Looking for Me

by Beth Hoffman

“Hey, I’ve got an idea. Why don’t I take a few days off and follow you up there? I can stay till Tuesday and help you pack up the things you want to bring back.”

  “Really? I’d love the help. But I’ve got to warn you, it’s a long haul.”

  I felt her smile come through the phone when she said, “It’ll be fun. What time do you want to leave?”

  “Is five-thirty too early?”

  “In the morning!” she yelped. “Hell yeah, it’s too early, but I’ll be ready anyway.”

  It was midafternoon when I rounded the bend and the farm came into view. Olivia’s truck was behind me, its usual gleaming finish dulled by a layer of road dust.

  Fallen leaves crackled beneath the tires as I rolled to a stop at the back of the house. The landscape was ignited with the fiery colors of autumn.

  Olivia pulled up next to me and climbed out of her truck while Bear and Eddie took off running across the yard. “Whoa,” she said, stretching her back as she surveyed what lay before her. “That big barn and all this beautiful land are yours? How many acres are there?”

  “Just over three hundred,” I said, fishing the house key from my handbag. “My great-grandfather left it to Daddy. He took it over when he was only seventeen years old.”

  While the dogs raced to the barn, I climbed the porch steps and unlocked the back door. After we unloaded groceries and piled the bags on the kitchen table, we corralled the dogs and brought them inside the house. Olivia began putting the groceries away while I went from room to room, throwing open the windows to let life blow in.

  “Hey, Teddi,” she called out. “There’s a pie in the refrigerator.”

  I walked into the kitchen. “What?”

  “Look.”

  I pulled the pie from the shelf. A note was taped to the foil wrapping, and I smiled as I read it aloud. “‘I thought you girls might like something sweet. Love, Stella.’”

  “That’s your mother’s friend?”

  “Way more than a friend. She’s family. I really wanted you to meet her, and she wanted to meet you, too, but she left yesterday to visit her son and his wife in Pennsylvania.”

  Olivia lifted an edge of the foil and sniffed. “Ummm . . . lemon meringue. So what do you want for dinner?”

  “How about spaghetti?”

  “I’ll get right on it.”

  While she banged around in the kitchen, I went upstairs and put fresh sheets on the beds. I laughed when she called out, “Wow. A rotary wall phone!”

  A few minutes later, I heard a steady chop-chop-chop, and then I smelled onions. As I passed through the kitchen on my way out to the van, Olivia had the radio on and was busy making sauce.

  After unloading boxes, packing tape, and rolls of trash bags from the van and piling them on the porch, I decided to tackle the easiest rooms first. In the alcove at the far end of the hallway sat Daddy’s desk, a cumbersome rolltop that blocked half the window. I sat in his swivel chair and smoothed my hands over arms so worn that the varnish was long gone.

  His wristwatch, silver Zippo lighter, and weather diary were in the top drawer. I held each one reverently before setting them inside a box. From the right-hand drawer, I removed an old Farmers’ Almanac and dropped it into a trash bag. Next I tossed out a folder stuffed with receipts. At the bottom of the drawer was an oil-stained owner’s manual for a lawn mower.

  I was about to drop it into the trash bag when I noticed the yellowing edge of a newspaper clipping sticking out from between the pages. Pulling it free, I held it to the light. I hadn’t read but a few sentences before the hairs on my arms prickled.

  The date at the top of the clipping was July 17, 1979. Twenty-one months after Josh had disappeared.

  My fingers trembled as I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and read the article one more time. Slowly, I folded the clipping and tucked it into the back pocket of my jeans.

  Good God Almighty.

  After dinner Olivia and I took our pie and coffee into the living room and settled in for a quiet evening. I sat in Daddy’s recliner while Olivia curled up on the sofa and opened a book. Bear and Eddie lay side by side on the braided rug, content with their rawhide chew bones. I gazed out the window, unable to pull my thoughts away from the newspaper clipping that was burning a hole in my pocket. So many questions flashed through my mind, and the biggest one was this: Why didn’t Daddy tell me about it?

