by Beth Hoffman
Even after so many years, his absence was incomprehensible.
The room was cool, the atmosphere unreadable—as if I were gazing through an eggshell. His bed and dresser were draped in white sheets that had grayed over the years. The closet door stood open. On the rod hung a lone wire hanger.
I moved to the window, feeling so frail I thought I might shatter. Reaching out, I grasped the cord of the roller shade and gave it a pull. Strands of cobwebs flew into the air, and sunlight pushed through the dingy window, filling the room with a peculiar yellow haze. I released the latch, and it took all my strength to push open the window. A white moth with brown-speckled wings was splayed out across the screen. I reached out and touched him, expecting him to fly, but he fell to the sill, stiff and dead.
In his early teens, my brother began to study Native American culture. He was particularly drawn to a Dakota Sioux proverb, liking it so much that he wrote it on the wall above his bed. Two years after he disappeared, Mama tried to scrub it away with steel wool, and even now I could see the scour marks she’d left on the pale blue paint. But Josh had used a green permanent marker, and the words, though drastically lightened by my mother’s attempts to erase them, still remained:
We will be known forever by the tracks we leave
Not long after Josh disappeared, Jeb and two other officers came to the farm, their faces somber and their eyes downcast and apologetic. They were looking for possible clues as part of their ongoing investigation, and Daddy readily gave them access to the property. Though they went through the barn and the house, they concentrated their search in my brother’s bedroom. It was something they had to do, we all understood that, but it was a terrible experience for my family.
And then came the questions:
Drugs? No.
Alcohol? No.
Trouble at school? No.
And on and on . . .
Josh’s classmates and teachers were questioned, and they all said the same things: My brother was quiet and introspective. Gentle. A loner. Thoughtful. A girl he’d been paired with for a history report said he was an enigma, and a few students mentioned how rarely he spoke. One boy said he was afraid of my brother. When questioned further, he admitted that Josh had never given him reason to feel such a thing—he was simply uncomfortable with the intensity of my brother’s eyes.
The summer following my brother’s disappearance, I was in the drugstore and bumped into a local farm girl named Molly Ferguson. I had known a bit of the story from a conversation I’d had with Mama, but it wasn’t until Molly talked with me that I got the full picture of what had really happened.
When Josh was a junior in high school, he’d asked a girl in his class to a winter dance. Her name was Gretchen Millner. According to Mama, my brother went to great lengths to make Gretchen a corsage, polishing walnuts and acorns with beeswax until they glowed like satin, then drilling each one with a tiny hole so he could wire them together. Colorful feathers from his prized collection were added, and the corsage was finished off with slender strands of white velvet ribbon he’d looped between the nuts. He backed the corsage with felt and attached a pin.
God only knows how long it must have taken him.
When the corsage was completed, he showed it to Mama. She said it was one of the most beautiful things she’d ever seen. She told me Josh had spent hours cleaning her car on the morning of the dance and had even gotten a haircut. At seven o’clock he walked down the stairs dressed in a sport coat and tie. Mama said he looked so handsome she got teary. From the porch she waved good-bye as he set off to pick up Gretchen.
Mama was stunned when he returned less than an hour later. When she and Daddy asked him what had happened, Josh told them that Gretchen had come down with the flu. He never mentioned her name again.
But Molly told me an entirely different story.
When Josh arrived at Gretchen’s house, Molly and her date were already there. The four of them were planning to go to the dance together. When Josh proudly presented Gretchen with the corsage he’d made, she took one look at it and returned it to my brother’s hands. She told him she couldn’t wear it—that it looked silly and homemade and wasn’t pretty like the roses and orchids all the other girls would be wearing. Molly said streaks of red colored my brother’s cheeks. Without saying a word, Josh turned and walked out the door.
Though what Molly told me had nothing to do with my brother’s disappearance, I wondered what other cruelties he’d weathered in his teenage years. Within a year’s time, Josh had gone from making a beautiful corsage to crafting what lay hidden in the towel.
