The Long Road Home (18 page)

Except one car. In it, Frank wasn’t thinking about the chipped paint or the outdated neon sign as he stared at the plate glass. Inside the window, Katie Beth Zwinger was busily laying out the new display: a couple of classic wool skirts with coordinating orange and yellow sweaters. Colored paper leaves that were ragged and curled at the edges were tacked on the window in a disappointing attempt at fall frolics.

Frank thought it was all grand as he watched Katie Beth’s long fingers work rapidly over the mannequin. He studied the way she carefully plucked out the straight pins from her pursed lips. He eyed with stilled breath the slight length of thigh that crept into view as Katie Beth lifted a knee and stretched to pin the back of the kilt.

“She sure is good at her job,” Frank said with awe.

Junior shrugged. He couldn’t think of much to comment about.

“Why’d she start goin’ out with John Henry, do you think?” he asked anxiously, swinging his head to face his brother.

Junior shrugged again, shifting his gaze, knowing for sure what he’d like to say but didn’t dare.

Frank’s gaze strayed back to Katie Beth. “We’ve been datin’ for four years now.”

“Five.”

“Yeah.” Frank scowled. “It must be that dairy farm John Henry got. Shoot. If I had that dairy farm, Katie Beth wouldn’t be lookin’ around.”

“You got a farm, too.”

Frank shook his head and ran his hand along the back of his neck. A dull ache throbbed. “Do not. Neither do you. We’re just like Esther said, two bachelors without a dime to rub between us. Pa ain’t never gonna let me run things. He never wants to see the land split up.”

“You can have my piece, Frank. I don’t care.”

“Don’t matter none,” he said morosely. Frank glanced quickly at his brother and saw the hurt shining in Junior’s eyes. He gave him a gentle shove. “Hey. You and I are always gonna be a team, right?”

Junior’s eyes brightened and he bobbed his head. Frank ventured a lopsided smile, then sunk his chin in his palm and stared back out at Katie Beth.

Junior gathered his brows in worry. “Don’t worry. Katie Beth ain’t that way. She’s real nice. She dances good, too.”

“I know it,” replied Frank, looking at Katie Beth with a new sadness in his eyes. It occurred to him that life wouldn’t be worth much without Katie Beth, and his face fell farther into his hand at the thought of losing her.

“I want to marry her,” he said, real slowly, the idea cementing in his mind as he spoke the words.

Junior shifted and grimaced as if he was sitting on a burr.

“If’n you marry Katie Beth, I know you’re gonna want your own house and all. And wanna be alone. You won’t want me hangin’ around all the time. And that’s okay and all. But, what’ll happen to us? I mean, you know?”

Frank jabbed at his brother’s rib. Then again. “Come on, whaddya think? Nothin’s gonna change. Like I always say, we’re a team. Katie Beth’ll be, you know, at home. You and I’ll work together and go out sometimes like always. Shoot. You can come to our house anytime,” he said, swelling his chest and warming to the idea of him and Katie Beth having their own home after all. “Maybe someday you’ll get married, huh? What about that?”

This time Junior jabbed at Frank, then Frank jabbed back again, and after a few more punches and laughs, Junior decided it would be a good thing after all if Frank married Katie Beth. He said as much to Frank.

Frank’s smile fell and he nervously shifted his eyes toward the display window. He watched as Katie Beth neatly gathered up her supplies in a box and crawled out from the window, real dainty-like, he thought. The full window looked empty without her. The mannequins, dressed in their autumn colors, seemed to Frank like every other girl in the world: fake and wooden. Only Katie Beth held any life.

“A girl like Katie Beth wants more than a poor boy like me can offer,” Frank said, his voice trembling with emotion. He jerked his arm down, rammed the key in, and fired up the engine.

Junior may not have been able to understand all the details that people sputtered, but he was astute at picking up the bottom line. He braced himself against the dashboard as Frank spun the tires and squealed away from the curb. Junior knew that he had to help his brother, somehow. Or someday, his brother was gonna crash and burn.

