Señor Tiago trudges onward, boots making tracks in the snow away from the mercantile. Edie retreats into the shop and slams the door behind her. Though I am frozen into place, he glimpses me. He stills for a measure of time that seems to offer some sort of message. I cannot fathom what it is, but I now understand that he hasn’t been visiting the mercantile every day due to a tobacco habit. Finally, he surveys the log walls of the building that brace up a slanted roof and stout chimney, which billows smoke. The very building housing the woman who carries his growing child. Judging by the brew of tears that swelled in Edie’s voice, and the way she let him hold them both, he in turn carries her heart.
In moments, this man disappears into the haze of falling snow. With winter blowing in and his tracks north fading away grain by icy grain, I can only pray that he loves her as desperately.
John Cohen
February 1897
Construction began at what is now called Kenworthy. After some time in a logging camp up north, I returned here—God knows why—to help form the first foundations. To lift the first beams into place. Word is that there’s going to be a whole town eventually. Mill, general store, even a cyanide plant that’s slated to process 100 pounds of ore a day. I don’t know why this man, Kenworthy, dreams so big. Why he lays down so many dollars on optimism. I hate it when I see him in the streets. Hate it when he shakes my hand, congratulating me on my work, on my skill with wood.
He’s even requested I be one of the men who helps to construct his very own home.
I will do so—the pay is good—and yet every splinter and every nail will be ones that I feel into my very soul.
I can build and dig and toil, and still I cannot run from the truth:
This town is going to fail.
Nearly as terrifying? One day they will discover that it was because of me.
John
P.S. We crossed paths again today. Myself and the Indian from that day, years back now. Did he recognize me as I did him? He’s older now, as am I. I wait now, for something to happen, but there was a quietness in his eyes—a solidarity—that makes me sense my secret is safe with him. The problem is that I don’t want it to be safe. I dread and long for its liberation.
Yet just as strong is the urge to tear this page, and several others, from my journal. That way, no one will ever know the truth of my shame.
Part 2
Chapter 14
Johnny
February
The morning is cold and hard. A lot like my mood. It’s going to be another Everest of a day—near-impossible odds and hard to breathe. In fact, all the days have blurred together to where I can’t even remember what this climb called life is really for.
My boots crunch on the frozen driveway as I transfer a tarp and chainsaw into the bed of my truck. No snow yet this week, but we’ve had our share following the turn of the new year. Only a week’s worth of firewood huddles on the left side of the wood crib, so once the kids wake up, we’ll drive to one of my job sites in town. The homeowners offered us wood they don’t need now that I converted their living-room stove to gas. The felled pine in their yard is thick, so my buddy José is coming along. He’s on my payroll but is as much a friend as he is an employee. A true kind of friend that let me bunk in his garage all those months back. Together, we’ll get the wood split before the storm.
I tug open a side compartment in the truck bed, checking that there’s two pairs of work gloves. I dig to the back, past snow chains and a broken flashlight, and what I find instead is a pink sweater. It’s lightweight, with the flower logo of Emily’s favorite beach brand on the front. Even as it lands in my hand, her perfume still scents it. I crammed this in here months ago after finding it under the seat in the cab. How did I forget to get rid of it?
Trying to ignore the soft feel of it, I drape it over the side of the truck bed and wipe my hands on the sides of my pants. As I do, the memory is as fresh as the day I stashed it here. She and I had gone to a drive-in movie last year. We sat in the back of my truck, sharing a bucket of popcorn but not so close that we touched. Having barely spoken on the way there, we watched the film in silence. I remember finally grazing the side of her hand with my own—hoping to connect even in a small way, but she pushed her hand into her lap, eyes not leaving the screen.
It was our last date. The last time she and I were ever out together.
“Dad.” Micaela’s gentle voice calls me from the house.
How did it come to this?
“Dad?” She’s nearer now.
