“Let’s get him back to the porch,” Mitch whispered.
He carried the limp dog to the house. Jasmine ran up the porch stairs in front of him. Sid rose from the wicker chair. “He don’t look so good.”
“He’s dying, isn’t he?” Jasmine said.
Mitch lowered the sick dog onto his porch blanket. Jasmine lay down next to him.
Billy gave her a feeble lick on the face, struggling to breathe.
“He’ll be okay,” Sid said softly to Jasmine. “Probably got into some raccoon crap.”
Sid patted Jasmine’s head. “We’ll get the vet out here tomorrow. Be hard to find him today.”
“He’ll be fine,” Mitch said, feeling guilty about lying to her. Billy had been with them for over fourteen years, ancient for a lab.
* * *
Mitch stayed on the porch with Jasmine until it was time for chores. “Come get me if he…if anything changes.”
Jasmine didn’t reply.
God, he’d miss that dog. And Jasmine? How was she going to take it? Billy rarely left her side.
Jasmine stayed on the porch through supper. Billy held on and Jasmine refused to leave him. Mitch brought Jasmine a plate of fried hamburger patties to try to feed him. He sensed she wanted to be alone with him, so Mitch peeked in from time to time to check on them. The hamburger patties remained untouched.
Mitch and Miss Bernie watched the late news together in the front room that no longer smelled like a musty locker room. It smelled of fresh linen with a touch of lavender. Miss Bernie had transformed the smelly old farmhouse into a warm, cozy home. She even had Sid’s upstairs bedroom smelling fresh.
“Mitch, I know it hurts, but look what that glorious dog did, lifting our Jasmine out of her misery. That was surely the good Lord working through him and if the good Lord is calling him home, well, God bless him.”
“He was a good dog,” Mitch said solemnly. “Think I’ll go check on them.”
Before he got to the porch, he heard Jasmine. “You can’t die. I won’t let you. Mitch is sad too much and I don’t know how to help him. I love him more than I ever love my own daddy. So don’t you go dying, you hear?”
Mitch coughed a few times before stepping onto the porch. “Jasmine, it’s getting late, better come in.”
“I’m sleeping out here.”
“He’ll like that. I’ll get you some blankets.”
* * *
Mitch rose before dawn. It was his turn to start in on milking. He headed to the porch, dreading what he’d see.
The empty blanket lay crumpled on the rough decking. The plate with the hamburger patties was empty except for a layer of cream-colored congealed grease.
The mercury vapor yard light cast a stark whiteness over the barnyard, the air thick with dew. Jasmine was nowhere to be seen, and there were no lights on in the hay barn or milking parlor. He went for the Gator and stopped when he saw the light in the calf barn. He raced across the barnyard.
Inside the barn, Jasmine was mixing calf formula. At her side stood Billy with the Kente scarf neatly draped around his neck.
Mitch knelt and stroked Billy’s head while the dog licked his face. “How the heck …”
Jasmine pointed at the scarf.
“Holy crap. Really? The scarf?”
“You love him a lot, don’t you?” Jasmine asked.
“What about you?”
“Yeah, he’s not so bad.”
She went back to mixing calf formula. “These calves begging to be fed. Us farmers never get any rest.” They both laughed.
With Billy okay and her giggles filling the small barn, Mitch felt like dancing. “I saw what you wrote in the treehouse.”
Jasmine kept mixing the milky liquid with a slight smile.
“If I ever have a daughter, I want her to be just like you.”
“Guess you’ll be marrying a sister.”
Mitch chuckled. “Maybe she could teach me to dance.”
“What’s with your daddy?”
“What’d he do now?”
“Yesterday he talked all nice and patted my head. He pretending to like me?”
“Dad don’t pretend.”
Jasmine went back to feeding calves, and Mitch headed to the milking parlor.
Mitch cut hay after milking and got back to the house well after breakfast. He stepped into the kitchen. Alexus was next to Sid, holding a whiteboard and going through the alphabet, demanding he repeat each letter. Mitch watched for a while and when they got through the alphabet, Alexus said, “You doing real good. Now let’s work on your name.”
