Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  “Good thing you’re spending the night, honey, if you feel even half as stuffed or drunk as me,” she said, dragging a chair back to the porch. I joined her. The evening was still warm and the sky clear enough for some mesmerizing stargazing. After a while, she asked, “Why do you reckon that little girl turned her back on you?”

  “I really don’t know. Maybe misplaced blame or crushing memories. She sure is a charmer, though I guess her mother didn’t feel that way.” I was going to stop there, but all the wine and good company urged me on. “I like having people to care about. I want to feel as though I’m helping out in this mean old world. But I’m at a loss now. Astrid’s gone. Abit’s grown up. I’m feeling restless, or rather, lifeless. I don’t even know what I want anymore. I’ve written more than a thousand stories as a reporter, but I can’t seem to get my own story straight.”

  “You’ve done a lot right, if you could see it from my viewpoint. But I know that’s not how it works. But I …” She stopped short.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I just ain’t seen Alex around lately, and you didn’t mention him just now. I didn’t want to bring it up, but it seems like the right time.”

  “He’s playing hard to get. I’ve been leaving messages for him, and he’s returned my calls—except he waits until he knows I’m at the store and leaves messages at my home number. At least, that’s how I see it.”

  Oh, I saw it all right. I knew his ways. How he’d shut me out rather than talk about what was bothering him. Or hide from me because something about me, maybe the part that attracted him in the first place, made him face things he could ignore by himself or in the company of others. We made one another stretch, challenging each other to confront our darker sides. I liked the way he calmed me down, showed me a gentler way to react to issues. Maybe I was lucky—the things he taught me were mostly pleasurable. The things I reflected back on him stirred up the kind of issues he wanted to avoid.

  “I’m sure there’s a good reason,” Cleva said, breaking through my thoughts. “He loves you. I see it in his eyes. And I know he likes visiting down here. It does him a world of good.”

  “I hope you’re right, Cleva,” was all I could think to say. I couldn’t help but compare this time to those awful days before we separated. I didn’t want to think about that—but spending so many nights with an old dog that snored made it too easy to imagine the worst.

  22

  Della

  The next day, I invited Abit and Millie over for lunch. Abit brought the coffee table I’d ordered for the living room, and, of course, it was gorgeous. “Shiloh taught me some joinery tricks, so this all come from my hand,” he said as he set it down.

  I could see how much he’d put into the table. “It’s beautiful, honey. I couldn’t be more pleased.” He nodded, grateful for the praise but without much enthusiasm.

  After lunch—nothing fancy, just ham sandwiches, leftover roasted potatoes, and his favorite apple cake for dessert—I perked some coffee. While it bubbled and popped, I reflected on our life together in Laurel Falls. “You know, Abit, we are one sorry lot, you and me. Filled with sorrows and consoled only by a couple of dogs. And we’ve lost our detecting skills. We can’t even find a missing woman.”

  “Yeah, which makes me wonder if we’ve got a killer on the loose. Someone who pushed her down that cliff. Remember how Mama and her friends used to try to scare you outta walking in the woods? They’d carry on that there were men lurking out there, ready to pounce on you? Well, maybe they were right.”

  “I have to admit I’ve had thoughts like that, too. I find myself imagining what happened to Lilah Holt—and who among us might have done her harm. It’s like one of those old-time mountain murder ballads I’ve heard you perform. I believe you could write a song about this. It has all the sad ingredients required for a heartbreaker.”

  “You’re probably right,” he said, “though I doubt I could make one original note.”

  I hated that we were both feeling so lost, but it was hard to ignore. Alex was MIA, Fiona was MIA. Lilah was MIA. And possibly a killer was in our midst.

  When I sighed, Abit said, “Well, being a loser may be new to you, but I’m used to it.”

  “We were both doing good there, for a while. I’m sure glad I still have you and Jake.”

  “And Millie,” he added, pulling some brambles from her wiry fur. She acted like she wanted to bite him, but neither one of them even considered that a possibility.