NORA’S FIRST MONTH passed in relative peace in the country. Down in the pen, Nora developed an air of camaraderie with C.W. and Esther. They worked in harmony to usher into the world sixty-two more lambs. Witnessing another creature slip into the world and wobble to its feet on its own strength instilled in her an awe and renewed respect for God and nature. The experience grounded her to the power of life: that which was around her and within herself. As each day passed, her confidence and self-esteem grew as steady and sure as the lambs she cared for. By the close of her first month, she was completing her chores with the same confidence that she had admired in Esther only weeks before.

Her routine was sacrosanct. She spent the morning feeding the barn animals and the afternoon doing house chores and paperwork. Seth joked that he gave up wearing a watch; he could tell the time by what Nora was up to. Winterization of the house was also coming along nicely. Freed from the chores of the pen, Seth drove his sons at a steady pace, all the while keeping an eye on the skies above. Within the month floors
had been laid and the walls and ceilings had been Sheetrocked. Even a few closets and shelves had been installed.

Nora worked overtime vacuuming up all the dust that fell onto every surface, picking up the nails and wood chips, and moving furniture from one room to the other. She never complained. The work had to get done, and time was of the essence. Quietly and quickly she worked, figuring that not only did it speed things up, but that in fact, no one worked harder or did the job better than herself.

Frank, Junior, and the others called her the Whiz. No sooner would they set something down than she’d whiz by, offer a cheery comment, then clean it up. The guys no longer maintained a deferential distance. Her superior air had long since vanished and she laughed at their jokes. That they could talk freely with her in the room was testimony to her acceptance. She delighted in it.

Esther had finally come around, too. In painting, they had found that common ground, and from it they were building, albeit slowly, a working relationship. Not a friendship yet, but as always, Nora was optimistic and willing to work hard.

It was the work at night, however, that Nora enjoyed the most. Each evening, at precisely seven o’clock, C.W. knocked on the kitchen door. And each night, Nora felt a thrill of anticipation. He never failed to fill the doorway and her heart with his presence. For the first several days his manner was cool and indifferent. They sat, head to head, toe to toe, at the dining room table, careful not to accidentally graze a finger or bump a thigh. They were accountant and client—teacher and student.

Each night, with slow deliberation, C.W. took his wire-rim glasses out from his pocket and hooked them around his ears. Then, one by one, he spread the books before them. Nora sat, hands neatly folded, and watched how his hair fell over
his broad forehead, just touching the thin wire-rims, which rested on and accentuated his broken nose. She thought the flattened bridge did not detract from his handsomeness but improved it. Without this flaw, his striking good looks would be too perfect, like a model’s. That, she would have found boring.

C.W.’s small imperfection, however, sent her imagination running. Perhaps he’d been a football jock in high school, or maybe even college? Was it some rough and tumble barroom brawl; if so, who’d started it? Was the fight over some woman? Or maybe some horse kicked him during a shoeing?

Nora enjoyed creating a past for the private Mr. Walker. He held his cards tightly abreast. Every once in a while he’d discard a tidbit of information that Nora quickly picked up and sorted. She discovered he was intelligent by his vocabulary. It was rich with multisyllabic choices that came naturally, without the millisecond pause of pretension. His breadth of knowledge on a wide array of subjects revealed a strong education. And although he wore worn and torn clothing and could throw hay as far as Frank, C.W. could not disguise his quiet aura of quality. Nora paired these pieces of information together but as yet could not play out her hand.

As the nights grew colder, the kitchen became the only room cozy enough to work in without fingers and toes freezing. Nora tacked up large pieces of thick plastic at the stairwells to keep the wood stove’s heat from dispersing throughout the house. It worked like a charm. C.W. noticed it the first night. Although he didn’t comment, Nora caught his nod of approval.

With the same patience he had shown down at the barn, C.W. laid out the figures and explained what they represented. As he did so, he also taught her the ins and outs of sheep farming: the variable and fixed costs, and the high risk
ventures versus the tried-and-true ones. Sometimes Seth and Frank would join him, and together they’d describe, with the excitement of a pack of inventors, the new crossbreeding they were trying out.