Mitch went to Miss Bernie at the sink and whispered, “What’s going on?”
“Miss Jennie said we need to help the old man learn how to read and write again. The stroke took that away. Lexi’s the only one has time, so that’s her job.”
Mitch grinned. “This is too good.”
“No, a big S, not a small one,” Alexus said sternly to Sid, taking the red marker from him. “Here, like this.” She wrote Sid on the whiteboard. “See? Big S, small i, small d. Now you try.”
Sid shook his head. “Can’t believe I’m being ordered around by a kid.”
Miss Bernie wagged her finger. “That child smarter than all of us. Jasmine had her reading and writing before she was three. Best listen to her.”
“This is embarrassing,” Sid said.
Miss Bernie smirked. “No more than not being able to write your own name. Might want to close your yap and let her teach you something.”
Sid slapped at the air. “Aach. Never let up do you, old woman?”
“See, I’m teaching him just like you teach us at the firehouse,” Alexus said to Mitch.
She handed the red marker to Sid, “Now you write your name like I wrote it.”
And he did.
Chapter 59
Mitch trekked to the treehouse after supper. He covered the floor with family photos of his mom. Under the luminescent light of the Coleman lantern, he studied every photo, trying to peer back through the years for the faintest clue. Anything.
What made you do it?
Was she struggling with the same feelings of hopelessness and self-hatred that pushed him to the edge of suicide? What could have been so bad? She didn’t have to deal with a little girl’s horrific death or burning the farmland or with her own mother’s suicide.
The photos revealed nothing but her melancholy eyes. He settled into the wooden rocker Brother Williams brought along as a treehouse-warming gift. He rocked for hours waiting for an answer, listening to the loud chirping and screeching of night bugs.
Mom. Why?
When he rose to leave, he took one last look across the photos on the floor. “I hope you’re proud of me.”
He plodded back to the farmhouse and up the porch steps. Billy opened his drowsy eyes and rose from the blanket. Mitch motioned for him to stay.
The only sound in the house was wall-rattling snoring coming from Sid’s room. Mitch cracked the door. Dim yellow light from the front room washed over Sid. Mitch opened it wider. It creaked. Sid jerked awake. “What the hell?”
“We need to talk.”
“We losing the farm?”
“I want to talk about Mom.”
“I don’t.”
“Just listen then.” Mitch pulled a chair next to the bed. “I can’t get over what Mom said to me, that she wished I had never been born. It wasn’t long after that she killed herself. I keep hearing her say that over and over. I can’t stop it. Was I the reason?”
Sid winced.
“Dad, was that it, the reason?”
Sid rubbed his forehead. His speech was slow and slurred. “You blamed…yourself? What the hell did I do?” He choked, struggling to get the words out. “I should…have told you.”
“Told me what?”
“Get the lockbox. From my closet.”
Mitch brought the gray metal box to him. Sid’s fingers shook as he spun the dial of the combination lock. After three
tries he shoved it at Mitch. “Open the damn thing. Combination’s taped to the bottom.”
Inside was a sheet of purple-tinted stationery Mitch’s mother used for letter writing. Sid pulled it from the box, examined it, and handed it to Mitch. “Time you knew.”
Mitch clicked on the bedside lamp. Sid had the ashen pallor of a cadaver. “Dad, you okay?”
“Just read.”
Sidwell.
You must hate me for doing this, but I can’t fight anymore. It’s not your fault. You’ve been there through all of this with me, so you have to know how hard I’ve tried. I really have. I just can’t fight it any longer. It’s become unbearable, and I find myself lashing out at Mitch. He’s such a wonderful boy and doesn’t deserve any of this. I’ve become helpless against this monster inside me that makes me say these terrible things. I don’t understand it and hate myself. I love Mitch so much. I can’t allow myself to inflict my pain on him anymore.
You’re a good man. I wish I could have returned your love. You deserve to have a wife who loves you. I wish it could have been me but it wasn’t. I don’t know why. Life makes no sense.