  “Wouldn’t you know it?” I said. “Mary Lou has been a godsend. She spruces things up when I’m away and adds touches I hadn’t thought of—at least not in years. But now that I’ve found someone I can count on in the store, I don’t have anyone to play with much. Cleva and I are going to Asheville next week—before the leaf-peepers descend on us. Want to come along? ”

  “Thanks, but I’ve got a lot of orders to get out. And Mama wants me to show Little Andy the ropes. She thinks I ought to hire him to help me instead of Shiloh, for god’s sake. Surely she knows he ain’t old enough—or good enough at woodworking.”

  “I thought I saw him hanging around last Saturday.”

  “Yeah, I’ve hired him to sweep and clean up the shop on the weekends when he comes down to visit. But I don’t think I could handle much more. She’s practically adopted him. Do you know Daddy and her took him to county court to officially change his name from Andy to Andrew? I always thought Andy was a nickname, but that’s the name his parents put on his birth certificate. His mama called mine from Italy or somewheres they were visiting, and they got all the details worked out so he could make that change. My folks never oncet drove up to see me at the Hicks in all the five year I was there, but they go regular-like now. That kinda rankles me when I ...”

  He stopped suddenly. I looked over at him, and we started to laugh, even if there wasn’t much mirth in it. We’d heard ourselves carrying on when deep down we both knew how much we had to be grateful for. Abit’s business was booming. My store was in the best shape since I’d bought it. And Abit was thriving with the Rollin’ Ramblers. I went to a concert not long ago and marveled at his playing—and how the girls fawned over him. He didn’t seem to notice, but someday his heart would heal, and he’d pay attention. He had plenty of time for that.

  1996

  23

  Abit

  “Are you ready to head out tomorrow?” Della called out, her hand shielding her eyes against the bright springtime sun.

  Shiloh and I were struggling to get a sideboard onto his truck. “Yep, that’s why we’re loading this now. Shiloh can deliver it tomorrow and hold down the fort while I’m gone.”

  We were taking another road trip to D.C. I hadn’t been up that way since my trek through Virginia, and I was looking forward to our time together in the car—plus all the stops along the way.

  Della had gotten it in her head that I had to go to the Smithsonian Craft Show. I trusted her judgment, though I had no idea what to expect. I’d seen plenty of crafts while at The Hicks, especially during its Fall Festival, which attracted a fine mix of artists. And I always went to the big show in Asheville that the Southern Highland Guild put on. Even so, Della claimed the Smithsonian show was the best.

  It’d been not quite two year since Fiona left, and I’d put all my time into my woodworking. I’d moved my home to what had oncet been the hayloft above my shop, which made it easy (sometimes too easy) to work. I’d decided to give up my cabin on the lake since it was so big and lonely on my own. Besides, no need to get away from it all. I already was.

  Back when I was making the loft livable, I couldn’t get that little Astrid outta my mind. I could just hear her, sitting in that passenger seat of our bus, accusing me of moving right back home. In a way, I reckoned I had, but I kept my distance from Mama and Daddy—not in a mean way, just the way grown people naturally did.

  Astrid and her brother seemed to be doing pretty good. I only saw them now and then in town, but from what any of us could tell,
they’d adjusted to having just a daddy. And no one else had come to any harm in a strange way, so we were all breathing easier that we didn’t have a maniac roaming our hills.

  As things turned out, all that extra time I had on my hands was good for my business. I was selling all I could manage to make. Good to be that busy, so I didn’t have time to think about what was missing. Until nighttime, anyways.

  Working on the same things over and over spurred me on to try my hand at something different. Della and I spent time brainstorming, and she helped me get beyond the usual. Like all those dining tables I’d made—I wasn’t so keen on them anymore, especially after Dr. Navarro ordered that one for Fiona. I’d branched out into coffee tables and side tables and other pieces.

