by Belva Plain
“Obedient, too,” observed Kate.
“Not always. Remember the raisins? Look, she's sniffing the perfume.”
“Kate's flowers,” Clarence said. “She hoped to supply every florist and nursery for miles around, but things just didn't work out that way. That's her greenhouse down there. See it, back of the barn?”
Following Clarence's finger, Jim looked down upon greenery, pastures, a cornfield, and forested hills.
“You'll have a beautiful sight to greet you when you wake up every morning, Mr. Fuller,” Clarence said.
“Jim, please. The name's Jim.”
“Okay, Jim. Some folks wouldn't appreciate all this or even like the quiet, but I have a hunch you're not that type.”
“Your hunch is correct. Dr. Scofield also told me that this place would be just right. By the way, I'll pay you in cash. Naturally, I don't yet have an account at the bank here.” And Jim drew some bills from his wallet.
“Jim Fuller! This is double what I asked you for.”
“This is less than half what I'd pay at a resort, and it's worth more than many resorts, so let's not argue.”
“It just doesn't seem right, though. It really doesn't.”
One of the world's innocents, this man was. “It's right,” Jim said firmly.
“Well, I won't say we can't use it. We may look well-off, but we're not. Yet, look out there! Everything between this cottage and those hills is ours.”
“You could probably get a good price for it,” Jim said, “rich farmland like this—”
“Good price! Over my dead body. Literally! This is Ricky's heritage, for him, and his children, and their children.”
“You've touched a soft spot,” Kate explained. It seemed to Jim that she looked slightly embarrassed. “This land is Clarence's life. But enough of this for now. It's almost suppertime.”
“So it is,” Jim agreed. “I've got to unpack these groceries and get going or Laura will be complaining. She likes her meals to be on time.”
“Never mind your groceries tonight, Jim. You can start your housekeeping tomorrow. You'll have supper with us tonight.”
The table was set in an ell off the kitchen in full view of the stove, the cupboards, potted geraniums on a windowsill, and two dogs at their dinner bowls.
As if to fill a lag in what had been an ongoing conversation, Jim made a comment about the dogs.
“I seem to remember you had two collies in that snapshot, Kate. Am I right?”
“Unfortunately, you are. We lost Jeff to diabetes. Buster the Airedale is his replacement. Quite a contrast to Mutt, isn't he?”
“‘Mutt,' ” Jim observed. “Isn't that rather an odd name for a thoroughbred collie?”
“He had that name when we bought him, so we kept it because he already answered to it. Besides, ‘he' is a ‘she.' ” Kate threw up her hands in mock dismay. “Can you believe it?”
He liked the gesture, and the way her eyes widened as if with surprise.
Ricky made an important announcement. “Buster belongs to me. I picked him out. There were five puppies, but we liked each other right away, so he's my dog.”
“Wow-wow,” said Laura.
Ricky corrected her. “Say ‘dog.' ”
“Wow-wow.”
“No. Say ‘dog.' ”
For a moment, Laura seemed to be studying the matter. Then, “Dog,” she said.
Everyone laughed and clapped for her, while Ricky said importantly, “I can teach her. Do you want me to teach her? I can read, you know.”
“Wead,” Laura said. “Wed light top. Geen light go.”
Again everyone laughed, and Jim cried, “Now, what on earth? I never taught her that.”
“She must have made the connection herself,” Kate said. “She saw that you stopped and started according to the lights.”
“But that's incredible!”
“Not really. It's genetic. I'll bet if you could ask your parents, they would say that you had the same grasp of words at this age. And your wife was probably the same.”
“I don't know. I never asked her mother. I mean, Laura's mother.”
That sounded queer. For God's sake, speak naturally. Say the name: Rebecca.
“Rebecca and I never got around to talking about things like that. It all happened so fast, our times together, I mean.”
“Does she miss her mother very much?”
“Rebecca was so ill for a while that we had to get a nurse to take care of Laura. If she misses anyone, it would be the nurse, although she seems to be forgetting her faster than I expected.”
That much was true, but the rest, the lies to these good people, would only lead to more inevitable lies. How could they not? Sitting here at their friendly table, he was tricking these good, simple people.
Simple? Who is to say what simple is?
“That next house, the one you pass down the road at the curve, belongs to a friend of mine,” Kate said next. “She used to assist in a kindergarten, and she has a day care license. Maybe you'd like to send Laura there. Right now she has two children and a two-year-old of her own. Jennie's wonderful with children.”
Jim had no intention of staying here any longer than he would stay at a vacation resort. This was a rest to be savored, a place in which to stop running and catch his breath. On the other hand, what was Laura going to do here all day? Perhaps this day care would be a good thing for her during the next week or two. Also, it would be a place to leave her while he gave some deadly serious thought to their next move.
In the predawn chill he woke, and opening the front door, stood on the steps to watch the sun ascend the sky. The air was cool, the birds were twittering, and at the bottom of the slope, the farm was already at work. Day laborers were arriving in battered old cars; two men carried milk cans to the roadside, where obviously they would soon be collected; someone was pulling a harrow from under a shed, while someone else trundled a wheelbarrow filled with empty quart baskets in the direction of what probably was a field of blueberries.