“What?” My tone is sharp. I turn and see Micaela standing in the yard in her nightgown. Her bobbed hair is wild, and she’s holding a blanket around her shoulders. Her bare feet have to be freezing. Her toes curl under, and the start of tears dwells in her eyes.
“Micaela, I’m sorry.” I cross to her, trying desperately to feel something more than pain. But the sight of her sorrow only intensifies the hurting.
“It’s okay, Daddy.” But her chin is quivering, and a tear drips down her cheek.
I take a knee and grip both of her hands. “Daddy didn’t mean to be grumpy. I’m very sorry.”
She nods quickly.
Come on, man. Everything inside me is trying to rally as I touch her cheek. It’s warm to my cold, rough hand. Instead of turning away, she leans into it, and another tear goes sliding. My own eyes fill. I seem to cry all the time these days.
“Sweetie, Daddy’s just having a hard time.” The words barely squeeze out. I cough into my shoulder to try to fight it. “I’m sorry for the ways that I haven’t been as much fun. I’m going to keep trying, okay?”
She nods again. “It’s okay.”
Numbness battles with sorrow inside me. Two constant companions. If only one would just snuff the other out. But it’s terrifying to think of which one would remain. There’s got to be another way. Some way for goodness or courage or even hope to join the battle, but I don’t know how to let those into the ring, and God help me, they’re not showing up on their own.
“How about I get some breakfast ready for the road.” The voice is half dead, which means it’s mine. “And you can get dressed?”
“Okay.”
Back inside, she runs to get dressed, and I fill two travel cups with milk, a mug with coffee, and grab three muffins from a package on top of the fridge. The kitchen is complete now, including a farmhouse sink and butcher-block countertops.
“Can you help your brother too?” I call up the stairs to Micaela. “We’re gonna head up to town for firewood and hot chocolate.”
Floorboards shake overhead as she scurries into action. With mini mama on the job, I top off the dog’s food and water then finish loading the truck and toss a blanket into the back seat for the kids. A crank of the engine gets the heater going. The interior is almost warm by the time the kids run outside a few minutes later.
“Good job, sweetie.” I squeeze Micaela’s shoulder then lift Cameron into the cab. He’s dressed—not matching, mind you—but she put a sweater, hat, mittens, and rainboots on him, and that works in my book. I buckle him in while she climbs over to her booster seat. I wish I didn’t glimpse my reflection in the window. The gray shadows under my eyes are getting worse. Harder to see is the deadness in my eyes. Do the kids notice? Or can I keep faking my way through until I reach the other side of this? Whatever this is.
Last night, I found the bottle of painkillers they gave me in the hospital. Powerful stuff and enough to knock a guy my size out for hours. A single one would have allowed me to sleep like a stone—exhausting grief tackled by compacted chemicals. But I couldn’t. Not with the kids here. Better to hurt and be alert for whatever Micaela and Cameron need. Part of me wishes I’d just upped and flushed the pills down the toilet, but I slid the bottle back into the bedside drawer. I’ll take care of them later. When I got out of the hospital, dealing with a just-about-broken everything, I had to admit they had a good effect, making it easier to sleep and keeping the pain further away. I eventua
lly set them aside but didn’t discard them entirely. I felt bad about it then, and do today, but one hurdle at a time . . .
After settling in, I slide the truck into gear and head for the highway. “We’re going to make a stop for some firewood. We’ll pick up José first, and he’s gonna help Daddy. You guys can help, too, and be good listeners?”
They promise to, and we wind higher up the mountain. On the sharpest curve, a quadruple yellow line warns motorists to go easy. After my incident last winter, I take it extra slow.
When we reach town, most of the shop fronts are still asleep. José, best friend and lead man, lives just behind the hardware store in a small apartment, and by the time I pull up out front, he’s heading out the door with chainsaw and gloves. The hood of his gray sweatshirt is pulled up over a baseball cap. Having moved here from Mexico six years ago, José really doesn’t like to be cold.