  Olivia’s voice startled me. “I’ve struggled through four chapters, and I can’t get into this book. So I’m calling it—time of death, nine twenty-five.” She dropped the book on the floor, then sat up and looked at me. “Hey, are you okay? You look so sad.”

  “It’s just hard being here. My stomach gets churned up when I think about selling the farm. But no matter how I crunch the numbers, there’s no way I can hang on to it. Every day I pray Josh will come home. Then he could take over and keep it going.”

  Olivia sat quietly, her face contemplative. When she finally spoke, her voice was a whisper. “Teddi, he’s been gone for a long time.”

  I looked away.

  “You talk about his sensitivity and the connection he had with nature. And once you even said he was ‘otherworldly.’ I’m not trying to pry, but you’ve never told me exactly why he left.”

  She was right, of course. Though I spoke of my brother in ways that depicted him as a deity of the woods, I’d never shared the details of what had sent him into flight.

  The room grew so quiet I could hear the ticking of the rooster clock above the stove. Olivia didn’t say a word, but I could feel her questioning eyes.

  The clock ticked on and on.

  Still she said nothing.

  I rose from the chair. “I’d better make more coffee. This might take a while.”

  EIGHTEEN

  NOVEMBER 1977

  Albert and I had just finished restoring a mahogany breakfront, a dining table, and twelve Chippendale chairs that had been smoke-damaged by a fire. It was a filthy job. The smell of soot was so overpowering that we opened the windows and turned on the fan even though it was cold outside. Piles of soot-stained rags littered the floor like drifts of dirty snow. My hands ached, and my nose burned. Albert’s eyes were puffy and bloodshot. When the truck came to pick up the furniture and return it to its owners, we sat in the workshop and took a much-needed break. We were beyond tired.

  Just before closing time, Mr. Palmer walked in and handed us both an envelope. While heading for the door, he said over his shoulder, “Go on. Get outta here. Don’t come back till December.”

  Albert and I looked at each other and then tore open our envelopes. In a gesture of surprising generosity, Mr. Palmer had given us two full weeks off—with pay. In all the years we’d worked together, I’d never seen Albert smile wider or move faster. He pulled on his jacket and was out the door before I’d finished scrubbing my hands. After gathering my coat and handbag, I thanked Mr. Palmer and walked home. I was so dirty I looked like a chimney sweep.

  Early the next morning, I packed my suitcase and set off for Kentucky.

  I arrived to a kitchen warm from the oven and scented by yeast and spices. Mama had just finished canning applesauce, and two loaves of Grammy’s whole-wheat bread were cooling on the rack. While the three of us talked, I opened a jar of homemade strawberry jam and slathered it on a thick slice of bread.

  I moaned with the first bite. Nobody could put summer in a jar like Grammy.

  With sugar surging through my veins, I dashed out the door to find Daddy. He was in his workshop sharpening the blades of his sickle bar. I gave him a big hug, and after we talked for a few minutes, I trotted toward the field.

  Josh was on the tractor, disking the last of the empty cornstalks into the ground in preparation for winter. When the tractor came chugging over the knoll, sending puffs of exhaust into the crisp air, I climbed the fence and waved my arms to get my bro
ther’s attention. He lifted his baseball cap and waved back. After disking the last row, he drove toward the barn. I jumped from the fence and ran to catch up with him.

  On the edge of the tractor path, I noticed the sun glint off something in the grass. I stopped and picked it up. At first I thought it was a coin, but when I rubbed it clean on the leg of my jeans and angled it to the sun, I saw it was a token, probably from a penny arcade. How it had gotten here was anyone’s guess, but that’s what happened on the farm—the earth released long-lost treasures when least expected. After giving the token one more rub on my jeans, I jogged to meet Josh.

  “Hey, I said breathlessly, “I have a surprise for you. Hold out your hand.”

  Josh gave me a curious look as he opened his hand. I pressed the token into his strong, work-hardened palm and said, “It’s got secret power.”

  He squinted to read the worn letters that spelled out ONE LUCKY WINNER, then smiled and tucked the token into his pocket. “Thanks, Teddi.”

  As he unhitched the disk from the tractor, I gave his sleeve a tug. “Take me for a ride?”