  I’d also increased my use of inlays; I’d found someone to make small marquetry panels that told stories about our mountains and trees. And I’d been spending more time with Jack Harper to learn how to carve better. He was the one who carved crèche figures so real looking you halfway expected to see a halo glowing above the baby Jesus’s head. We got a fair price for anything that included his carving, and later mine. All the rich people coming round seemed able to afford—and appreciate—them.

  Though that didn’t sit quite right with me, selling just to rich people. I felt bad that no one who grew up round there could afford to buy my work. From time to time, I’d hold a sale for locals only—or sell them the ones that had a little something wrong in the wood. Still, that whole situation bothered me, but I knew I needed to make a decent wage, too.

  The next morning, Della and I, along with Jake and Millie, headed up the highway toward D.C. As we drove north, I told her I wanted to stop at the exact same places we did almost seven year ago.

  “Don’t you want to try something new?”

  “Nah. I’ve got too much new in my life. I’d like to revisit pleasant memories.”

  We rode along quiet-like; even the dogs went to sleep after the first few mile. Both Della and I were likely thinking about the main reason we were traveling—and it wasn’t the craft show. Alex had been through a hard year with some kinda cancer. That was why he hadn’t been calling her back; he was avoiding her. Crazy, if you asked me, at a time when he especially needed loving. But I knew plenty of men like that—Daddy and Wilkie and Duane, just to name a few. They’d rather suffer in silence than come out with how they were feeling. I didn’t know all the details, but I got the impression Alex was gonna be okay. Something about better than a fifty-fifty chance. As strong as he was, I just knew he’d beat the odds.

  Della had spent a lot of time over the past year up in D.C. She’d nearabouts turned the store over to Mary Lou, who oncet she got settled in was the perfect shopkeeper for our town. Business at Coburn’s was up, and it was hard for Della not to think her absence had something to do with that. Not that folks didn’t like Della, they just liked Mary Lou more. As they saw it, she was their kinda people.

  While I knew Della was going up to D.C. to be with Alex, I also knew she was itching to get back to the kinda work she used to do. She told me she was helping Alex with his research and interviews, something she’d been really good at.

  Oncet we were well into Virginia, we stopped at the truck stop we’d eaten at before, just off the highway on the way to Lexington. We even got the same waitress as last time. Don’t ask me why I remembered her so clear, but I guessed that trip was burned into my brain. I couldn’t remember what I’d ordered back then—maybe country-fried steak—but this time I went with the meatloaf and three vegs: mashed potatoes, green beans, coleslaw. Della got a salad. Big mistake. The lettuce was all brown round the edges. She looked over at me and started pecking at my plate. I laughed and pushed it toward the middle of the table.

  Since we’d shared our dinner, we figured we deserved pie. That time she chose right: chocolate cream pie. I got rhubarb, and we pushed those plates toward the middle, too.

  After we tanked up on coffee and gave Millie and Jake a break, we were off again. I thought all that coffee would wire me, but I was dozing pretty good when I heard Della ask, “Have you gone out with any of those women throwing themselves at you at your concerts?”

  I kept my eyes closed and shook my head. “They just seem silly to me, kinda giggly. There was a time I’d’ve loved that, but that was when I was sixteen year old.” She chuckled at that. I sat up and added, “But that’s okay. I’m content in my woodshop. And, you know, now that my heart has healed some, I know I made the right decision. No regrets. If having kids was a requirement for being with Fiona, well, we are best apart. I feel real strong about that, Della. I’m not gonna bring any Abit Junior into this crazy world if he might have my traits. Couldn’t bear it. I’ll always think of Fiona as the one who got away—and dammit, she seems to have spoiled me for other women—but that’s the way it has to be.”

  She looked over at me, real sad-like. Time to change the subject. Besides, I wanted to know more about Alex. I figured since she’d just put me in the hot seat, I could return the favor. “How’s Alex doing?”