We had lived together, shared meals together, and run through the fields together. And we had laughed and told each other our secrets. But even so, I wondered—how well do we really ever know someone?
I took in a deep breath and sat on the edge of my brother’s bed. Slowly, I unrolled the towel. What lay inside was as beautiful as it was frightening. Even to my novice eyes, there was no doubt it was finely crafted. Had my brother shown it to me when he’d made it, I would have been awed, barraging him with questions about how he’d done it and how long it had taken.
The shaft was straight and smooth, about thirty inches long. Perhaps made of beech or birch. The tip was surprisingly sharp, and though I had no way of knowing, I believed that my brother had shaped the flint with his own hands. Attached to the shaft with tightly wound lacings that were waxed to a satiny sheen, the black arrowhead had been set firmly into place. The fletching was made from rusty striped feathers, most likely those from a red-tailed hawk.
How had it come to this? We were a simple farm family—good country folks who did our chores, said grace before meals, and minded our manners. We watched out for one another and were always ready to lend a hand to a neighbor in need. I thought we were as plain and uncomplicated as cotton.
The morning breeze pushed through the open window and lifted a corner of the bedsheet, the dead moth whirled to the floor, and suddenly nothing seemed real, as if all of this were a bad dream that I’d soon blink away. When I set the arrow aside, I could feel my imagination edging toward dangerous terrain. Resting my elbows on my knees, I leaned forward and buried my face in my hands.
I was startled when someone called out, “Miss Overman . . . hello?”
“Coming,” I called back. I left my brother’s room, closed the door behind me, and descended the stairs. I found Gabe standing outside the kitchen door.
“Sorry to bother you, but we’re ready to take a look in the workshop.”
“Oh, yes. The lock. Sorry, I completely forgot.” I glanced at the clock. I had been in my brother’s room for more than an hour, yet it felt like only moments. After fishing the key from a drawer, I stepped outside.
Gabe fell in line with my stride, his manner of walking slow and easy. “That building enclosed in wire, what did you keep in there, chickens?”
“We had chickens when I was a little girl. But the building you’re talking about was a cowshed way back in my great-granddaddy’s day. Years ago my brother wired it for an injured hawk.”
Gabe’s eyes widened. “Really? Did he rehabilitate and release?”
“Yes. After the hawk healed and got strong enough to fly, my brother sent him back into the wild.”
I took a few steps toward Daddy’s workshop, but Gabe remained standing in the driveway. “What kind of hawk?”
“A red-tail,” I said, turning to face him. “Actually, he was a partial albino. Other than a bit of color on one of his shoulders, he was solid white.”
“I saw an albino hawk once. It was beautiful in a spooky kind of way.”
I smiled. “That’s probably why my brother named him Ghost. So you like birds?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Please, call me Teddi.”
“I’ve studied raptors my whole life. I work part-time at Shady Creek Veterinary
Hospital.”
“I heard that Doc Evans recently retired, is that right?”
“Yeah. He sold his practice to a guy named Matt Waters. He’s a great vet. Last week I released a female Cooper’s hawk that flew into a car’s windshield back in March. Matt and I were worried she wouldn’t heal, but she did.”
“I thought you worked with your grandfather in the liquidating business.”
“He needs my help now and then, and I sure can use the extra money. I only work three days a week at Shady Creek. It doesn’t pay much, but it’s what I love doing. Just yesterday someone brought in a beaver that got attacked by a dog. We worked on that poor guy for hours—”
“Hey, Gabe!” Mr. Tucker yelled from the barn door. “You gonna stand there chewin’ the fat all day?”
Gabe looked a little embarrassed when he turned and called out, “I’m on my way, Grandpa.”
“Here,” I said, handing him the key. “Just lock up when you’re done.”
He trotted off as I went inside the house to get a flashlight.