I’m so, so sorry to leave you with the boys to raise alone. You will all be better off with me gone. I pray you find happiness again. You deserve it.
Please take good care of the boys. I know you will. You’ve always been a good father. Raising Mitch as your own was a true act of grace.
I beg you to find it in your heart to forgive me,
Sylvia
Mitch couldn’t take his eyes off those words. As your own? “Dad?”
“Can you ever…forgive me?”
“Forgive you for what? I don’t get it. You’re my dad.”
Sid propped himself against the solid walnut headboard. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.” He ran his hand over his bald head. He continued in short, halting phrases. “I didn’t know how, to make her happy, and I hated myself.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Goddammit. I keep, losing the words. Fucking stroke.” He took the suicide note from Mitch and stared at it. “We were together almost every day, all through grade school, and through middle school. Kinda like you and Jennie, when you were kids.”
Me and Jen.
“Why did you, let her go, Mitch?”
“I’m an idiot.”
“What the hell, was I saying?”
“You and Mom were close friends growing up.”
“Your grandma called us two peas in a pod.” The faraway look on Sid’s face was the same look he got when looking across a pasture for a stray. “She lost interest in me. In high school.” Sid leaned back against the headboard. His head twitched like he was trying to clear the cobwebs. The words came slower. “It killed me, to see her, with other guys. I acted like it was okay, so we could stay friends. She came to me, for guy advice. We’d talk, for hours.” His eyelids sagged. “She was so damn beautiful, Mitch.”
Mitch nodded and waited for him to continue, stunned.
Sid pushed tighter against the headboard. “After high school, Sylvia started hanging around some bikers, in Madison, the Crusaders. She’d tell me about the wild parties.” He paused again, staring at the ceiling like he was waiting for the words to drift down. “I hoped, this was something she needed, to get out of her system. Then she fell in love, with a guy called Drifter. He’s all she talked about.” Sid’s chest heaved. “She always told me, what a good friend, I was. It was damn hard, trying to act, happy for her. I wanted to stay in her life, so I never told her, how I felt.”
Mitch shuddered. “Is he my…?”
“The bastard knocked her up and took off. She came to me and I held her, while she cried and cried.” Sid struggled to breathe, wheezing with each breath. “God, that felt good, holding her like that.”
“Dad, it’s okay. We can stop.”
“I gotta get this out. Sylvia, was gonna run away. Couldn’t face her dad.”
The memories played across Sid’s face while he fought for enough breath to continue. Mitch had a million questions but didn’t dare push. His emotions were a jumble of shock and pity. Why didn’t Sid just tell her how he felt? But then why didn’t Mitch tell Jennie how he felt?
“I asked her if she’d marry me. Promised, to raise this kid as my own. Nobody’d ever know any different. I knew, I could get her, to love me.” A lopsided smile crossed his lips. “After all, who could resist a prize, like me, eh? When she said yes, I couldn’t believe it.”
Sid broke down and wept in wracking sobs. Mitch didn’t know how to comfort him. He patted Sid’s folded hands and waited.
“After Chris was born, she got real depressed. The doctor called it, some kind of blues, from having a baby. But this, this wasn’t no blues. She couldn’t hardly, get out of bed.” His face glistened with sweat. “You remember her sister, came to stay with us to help?”
“I do remember. When you let me see Mom, she didn’t act right, and it scared the crap out of me.”
“She never got better. At least, for long. I tried hard, to make her happy. She went through all kinds of therapies. Some worked, for a while, but none lasted. After she died, Ben Rosenberg told me, suicide runs in her family. Nobody ever talked about it.” He pointed a trembling finger at Mitch. “It had nothing, to do with you.”
“Or you.”
“I was her husband. I should have known, how to help her.”
“That’s not how it works.”
Sid stared at the wall, his chest heaving, while Mitch grappled with his emotions, trying to make sense of it all. “So all these years we both thought it was our fault—Damn.”
Sid frowned. “I figured, you hated me, for letting her die.”
“And I figured you hated me.”