  He was tall now, nearly as tall as Daddy. Over the past year, he’d lost the softness of youth, his jaw angular, his deep blue eyes intense. The energy he exuded was powerful but quiet, his movements quieter still. With uncommon grace he climbed onto the idling tractor and offered me his hand. I positioned my feet on the hitch bar and wrapped my arms around his shoulders.

  Along the edge of the field we went, the afternoon sun warm on our faces, and then my brother drove over a hill that ran beside the fringe of the woods. The growl of the tractor flushed a pair of rabbits from beneath a shrub, and Josh cut the engine so we could watch them bound ahead of us, their white tails bouncing as they disappeared into the thicket. Overhead a formation of geese flew by, honking their good-byes as they headed south.

  Tightening my arms around my brother, I held him close—so close I could feel the beating of his heart beneath his denim jacket. I leaned forward and spoke in his ear: “I love you, Josh Overman.”

  He lifted his hand from the steering wheel, reached back, and patted my head.

  Before going to bed that night, I rapped lightly on my brother’s bedroom door.

  “C’mon in, Teddi.”

  I stepped inside and closed the door behind me. “How’d you know it was me?”

  “I know the sounds you make. If a hundred people walked by my door, I’d know which one was you.”

  He was sitting on his bed with a notebook in his lap. Lined up on his pillow were three black feathers. I sat at the foot of his bed and folded my legs Indian style. “What’re you doing?”

  “Updating my notes.” He grasped one of the feathers by its quill and passed it to me. “Any idea what bird this is from?”

  Solid black and shiny, the feather was about twelve inches long. “Well, it must be from a fairly big bird. I’d say a crow.”

  Josh shook his head, his eyes brightening as they always did whenever he had a secret.

  “Are you going to tell me?”

  “Only on one condition,” he said, lowering his voice. “You have to give me your word of honor that you’ll never tell a single soul for as long as you live.”

  “Okay,” I said, handing him the feather. “I promise on my life.”

  He held the feather at eye level, slowly spinning the quill between his thumb and forefinger. “There’s more folklore about this bird than any other. It’s the largest in the family of Corvidae and has a complex vocabulary of sounds. It’s the most intelligent of all birds.”

  “I’m stumped. So tell me.”

  My brother leaned close. “This feather is from a raven.”

  “Huh? We don’t have ravens around here.”

  Josh met my gaze and slowly nodded.

  “Where?”

  “Clifty Wilderness. Back in the nineteenth century, ravens were all but destroyed in these parts. They were persecuted, Teddi. People killed them left and right. So far I’ve seen two nesting pairs. I’ve been watching them since last October.”

  “Wow, are you going to tell Ranger Jim?”

  “Did you already forget what I said? Nobody but you and I can know about them. This is serious, Teddi. Ravens are endangered throughout Appalachia. If word gets out that they’ve made their way back, ornithologists and weekend bird-watchers will descend on the Gorge like vultures. It’ll ruin everything.”

  Reaching beneath his pillow, Josh pulled out a book and leafed through the pages. “Ravens are mysterious-looking. See how thick their bills are?” he said, pointing to a profile photograph. “They’re a lot bigger than crows. And they do these death-defying maneuvers—diving, rolling, and tumbling through the air.”

  “Will you take me to see them?”

  He closed the book with a thump and shoved it back beneath his pillow. “I can’t. It’s a rugged climb, and you’d never make it. I haven’t seen evidence that anyone other than me has been there, and I hope it stays that way.”

  “I’ll keep my promise, but why is this a secret?”

  My brother’s voice dropped when he leaned close. “Something’s going on with the ravens. And whatever it is, it’s sacred. That’s all I can say for now. But one day I’ll tell you, Teddi. I’ll tell you everything.”

  The day before Thanksgiving, I woke to a clatter and clang from the kitchen. I showered and dressed quickly, eager to get downstairs and help with the preparations. As I peeled apples and Mama made pastry dough, Grammy began to gather the other ingredients for the pies we’d make, one apple and one pumpkin. While rooting through the spice cupboard she called over her shoulder, “I can’t find the cinnamon.”