She sat back and listened with rapture, getting sucked into this world of sheep, hay fields, and wool. Here, as in the barn, Nora proved an apt pupil. She had a decent handle on the math, but she surprised C.W. with an extraordinary grasp of concept and management.

For the first several sessions, C.W. had maintained an employer-employee rigidity. He had seemed intent on getting a fix on her personal finances, offering to balance her books, referring often to any other ledgers she might have. But she demurred, returning instead to ideas and dreams for the farm. As the hours and days passed, however, their formality dissipated and a friendly exchange developed.

By the end of that first week, C.W. had decided to stop pressing Nora for more of Mike’s records. She would confide only when she was ready and not before. He’d have to be patient. In truth, however, he was grateful for the reprieve. Without the pressure of a mission, he could relax and concentrate on his second goal: to get to know Nora better. After a while, he stopped gathering his papers at the hour’s close and stayed for that cup of coffee.

During the second week, they settled into a peaceful pattern around the fireplace after their work—he with a book, and she with her sewing machine. They talked about everything: from Lenin to Lennon, grass roots to the ozone layer, Buddha to Christ, and apples to zucchini. They discovered that they shared numerous opinions and viewpoints. So rather than debate from opposite poles, they parleyed from the same side of the fence.

He also started noticing the floral arrangements and wreaths
she created from the wild vines and flowers she gathered. Bread baked in the oven, soups and coffee simmered, water steamed on the wood stove, fresh towels and a space heater warmed the bathroom. This house was becoming a home. He felt invited here, even welcome.

From behind his book he stole glances as she sat bent over her sewing machine, wrestling with yards upon yards of thick, insulated fabric, pins protruding from her lips. He marveled at her industry—she was always working. Too often he was caught spellbound by her gentle beauty, so like her gentle spirit. Her blond hair was always swept up, either in a braid or bun, and it symbolized to him her struggle to maintain control over her life. He longed to loosen the bonds from her hair and watch it fall freely around her shoulders. It took all of his self-control to be patient, to wait for a sign from her.

On this last evening of Nora’s first month on the farm, a gusty wind whipped over the northern ridge. C.W. walked the distance between the cabin and the house in record time. In one hand he held a stack of ledgers. In the other, a package wrapped in tissue and tied up in a bright bow. Before knocking, he adjusted the bow and stuck in a sprig of pine.

The door of the house swung open and Nora met him with her usual welcome. He held his breath, as he always did, when he first spied Nora’s smile. Her eyes were as bright a green as the bow on his package, and they warmed him more than any fire could.

She wore jeans and a repaired navy turtleneck of cashmere. Brown leather at her waist and feet was the only contrast in color, giving her an aura of quiet elegance. Her long hair twined in a French braid, and gold French knots adorned her ears.

He looked over his faded flannel shirt, which was worn under another shirt of denim, and the torn pocket on his jeans.
Next to Nora, who looked great even when covered with mud, he felt shabby. Once he had taken great pains with his appearance. His suits and shirts were custom tailored, his ties were designer made, and his shoes were of the finest leather. Lint on his jacket used to distract him.

C.W. shrugged and smiled inwardly. He liked it better this way. He was confident with the knowledge of what was quality and what wasn’t—and when it mattered. Wiping his feet on the woven mat, careful not to muddy her clean floors, he handed her the package.

“What’s this?” she asked in surprise. “It’s not my birthday.”

“It’s not a birthday present,” he replied, gazing at his shuffling feet. “It’s sort of a housewarming present. And given that gusty wind, you can use this one.”

Nora’s expression changed from surprise to affection, and he felt a blush rise from beneath his shearling collar.

“Well, open it,” he said gruffly. “I’ll lay this stack of books down on the table.”

Nora followed him, gently fingering the sprig of pine. She stared at the package in her hands for a moment. “I love it already.”

“You don’t even know what it is.” He was pleased.

Glancing up at him with a tease in her eyes, she gave the package a shake.

He gave a look that said, Will you just open it.