  “Oh, don’t worry, honey. It’s been quite some time since his treatments, and his energy is coming back. He looks even better than the last time he was down in Laurel Falls. It’s just one of those things you never know about. The past year has reminded me about living one day at a time. I always believed that—just didn’t live it very often. But now, every day feels like a gift. And having you along with me on this trip feels that way, too. It gets monotonous—and lonesome—on this highway.”

  I offered to drive some, but she shook her head. “Just tell me some stories. Or about your woodworking. No, I know—tell me some of Shiloh’s jokes.”

  I begged offa that. I’d given up on telling jokes. Instead, we rode along talking like old friends. And before we knew it, we’d sailed past the exit for the Skyline Diner where last time we’d stuffed ourselves with biscuits and coffee. I was still full from our big dinner, and we were both eager to see Alex.

  We pulled into Georgetown and parked in front of his house. Alex didn’t greet me this time with a welcome banner, like he did on my first trip, but he didn’t need to. I knew I was welcome. I gave him a big hug and headed inside with Millie and Jake. Millie’d never been there, but she knew just what to do—follow Jake. They drank a bunch of water, ate from the bowl of kibble Alex had put down, then raced round the house sniffing everything.

  And Della was right—Alex looked good. His wavy hair was as full as ever, though like Della’s, it had more streaks of gray than the last time I saw him. He had on a plaid sports shirt with the sleeves rolled up, and his face and arms were kinda tanned looking.

  The weather was unusually warm and humid (a fluke for that time of year), so Alex’d made us a big salad with all kinds of vegetables, cheeses, and chopped chicken on top. My stomach forgot all about that dinner back at the truck stop as I plowed through salad plus some bread I thought I recognized from Firehook Bakery, the one Nigel, our forger pal, lived above. And cherry pie, more than likely from the same place.

  While Alex went through all his coffee-making chores (he could make that espresso machine smoke, but it seemed to take forever), he told us about one of the stories he was working on. “I’m worried about what it portends. It’s called Fox News Channel—a new television news network that doesn’t concern itself with facts. It’s so biased toward the extreme right, it skews important issues. The channel won’t debut until next month, but I’ve seen some of their media previews, and I’ve interviewed a couple of the anchors so the story can run just before the network launches. I’m struggling to maintain an even-handed journalistic approach. I want to rail and rant and use snarky words—but then, I’d just be succumbing to their tactics.”

  “Oh, surely that won’t last. Not in the long run,” Della said. “Democracy is tenuous enough with a strong Fourth Estate. I can’t even think about something like that taking hold.” When Alex finished serving our coffee, she picked up her cup and said, “Here’s a toa
st to the abiding intelligence of people!” She looked at me and winked, and it felt good she was including me.

  We took our coffee into the living room where the dogs had settled. We had to sit in chairs because they were hogging the couch and wouldn’t budge. Out of the blue, Alex told me he wanted to order a hoosier. Della and I both gave him a funny look. All I could figure was maybe he just liked the looks of them.

  “I’ve taken up baking,” he said. Della motioned toward the kitchen in a sign language they musta perfected over the years, and he nodded. “Yeah, I baked that bread. And made the pie. I took a course at Firehook, two nights a week for six weeks, and I want to keep at it. It feels good to do something with my hands besides type. I’d like one with the marquetry inlay, like I saw last time I was down.”

  “Well, you’re in luck. They never picked that up,” I told him. “They’re getting divorced and plan to sell their second home. They put down a deposit—which they’ll lose. I’ll let you have it for the balance.”

  “I’m not one to turn down a good deal, but I want to pay fair market price.”

  I told him we could haggle about that later. “I think you’ll like the inlay—a wooded scene with the falls in the background. And the light maple wood in the hoosier makes it pop.”

  “I’ll drive the truck next time I come down,” he said. A few year ago, he’d bought himself a truck for trips to Laurel Falls (and gave me his old Merc), though I could tell he was partial to the new Merc he’d bought a few months ago.