I smirk as he climbs in the truck. “A little frosty this morning?”
“Ay, vato.” He grins. “Is too cold here.”
He angles to give the kids a fist bump each, and they light up. Cameron holds out his half-eaten muffin, and José obliges the kid by pinching off a piece with a wink.
It’s just another half mile to the house with the firewood. The homeowners dropped twenty grand on the living room remodel, which included new overhead beams and custom tile from Italy on their overhauled fireplace. We still need to seal the tile, and after that, we’ll throw all our focus onto some refurbishments for a local restaurant. The job will keep me and my guys busy until summer.
I park close to the pine tree. The homeowners gave us permission to pick up the wood anytime, and with it just past ten, it should be fine to cue up the chainsaws.
I settle the kids on the truck tailgate with the blanket then explain a few rules for staying clear while the chainsaws are running. After sliding on leather gloves, José and I crank the motors into action. With a double glance to ensure the kids are good, we make the first cuts. José and I work a few yards apart, blades carving steadily into the fragrant wood. Sawdust sprays, and we take turns glancing back toward the kids every minute or two. By the time both saws are nearly out of gas, there’s enough thick rounds of pine to fill the bed of the truck.
Now for the heavy lifting. I let the kids hop down to play with sawdust while José and I lift each round into the truck bed. Pine is a middle-of-the road kind of wood. Not as hard or slow burning as oak or eucalyptus, but it doesn’t go up as fast as cedar. Working side by side with José reminds me of the day my sister came up to help seal the floors. Maybe I’m a sap, but it’s just good not to be alone. I’ve never really spoken about Emily or the divorce with my guys; while they know the basics, I haven’t been able to explain more. It’s hard for me to clarify what life is like on this side, or the bleakness that has somehow clouded up my world.
But as José cracks a joke with the kids, I have a feeling he grasps what we’re going through. I don’t need to explain. Your best friends don’t rally around you at odd hours and for little compensation because they don’t get it. The realization has me squeezing José’s shoulder and making a mental note to make sure he has all the wood he and his family of six could possibly use.
By the time we get the final round loaded, it’s nearly past lunchtime. I call for the kids to climb back into the truck. José checks that the tailgate is secure while I buckle them in.
“Thanks, man,” I say as he climbs into the passenger seat.
“Anytime. Let’s go get some grub.”
“Done.” I’m starving.
We decide to grab sandwiches at the deli, and the nice thing about a town this small is that it only takes a minute to get anywhere. We’re standing in the short line outside the deli door when Micaela tugs on my sleeve.
“Daddy, look!” Her breath fogs in front of her face as she points next door to an old cabin where an elderly woman is hanging up a flag with the town’s name and logo on it. On the windowsill is a bowl of peppermint suckers and a sign that says Free Coloring Pages.
“Can we go over there?” Wind whips Micaela’s shoulder-length hair, and Cameron’s cheeks are pink.
They’ve been in the freezing cold all day, and that pocket-size cabin has smoke billowing from the chimney. It will be warm inside. But if we go now, we’ll lose our spot in line. I squint at the folding sign that describes the building as the town’s historical society. The sign lists their hours of operation. “We can always come back another time.” There’s a storm to beat, and this wood needs to be unloaded before it rolls in.
José tips his head that way. “I’ll grab the food and meet you guys at those tables.” He points to picnic benches in front of the historical society.
It’s not a good time, but the kids are so hopeful, and his offer is more than generous. “Thanks, man.” I thumb through my wallet and find a twenty to cover lunch, but he declines it.
“I got this one.” He pulls his hood off to twist his baseball cap around backward.
“I promised you lunch. It was part of the deal.”
He grins, flashing white teeth against his brown skin. “Next time.” He waves us off like a mother hen, and the chuckle that rises inside me feels so different than numb. This will give the kids a few minutes to warm up and to just be kids without needing to worry about chainsaw rules.