Was it a century ago that he had been, however temporarily, a part of this mild farmyard bustle? Was it a century ago that he had checked his luggage through the world's major airports and settled himself and his fine leather attaché case in a first-class seat? He looked at his watch. A few minutes from now he would have been in Washington, assuming that the case had not yet been settled, getting dressed for the resumption of argument. A few minutes from now, allowing for the difference in time zones and if he had not taken the risk he had taken, his Laura might have been waking up in Arthur Storm's French villa.
With this thought in mind, Jim had to rush back inside to the crib as if to make sure that he was not dreaming, that Laura was still there. Yes, there she lay in the pink pajamas printed with rabbits, elephants, and turtles that he had bought. Her fashionable coat that she had been wearing that last Sunday afternoon he had dropped on the grass south of Albany, thus leaving behind the last relic of her former life.
When she stirred and turned, he moved away without making a sound. A child should be encouraged to keep regular hours. Gently and gradually, he would train her to wake up at half-past seven. Breakfast should be ready at eight, and it should consist chiefly, according to the books, of whole-grain cereal with fruit; eggs, once a week, should be scrambled or boiled, never fried.
Almost by heart, Jim knew those rules. Reading time could come at any hour; it was especially valuable between supper and bed as a way to relax. He had already begun to acquire some of the fine old storybooks, beginning now with Peter Rabbit and leading gradually up to Charlotte's Web a few years from now. It was never too soon to start building a library. . . . And with a sudden pang, before his eyes he saw the shelves he had left behind, divided by subject, history or fiction or biography, then subdivided and alphabetized by author. Who owned them now?
But, first things first. This morning he was a little worried about the day nursery. Laura had never been used to children other than those wh
o went to and fro in Central Park. Yet last night at the supper table she had readily accepted the strange adults and the six-year-old boy. Dr. Scofield had remarked that she was a “strong” child. Had he meant her physical body or her temperament?
Now Jim had to laugh a little at himself. Never before had he been such a worrier. Never had he fretted over even the most important trials or presentations; he had been confident in himself. Yet here he was questioning the rightness of the smallest matter that concerned this tiny girl.
It was only a few hours later that he knew he need not have fretted. At Jennie Macy's little play school, he had lingered for an hour to make certain that everything was in order.
“She's taking to it like a duck to water,” Jennie assured him. “Look at her with those blocks. She's collected a pile, and she's perfectly content. You really don't need to worry about this child, Mr. Fuller. My Tommy is just Laura's age, and he's not as calm as she is, even though this is his own house.”
So, with a pleasant sense of relief, Jim left and walked back to what he thought of as his vacation home.
Now he was feeling the luxury of having nothing at all to do for the next few hours. Until this very minute, in this sudden peace, he had not realized just how these last days had terrified and exhausted him. Maybe he'd take a pillow and a book, lie down in the shade, and just loaf.
He was halfway to the cottage steps when his attention was drawn to a woman crossing the barnyard on horseback. The sight was striking, the woman tall in the saddle, her reddish hair glinting below her hat brim, and the horse, a magnificent pinto, splashed with dark brown on a background of white. It took him a few seconds to recognize Kate Benson, and only seconds more for her to see him.
She was dismounting as he approached. “Your first night went well, Jim, I hope?”
“It couldn't have been better. And Laura's introduction to the play school couldn't have been better, either.”
“I'm so glad. I had an idea it would. Laura's a character, isn't she?”
“I'm afraid I don't know enough about children to tell.”
“Well, take my word, she is. Do you ride?”
“I used to be pretty good at it, but I haven't done it in years.”
“If you were good once, you haven't forgotten how. We have another horse for you, if you want. Come, I'll show you. He's in pasture, the one behind that row of chicken houses.”
A light chestnut Shetland pony with a wavy mane, not much larger than a very large dog, was grazing along with a tall, dark horse.
“The Shetland is Ricky's, of course. He's Rick's treasure. His name is Rabbit, but don't ask me why. This pinto is Elf, and the big one over there is Cappy.”
“A smooth high-stepper,” Jim said. “Cappy is an elegant Tennessee Walker, if I remember right.”
“Yes, he's handsome, isn't he? He's Clarence's horse, but Clarence doesn't ride anymore. He's had a few problems, and it's not good for him. We used to go up together every day into the hills, or sometimes just around the property. We'd squeeze in the time, no matter what. And now I have to go by myself.”
“Taking turns with the horses, I suppose, because they both need exercising?”
“Exactly. But I don't enjoy the big one as much. I'm not used to his canter. Still, he needs attention, so I do it. How do you feel about trying him?”
“I feel I'd like to, very much.”
“Good. I'll wait for you tomorrow morning after Laura goes to Jennie's.”
“We'll take it easy, since you haven't ridden in so long,” Kate proposed on the following day.
So they trotted a few miles around the perimeter of the property, which was far larger than Jim had imagined. He had expected a barrage of chatter along the way, but Kate was very quiet.
There was in fact a marked difference between yesterday's woman and today's. Something had happened. Perhaps trivial, perhaps not. But it was no business of his.