While Gabe and his grandfather banged around in Daddy’s workshop, I climbed back up the ladder to the hayloft and turned on the flashlight. Shining the beam in the dark corners and along all the cross timbers, I wanted to be sure I hadn’t missed anything. I even stepped on the floorboards to see if any were loose or felt different from the others. Maybe I’d seen too many movies where secrets were hidden beneath floorboards, but I had to be certain.
There was nothing to be found.
After returning to the house, I kicked off my shoes and reclined on the porch swing. I’d been up for nearly thirty hours and could feel myself fading. With Eddie snuggled at my side, I closed my eyes. Thinking. Remembering . . .
I woke to the sound of a sturdy thud, and a moment later Mr. Tucker and Gabe walked around the side of the barn and came down the driveway toward the house. I sat up and slipped my feet into my shoes.
“Well, there’s a lot here,” Mr. Tucker said, glancing at his clipboard. “That old Allis-Chalmers tractor will fetch a nice price. You sure don’t want to sell it?”
“I’m sure.” Though I knew it was crazy for me to hang on to the tractor, I couldn’t stand the thought of letting it go. It was a big part of my memories and would stay in the barn where Daddy had left it until I figured out what to do with the remaining property.
Gabe reached into the pocket of his jeans. “Before I forget, here’s the key. I locked everything up.”
Mr. Tucker flipped through several pages of notes and pursed his lips. “All right, we can do this two ways. Schedule an auction to be held here on the property, and whatever doesn’t sell I’ll haul away for an agreed price. Or I can have everything hauled away for a flat rate and sell it at my monthly auction.” He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow. “Having the auction here will bring you more money. But if I remember right, you didn’t want to do that.”
“I don’t want people coming on the property.”
“All right. I’ll figure my price and write up the paperwork. If you agree, then I’ll send my crew to come get everything.”
“That sounds fine, Mr. Tucker. The boxes in the dining room go, too.”
“Thank you for reminding me. I’d better have a look.”
“When will you let me know what your offer is?”
“After I see what you’ve got inside, I can figure it up in about three-quarters of an hour.”
He and Gabe followed me into the kitchen. I poured them each a glass of iced tea, then whistled for Eddie and left the house. Walking across the lawn, I took the footpath along the edge of what used to be the vegetable garden. Joe Springer had recently planted the upper fields, and tender green shoots already poked up from pleats of freshly tilled earth. While Eddie stretched out in the sun, I climbed the fence and sat on the top rail, feeling heavy with loss as I slowly surveyed Daddy’s beautiful land—land I would relinquish in less than forty-eight hours.
I thought about how my ancestors worked the fields, walking behind a plow pulled by a team of dutiful horses, their necks frothy with sweat. And I tried to imagine what it must have been like when my grandfather had retired his horses to pasture and bought his first tractor. I tilted my head toward the sky and wondered if those who came before me and had loved this land were looking down, shaking their heads with sorrow for what I was about to do.
While I said a silent farewell to the fields, I saw Gabe coming down the tractor path, stirring up dust in his wake. Though I couldn’t articulate what it was, there was something about him.
Something.
TWENTY-SIX
At nine o’clock on Monday morning, I walked into Kentucky Farmers Savings and Loan. The receptionist led me into a small conference room, where Joe Springer was already waiting, looking uncomfortable in a crisp white shirt that was too tight around the collar. He stood and offered me his hand, a big, meaty hand as dark and dry as old leather. His smile was genuine, but there was no missing the sadness in his deep blue eyes. Joe was as tethered to the soil as any farmer I’d ever known, and he no doubt understood that this was a devastating day for me.
“Thank you for accepting my offer, Teddi. I’m much obliged. My boys are, too. We’ll take real good care of Henry’s land. He was a fine man and one of the best farmers in Powell County. We all miss him.”
Though only moments from becoming the new owner, the tender way Joe had referred to the land as being my father’s was not lost to me. I had to work hard to manage the words. “Thank you, Mr. Springer. I know you will.”