“Thanks, man.” I lead the kids toward the cabin. “But we’ve just got a few minutes, okay?” I add for them.
“Deal!” Micaela dashes up the gravel path and inside while I lift Cameron to my hip to enter. The elderly woman greets my daughter, then she offers us the same warmth. “Good morning.”
“Morning, ma’am.”
The air inside is toasty. Twinkle lights are strung across the ceiling, and it smells like dust and cinnamon sticks. I hadn’t realized how cold we were until the warmth has us tugging off gloves and hats.
“You new ’round here?” the woman asks.
“No, we’ve lived here for a while but don’t often get to play tourist.”
“Well, have a look around, and take your time. We’re open until four.”
“Thank you.” I set Cameron down.
The kids run to a pint-sized table that holds coloring pages and a basket of crayons. Micaela settles on a knotty-pine chair that’s just the right fit, and they both dig in for a crayon.
With them settled, I survey the perimeter of the tiny museum. Artifacts cover shelves, and on the walls hang giant black-and-white photographs of the pioneers who settled this area. The oversized images show men leading teams of oxen up a steep grade, hauling cut logs not so different from the ones now stacked in the bed of my truck. A pioneer woman stands in front of a one-room schoolhouse with a dozen children around her long skirts. The photograph on the opposite wall portrays a Native American woman weaving a basket. Several baskets fill a display case beneath, showing their age and intricacy.
Another picture is of a slender woman in pants. She grips the barrel of a rifle, and the long handle rests on the ground at her boots. Behind her is a building labeled Manchester Mercantile. A cowboy hat perches on her head at an angle that might as well say, “I dare you to try.” The bottom of the picture has a handwritten date: 1905.
Above that looms a stuffed mountain lion. A brass plaque beneath the cat declares that it died of natural causes while dozens of others were hunted by sportsmen and ranchers over the century to such lengths that sightings are now extremely rare. The cougar is hunched down, one large paw holding the side of the branch as if for balance, while its face is downturned. The angled eyes are outlined in a haunting black.
Imagine facing such a creature in the wild.
“Are there still mountain lions in the area?” I ask.
“Very few.” The historian settles behind a polished counter where a rack of postcards leans near an antique window. “They were overhunted in the 1800s, so their numbers diminished drastically.”
I contemplate that while the kids continue to color. The woman
smiles over at them, looking glad to have guests. The building is so tucked away that I really hadn’t noticed it before. Since the historian is perched patiently on her stool, I toss out another question.
“What do you know of the Kenworthy mine? It seems there used to be a town there.”
She nods, jade earrings wavering beneath her cropped silver hair. “There’s not much on record about Kenworthy. It came and went so fast. But some of the history books have a few pages on it.” She returns to the shelf and pulls out a book. “This has some good information on Kenworthy.”
I flip it open. “Do you know anything of the Cohen family?” It’s a shot in the dark, but this lady seems to know her stuff.
“Oh, yes. There’s a copy of a letter written by one of the Cohen family members in here.”
As I balance the open book, she finds the page. It’s a photocopy of one of the same letters that still resides in the box in my barn. My gaze skims to the bottom.
Dearest John.
I’ve never read the letters. They’re not mine to paw through. But with this one published, maybe it’s plenty worth the fifteen bucks.
Out the window, I spot José returning with two paper sacks and a cardboard drink holder. Cameron waddles over to me and holds up his picture. Brown crayon covers a pinecone in dark scribbles.
“Good job, buddy.”
Micaela colors faster, tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. I show Cameron where José is just outside and tell him he can go start lunch. The little guy scurries out, and José catches him up, settling the toddler on his knee as they dig into a paper bag together.
After tucking Cam’s picture into the back pocket of my jeans, I examine the cover of the book again. A Local History of Our Mountain. I pull out my wallet and thank the woman as she drops a handful of peppermint suckers into the bag with the book.
The Gold in These Hills Page 11