After a while they came to a halt, allowing the horses to drink at a small stream, and stood in silence. Even at this remove, the varied foliage was recognizable: white pine, dogwood that must have been a cloud early in the spring, azaleas, and rhododendrons that grew ten feet high, as Jim had noted in his travels through these hills.
“In the fall,” Kate said, suddenly breaking the silence, “the sumac turn orange-red, like flame. Clarence calls this ‘God's country.' ”
“Yes, God's country,” Jim repeated. A sense of the most intense thankfulness rose within him. In safety he had brought Laura this far, and even though he did not plan to remain in this particular place, it was a good omen. Surely the next lap of the journey would bring them to their final safety among these hills.
No matter what the course of the future, this little stretch of time would be remembered as an extraordinary calm. Even the weather was moderate. In the play group, Laura was flourishing, learning to share her toys as well as to defend her rights; she had developed a genuine laugh, and before his eyes she was beginning to change from a baby to a child. Every day Jim rode Cappy for a healthy hour, soothed by the sense of space and silence.
Apparently Kate Benson had changed her hour for the early-morning ride, but he had no idea why and he did not miss her. Rarely did he see either her or Clarence, so his first impression that they wanted to be friends must have been a mistake.
One day, he passed Clarence near the stable as he was coming back from his ride.
“You're doing Cappy a world of good,” Clarence said.
“He's doing me a world of good. We like each other. We almost talk to each other.”
“I know, I miss him, too. Maybe sometime I'll get back to riding again.”
It seemed to Jim that Clarence looked decidedly different, as if he had changed almost overnight. His healthy sunburn had turned to a sickly yellow; even the whites of his eyes and the brown irises seemed to be tinged with yellow.
“Looks as if you like it here, Jim. Didn't plan to stay three weeks, did you?”
“Three weeks. Where's the time gone? It can't be—”
“Will be, this Tuesday.”
Jim shook his head. “I guess I stopped counting. All this peace and ease—I'm a kid in a toy store, or a candy store.”
A tired smile crossed the other man's face and vanished.
“Are you all right, Clarence? You seem tired today.”
Clarence shrugged. “Look around at the bustle. It's a hubbub on this farm, enough to make a man tired.”
“Are we staying too long, Clarence? Tell me the truth. Do you need the cottage for anything and don't want to tell me to clear out?”
“No, no. Well, the truth is, we were talking, Kate and I, about how you said you were hunting for a job, and we wondered about that. It's not our business, but we were wondering about you and the baby, how long you would stay.”
You block things out, things you don't want to face, just as you block out bad memories . . .
“You're right, Clarence. I'm taking too long. I ought to get down to business.”
“Oh, I didn't mean that,” Clarence protested. “Forget I said it. You just do what's best for you. I didn't mean you should either stay or go. I was only wondering.”
A few minutes later, Jim was in the car on his way to the newspaper stand in town. Buying a local paper, he realized that he had never noticed the New York journals and magazines on the top shelf.
“Do you sell much of this stuff here?” he asked.
“Only to a couple of teachers at the high school. Can't for the life of me fathom why they're interested in all this, but they are, so I order a few copies.”
When he had scanned the sections where he might find the news he had neglected during these lovely days in never-never land, he was both relieved at finding nothing and angry at himself for the careless neglect. And then because of this abrupt anxiety attack, he bought three newspapers from outlying towns, went to the car, and read through all the help-wanted advertisements. Only one seemed to offer a possibility, a
post as office supervisor in what sounded like a prosperous shirt factory in what sounded like a prosperous town. Of course, he knew nothing about shirt making, but an office was an office; it meant correspondence, records of wages, employment, and taxes. When he thought of the complicated puzzles he had unraveled at home and overseas, he certainly should be able to manage those.
Accordingly, the next day he asked Jennie please to keep Laura through the late afternoon in case he should be delayed, since the round trip amounted to sixty miles, and the length of the interview was unknown.
Once he was down out of sight of the hills and on the highway, the heat began to rise. It will be an early summer, he thought. Perhaps it was normal for this part of the country? The car's air conditioner languished into a faint, warm breeze; clouds made a dreary landscape more dreary, so that Jim had to work at keeping his spirits lively. Upon entering the town, he had to work even harder. All was old, neither quaint nor with any charm of history, but merely old and grim, a town left over from an industrial age that was about to die. It even smells dreary, he thought as he parked and walked the streets. His heart sank. This town was one of those places in which you wouldn't want to grow up. Someday it would change, but not soon enough for Laura.
Nevertheless, on the theory that you must hear the whole story before you judge, he went straight to the factory and presented himself, there to answer the questions and relate the story that was becoming easier with every telling. His wife had died, he had a young child, he had left his insurance job in Philadelphia, and he was well qualified.
As it turned out, the interviewers thought so, too. He could not help but think when they told him the salary, which was not really bad at all, that they would never believe the amount of his last year's income tax.
All right, if he had to, he would make do. Wealth was not what he was seeking now, although wealth was very enjoyable indeed. There was no real wealth back at the Benson farm, and yet it was heavenly to wake up there every morning. But the Benson farm did not belong to him.