and left her there on the snowy road.

Throughout each day of the week Sevana wondered about Joel—where he was, if he was all right. She jumped every time the phone rang, but it was never him. Finally she gave up expecting it. If he’d been able to call, he would have done so by now. She would probably have to wonder for months before she found out if he’d made it safely. It was just something she had to live with.

Just as she had to live with the way she felt about him. All the emotions she had suppressed for so long had come to light, insisting to be recognized. One evening looking through her flower book she’d been overcome by a paralyzing alarm, wondering how she had let him go without telling him how she felt about him—thinking frantically she had to find him and let him know before it was too late. She’d made it down to the sidewalk before the cold air had brought her back to her senses.

But after some very long nights and some very long walks—at least one of which prompted Willy to mention the city bus system to her again—she came to terms with some things. How she felt about Joel simply didn’t factor. He was in love with someone else—had been ever since she’d known him. She hadn’t lost him, because she’d never had him. She couldn’t deny her feelings for him, but that was as far as it could go. She couldn’t act on them, nor could she give them up; they had to remain a part of her, unspoken and unpursued.

And then she would stand at the side of her balcony while the moon swung up from the horizon to shine across the city, as if she might catch a clue of how he was doing if she looked north into that blue-lit landscape long enough. And almost, she could be persuaded he was thinking about her in those very same moments.

Out of these heart-agonies and psychic fancies came a new and stern resolve to throw herself into other things. Impatient for wanting something to which she had no right, she told herself the only choice was to live for her job and art lessons, so she’d better do it wholeheartedly. She was thankful she at least had useful ways to occupy her time. And Willy was always there, ready to entertain her with his irrepressible spirits. She didn’t know how she could have endured it without him.

Neither Willy nor painting could divert her from her disquieting thoughts entirely, however, and she could be found silent and a little downcast on occasions when nothing was going on at the shop. Willy noticed, and one day he asked her about it. “I don’t know,” she said hopelessly. It was too much to explain—or maybe there was no explanation after all.