  Mama stopped rolling the dough and thought for a moment. “Oh, shoot. I forgot to get some at the grocery. I forgot waxed paper, too.”

  “I’ll run to the store,” I said, plunking the last apple core into a bowl. After washing my hands, I pulled on my jacket and set off for town.

  The grocery was packed with last-minute shoppers, and I waited in line for nearly fifteen minutes before someone was nice enough to let me cut in front with my measly few items. Knowing that Mama was waiting to make the pies, I gathered the bag and ran to my car.

  Less than a half mile from the farm, I happened to glance toward the old Hickson place. Sitting alone in the middle of dozens of acres, it was a small clapboard house with a dilapidated front porch. After Mr. Hickson passed away, the house suffered a series of negligent renters, and his son never bothered to keep the place up.

  Off to the side of the house, a man was bent over by the rusted carcass of an old truck. He was pounding something into the ground. As I drove closer, I gasped. His flailing fists were beating a dog that was chained to the truck’s bumper. From my open window, I heard the dog’s panicked yelps, and before I knew it, I had turned in to the gravel driveway and was barreling toward him.

  Throwing the car into park, I opened the door and jumped out. Adrenaline surged through my veins, and I screamed, “STOP THAT! What’s wrong with you?”

  The man glared at me from sunken eyes. His skin was the texture of oatmeal, and strands of greasy black hair hung to his shoulders.

  The dog was on his belly, a pit bull—rusty-colored with dirty white paws. He looked at me with the saddest brown eyes I’d ever seen, his entire body quivering as he inched himself beneath the truck. Reaching down, the man wrenched a wooden driveway marker from the ground and pointed it at me. “Get outta here, you bitch!”

  “Not until you stop abusing that dog! If you don’t want him, I’ll take him.”

  The man’s lips torqued into a hateful sneer, and his words left his mouth in a spray of saliva. “I’ll gut ya like a pig.”

  His chin jutted out as he took two steps toward me, the stench of him so vile that my arms went limp in their sockets. I was horrified when he let out an inhuman growl and char
ged toward me.

  Jumping inside my car, I slammed the door just as he raised the stick over his head and smashed it onto the hood—once, twice, and then a third time. Though half of me wanted to gun the engine and run him down, I jammed the gearshift into reverse and hit the gas. In a tornado of flying gravel, I blasted out of there.

  He hurled the stick at my car as I roared down the road.

  I was so angry and scared that I pulled in to our driveway too fast and fishtailed over Mama’s forsythia. I drove straight for the barn, cut the engine, and raced to find Daddy. He wasn’t in the workshop, so I ran inside the barn and found him working on the tractor.

  “Daddy! There’s a guy beating a dog, and he smashed my car. He’s crazy!”

  He put down a wrench and took hold of my shoulders. “Whoa. Slow down. Now, what happened?”

  Gulping air, I told him exactly what had occurred, my words tumbling out in angry sobs. “He’s beating a dog that’s chained to a truck!”

  Daddy pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to me. “Now, Teddi, I know that what you saw set you off something awful. It would have set me off, too. But you can’t go pullin’ in to a stranger’s driveway and start yelling. You don’t know what’ll happen or what they’ll do.”

  “But I had to. He was—”

  “Shhh. Now listen to me. He could’ve hurt you. C’mon, let’s go down to the house.”

  With his arm around my shoulders, we left the barn, but when he saw the dents in the hood of my car, he stopped. “That son of a bitch could have laid your skull wide open. He could’ve killed you, Teddi.”

  I choked down a sob and grabbed the bag of groceries from the backseat.

  Daddy went straight to the phone and called his longtime friend Deputy Sheriff Jeb Davis. While Daddy talked with Jeb, I told Mama and Grammy what had happened. Mama was so upset that when Daddy got off the phone, he had to take her out onto the porch and calm her down.

  Jeb came right quick, and with him was another officer named Walt. They asked me questions and took notes, reiterating what Daddy had said about never doing anything like that again. When Daddy took Jeb and Walt to see my damaged car, Mama grabbed a mop. I couldn’t believe she’d wash a floor in the middle of a crisis—as if she could bring things back to normal with hot water and suds.