The loan officer, a stout little man named Charlie Chase, walked in and set a thick folder on the table. “All right, then,” he said while closing the door, “let’s have a seat. I’ve got the land-survey report, and everything’s in order and ready to go. This won’t take long.”
And he was right. A half hour later, I walked out of the bank with Mr. Springer. We did so in unbearable silence. I was surprised when he gave me an awkward but well-meaning hug. I could smell the starch in his shirt, a shirt he’d probably bought for this day and would never wear again. From tear-filled eyes, I watched him stuff his big, burly body into the cab of his truck and drive away.
This was one of the worst days of my life. It was like Daddy dying all over again.
For several minutes I sat in the car with my handbag on my lap. Inside was a certified check for the sale of two hundred sixteen acres of the richest farmland in the county. The value of that land, every inch of it lovingly tended by generations of people who understood hard work and the satisfaction of a job well done, had been reduced to a piece of watermarked paper.
I drove home feeling depleted. It was an effort to hold the steering wheel. My breathing was shallow, and my head throbbed. When I entered the house, I leaned over the sink and splashed cold water on my face. “Eat something!” I scolded myself while opening the refrigerator. Deciding on a poached egg on toast and orange juice, I sat at the table and had a late breakfast while Eddie munched on a handful of treats I’d put into his bowl.
My skin felt cold and clammy, and I went upstairs to change into dry clothes. As I was buttoning my blouse, a knock sounded at the back door.
“I’ll be right there,” I called, zipping my jeans. I was surprised to see Gabe standing on the back porch. Two box-style trucks, one flatbed, and three pickups were parked in the driveway.
“Hi, Teddi. We’re an hour early. I hope that’s okay.”
“No problem.” I opened the door as Eddie, always the cheerful ambassador, bounded out to greet Gabe with tail wags and whimpers. I handed Gabe the key to the workshop and watched seven men enter the barn. Piece by piece they began hauling several generations of tools and equipment out to the trucks. It was more painful than I could have imagined, and with Eddie at my side I went back inside the house.
By late afternoon the barn had been em
ptied. From the kitchen window, I watched the two box trucks lumber down the driveway, both filled to capacity. Next came the flatbed loaded with Daddy’s hay baler and plow. Joe Springer had already purchased his corn harvester and driven it away.
While the remaining men began cleaning out the workshop, I took Eddie outside to check on the progress they’d made. There was nothing left but Daddy’s old tractor. I ran my fingers over one of its knobby tires and then walked to the back of the barn. Unlatching the door, I stepped into the bright sunlight and saw Gabe standing by Ghost’s flight cage. The roof now sagged, and several boards along the back wall had rotted through.
Gabe turned and looked at me, dirty and shining with sweat.
“Hi, Gabe. How’s it going?”
“Good, just taking a little break,” he said, wiping his brow on his shirtsleeve. “Your barn is built like a fortress. And the haymow? Man, that thing’s huge.”
“Many a Thoroughbred crossed the finish line fueled by my Daddy’s hay.” I glanced over my shoulder. “This barn will be standing long after both of us are gone. But I need to get that hole in the roof taken care of.”
“Yeah, I saw that, but it’s not as bad as it looks. If you want, I can do the repair—it won’t take long.”
I threw a stick for Eddie and looked at Gabe. “You work part-time at the vet clinic, help your grandfather with his liquidation business, and do roofing?”
He smiled and slapped a layer of dust from his jeans. “I did roofing during the summers when I was in college. Still do it now and then.”
“What did you study?”
“I’m an environmental naturalist and a vet tech. Last year I completed special training, and now I’m a certified wilderness responder, too. My girlfriend, Sally, is a vet. She’s up in Minnesota taking an advanced course in avian medicine. We’re getting married next spring and hope to buy a house. That’s one of the reasons I take on all the odd jobs I can get.”