Sid lowered his head. “When she left me—us—like that, I did hate her. I was so, damn pissed. As you got older, you started looking and talking, even walking, like her.” Sid’s voice trailed off. “Every time, I looked at you, I saw her.” He sucked in a deep breath. “Most everything you did, set me off. And when you left, for Milwaukee, I blew. It felt, like you were leaving me, just like she did.” He shook his head. “I hated myself, for the way I treated you.” He paused, gasping for breath. “I know this don’t make a lot of sense. You didn’t, deserve any of that. My God, Mitch, I’m so damn sorry.”
Mitch was surprised by the relief swelling in his chest. He should be enraged, but he wasn’t. Sid didn’t hate him. Never did. “Do you still hate her?”
Sid’s eyes closed as he searched for words. “Nobody else, has ever seen that note.” He opened his eyes. “That shrink, Mallory’s, been talking to me, after my therapies.” He frowned. “You know the sly bastard, started by asking questions, about the farm, and before I knew it, got me talking about Sylvia.” He sighed. “I don’t hate her, and don’t see her face, anymore, when I look at you. Just a man, I’d be damn proud, to call son. But I don’t deserve that.”
The bedroom went quiet, Sid’s raspy breathing the only sound. Mitch thought back to when he was a young boy and all the time Sid spent with him, teaching him farming and hunting. Sid hugged him a lot back then. He was a good and loving father, before his mom died.
Mitch didn’t like the sound of Sid’s wheezing. “I should take you in. You don’t sound so good.”
“I looked your father up, long time ago.” Sid pulled a scrap of paper from the lockbox and handed it to him.
Instead of taking it, Mitch went to the kitchen and got a box of wooden farmer’s matches. He took the scrap of paper from Sid and scraped a match along the emery side of the matchbox, sending a white plume of sulfur-laden smoke into the still air. He lit the corner of the paper and dropped it into a metal wastebasket. Sid’s jaw dropped. Mitch took his mother’s suicide note from Sid and lit that. “Nobody will ever see those because you’re my dad.” He dropped the burning purple stationery into the metal wastebasket. They watched the flame flare, then die, leaving a wisp of black ash. Fire had cleansed their guilt.
His dad’s breathing calmed.
Chapter 60
Mitch unloaded the last wagon of hay for the season and headed to the house for a cold glass of Miss Bernie’s grape Kool-Aid. From the porch, he heard a car pull into their drive. It was Dr. Mallory’s black BMW. Mitch met him in the drive. “Ever think of getting something bigger?”
The doctor uncoiled himself from the tiny two-seater. “I have some exciting news.”
“Okay.”
“Can we sit?”
Mitch motioned to the porch.
The old wicker chair creaked as Mitch plopped into it. “You look like you won the lottery.”
Mallory lowered himself into the chair opposite him. “No, but you did.”
“What the heck are you talking about?”
“Let me start from the beginning. At the UW we’ve been researching alternative forms of therapy for patients who don’t respond to standard therapeutic approaches. There are some pilot programs around the country using animal therapy to break through the walls of chronically depressed and autistic patients. They’re showing promising results.”
Mallory bent forward. “Mitch, the hospital board voted this morning to create a pilot program using horses for therapy. My colleagues were very impressed when I brought them here to observe the inner-city kids. They were especially interested to hear about Jasmine and her amazing recovery.”
“Sounds great.”
“They want to use your farm for the program. If it goes well, they’d be building permanent facilities here. Psychologists and horse trainers would work together with the patients.”
“I don’t think my dad would go for that.”
“Already spoke to him. He’s all for it. You’d get a generous fee from the hospital for the use of a small parcel of your land and your facilities. None of this would interfere with the operation of the farm.”
“Wish I was here to see it. Now that the farm is back on its feet, I’ll be heading back to Milwaukee soon as I get the corn in.”
“That’ll be a problem. Your dad’s come back nicely from the stroke, but the board is concerned about his ability to oversee the farm side of the project. The board will only use your farm if you’re here to manage things.”
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