“Okay, okay.” She giggled. Carefully, she took off the sprig and set it into her water glass. Then in a rush, she tore open the paper and opened the box. With a confused look on her face, she pulled out a pair of gray thermal bib overalls.

“I—I don’t know what to say,” she said, turning the overalls from front to back.

C.W. smiled and coughed back a laugh. “They may not
seem much now, but I promise you. Before you know it, you won’t step foot out of this house without them. They’re insulated and you’ll be able to hike down the mountain and do your chores at the barn without freezing that pretty—your legs off.”

“My legs,” she repeated with a sly smile. Holding it up, she asked, “How does it look?”

Had he known she was going to model his gift, he would have bought something besides bib overalls, he thought.

“Fine, just fine,” he replied.

“I’m truly touched,” she said, holding the overalls to her breast. “As presents go, this one ranks right up there with Oma’s pearls. You must have really thought about what I would need up here in the winter. And, I take it as a vote of confidence.” She felt like giving him a big hug but offered a smile instead. “I love them. I don’t know what to say. Thank you, C.W.”

“Check the pockets.”

With a raised brow, she fingered the bibs. “What could this be?” she asked tapping a lump in the pocket. “It feels like a small box, a jeweler’s box, perhaps?” She winked and he held back a laugh.

She dug in and pulled out a small green tin. Casting him a suspicious glance, she read the red-and-green label.

“Bag Balm?” she said looking up at him with a blank face. “What’s Bag Balm?” She read the small print on the label, then her face went aghast.

“This says it’s for udders! Cow’s udders!” she cried with an expression of incredulity.

He merely shrugged in defense and cast a wary glance at her breasts.

“C.W.!” she shrieked in mirth as she held the overalls over her chest. “Thanks a lot.”

At last he burst out laughing and shook his head. “You’ll need it. No, I’m serious.” He reached out for the tin and she crouched in a defensive pose.

“Come on.” He laughed as he took the tin from her hands. “It’s the best thing for chapped hands.” Then he added, without lifting his eyes from the tin, “Whatever else you use it for is strictly your own business.”

“You, you, cowhand you.”

“I’ll show you how to handle a cow,” he threatened.

Nora squealed as he grabbed her, held her in a neck lock, and administered tweaks to her ears and nose. It was almost more than he could manage not to tweak her bottom and udders. When he finally released her, she leaned against the brick wall and held her sides.

“I hurt from laughing so hard.”

He stood with his hands on his hips while controlling his own laughter and catching his breath. He watched Nora as she laughed. When she brushed the golden hair from her face and looked up at him, her face aglow with happiness, he felt as if someone had punched him a good one in the solar plexus. The smile disappeared from his face and his breathing pace increased again.

With his thumb, he snapped the tight lid from the tin. Taking a sample from the balm, he held out his hand to her.

“Come here. I’ll rub some on you.”

Her smile faded slowly as she held out her hand. He grabbed it and pulled her close, then, ever so gently, applied the balm to her hand. It was glutinous and smelled medicinal. Nora stood without moving a muscle as his large hand massaged her small one, engulfing it as her nearness engulfed him.

He turned her palm up and, looking into her eyes, rhythmically rubbed the balm up and down her palm, from her wrist to her fingertips. Back and forth. Glide and press.

His breathing grew labored and his fingertips burned.

Her lips parted and she panted shallow breaths. And still his eyes held hers, never wavering.

“C.W.,” she said, more in a moan.

He stopped but kept his hold on her hand. Spreading his own palm he gazed at her hand, as though it were a rare flower. Standing there, frozen for seconds, his stillness belied the war raging inside him.

He released her hand and still without speaking, tucked the tin back into the bib’s pocket.

“Hope it helps you out there.” His hands were back in his pockets and his eyes averted from hers. The air in the room seemed colder.

Nora tucked away her gift in a bureau and gazed around the room at nothing. Her lips were clenched, keeping in words she wanted to say.

“Well, let’s get to work,” he said.

Her heart sank. She nodded.

His gut wrenched. He nodded.

Neither moved.