Walking on Air

by Catherine Anderson

  Tyke bent his head and took his time speaking. “I don’t suppose you believe in ghosts, do you?”

  A month ago, Gabe would have responded with an unequivocal no. Now he no longer felt certain about much of anything having to do with the hereafter. “I can’t rightly say. But I do know I’ve never seen a ghost.”

  “Well, I never have, either, but I did smell and hear one about three weeks ago.” Tyke stopped briefly to catch his breath and then struck off again. “And even then I was drunk, so maybe I only imagined it.”

  “Imagined what?” Gabe pressed.

  “That my wife, Miriam, visited me.” Tyke slanted Gabe an aggrieved glance. “Ever since my family died, I’ve been . . . Well, I guess I can just tell you what Miriam called me—a slovenly drunkard. That pretty much says it all. Never washed. Wore dirty clothes. Ate food from tins that Wilson over at the general store left for me on my back stoop.”

  “If you never left the house, how’d you get booze?” Gabe asked.

  “Wilson brought me that, too. He’s a kindly chap. Not too bright, I don’t think, but I never hold that against a good man.”

  Gabe couldn’t say that he did, either. “So you had an unending supply of whiskey.”

  “And started chugging from the bottle first thing each morning, drank all day, and kept on into the evening until I passed out in my chair.” He sighed. “I’ve done that for years, Mr. . . .” His voice trailed away. “I’m sorry, but in all the introductions, I never got your name.”

  “Valance, Gabriel Valance. I prefer to be called Gabe.”

  “Well, Gabe—you can call me Tyke if you want—back to my story. I never touched alcohol before I lost my family. Never had the desire. But things can change in a person’s life with a shift of the wind.”

  Gabe knew that to be a fact.

  “Call me weak, but I only held myself together long enough to get my loved ones buried and prayed over. Then I went straight to the saloon. The next morning, I woke up under one of the tables, started drinking again as soon as I could stand up, and that’s the way it’s mostly been ever since. On the rare occasion that I sobered up, the pain of losing my family was still there, so I dived right back into a bottle to find the numbness again.”

  A picture was forming in Gabe’s mind. “And one night, not long ago, Miriam paid you a visit?”

  Tyke stopped again. “Sorry. All I’ve done is sit for damned near fifteen years. Talking and walking don’t mix.”

  Gabe didn’t mind stopping. He figured this story might be better told out of Nan and the kids’ earshot. He hooked his thumbs over his gun belt, cocked a hip, and waited.

  Tyke met Gabe’s gaze. “You a drinking man?”

  “I can’t say I’ve never gotten drunk, but I’ve not made a habit of it. That doesn’t mean I can’t understand why another man might. Losing your wife and children that way, and all of a sudden . . . Well, it must have been really hard. I doubt I would have taken to the bottle, though. I’d probably be more inclined to put a bullet in my brain and get it over with fast.”

  Tyke stared off into the twilight, his eyes bright with tears. “I thought about it, believe me. But my Miriam, she didn’t hold with suicide. Every time I got out my pistol, I wondered if she was up there somewhere, watching over me, and I just couldn’t do it.”

  “So you tried to drink yourself to death instead.”

  Tyke nodded. “I would’ve kept on trying, too, if Miriam hadn’t stopped me. I was sitting in front of the fire, just like this evening, and I was well on my way to numb. The house was quiet.” Tyke dragged in a shaky breath. “I never got used to the sound of quiet. It’s loud, you know, so loud sometimes that it hurts your ears.”

  Gabe wished the old codger would get on with the story. Then Gabe could decide if it was a bunch of poppycock or not.

  “Anyway, I always kept my jug on the hearth. And that night, just as I reached for it, it went flying. Hit the brick, bounced off, smacked the floor, and shattered. I thought for a second that I was so drunk I’d knocked it over. But then, so strong I couldn’t mistake it, I smelled her rosewater, and I knew my Miriam was there.”

  “That’s all? You smelled rosewater?” Gabe didn’t say so, but that revelation had him leaning heavily toward saying, “Poppycock.”

  “No, not at all.” Tyke’s voice had gone thin and quivery. “She spoke to me. I heard her talking, plain as I hear you. She sure didn’t like the garbage piles all over her house. She was tidy, my Miriam, and she kept that house spick-and-span. She told me it was shameful, the way I lived. Then she said I had to clean myself up and leave the whiskey alone, because you were going to come fetch me.”

  “That’s all?” Gabe wondered if it wasn’t a grave mistake to take this old fellow into Nan’s home. He might be a lot more addlepated than the widows he’d complained about. “She didn’t give you my name or anything like that?”

  “No, not a name,” Tyke confessed. “She only said that two angels had told a gunslinger about me, and if I’d just straighten myself up, I might have the chance to be part of a family again.” The old man searched Gabe’s gaze. “You’re wearing Colts. You are the gunslinger Miriam told me about, right?”

  Gabe now knew how it felt to be emotionally numb, only he hadn’t drunk his way to the bottom of a whiskey jug to get there.

  “Mr. Valance?” Tyke looked worried. “You aren’t thinking about taking me back home, are you? I’ve kind of got my mind set on not returning to that hellhole. You’ve got a nice family. I know I’m not a real relation, but I’d sure like the chance to be a grandpa.” He ran a hand over his face and blinked. “Of course, maybe that position is already filled twice over. You’ve probably got a perfectly nice father to play that role, and your wife, too.”

  Still unable to collect his thoughts, Gabe took off his hat and slapped it against his leg.

  “I was a good father,” Tyke said. “I truly was. With all that experience, I think I can be a damned good grandpa if you’ll give me half a chance. I won’t tell the children about Miriam visiting me, if that’s your worry. I know stories about ghosts frighten kids. Not that Miriam’s visit was scary. For me, it was the best thing that’s happened in years!”

  “I, um . . .” Gabe swallowed hard, slapped his hat back on, and tipped his head to gaze at the starless sky. “I don’t have a father, and Nan’s isn’t worth having, so I’m not planning to take you back home, Tyke. Just give me a minute.” After releasing a long sigh, he said, “Angels, you say?” He lowered his chin to search Baden’s gaze. “Are you certain that’s what Miriam told you, Tyke? It’s important.”

  “Oh, yes, I’m certain sure. She said two angels told you about me. I know it sounds far-fetched.” Tyke fell silent for a moment. “So just out of curiosity, Gabe, who did tell you about me?”

  Gabe needed to move. “Come on, Tyke. Let’s mosey home. We’re having our big Christmas dinner tonight, and Nan’s quite the cook. We don’t want to miss out.”

  After they’d resumed walking, Tyke observed, “You never answered my question. Who told you about me? If I ever get a chance, I’d like to shake his hand and tell him thank you.”

  Gabe released a taut breath and laughed softly. “Don’t be in any hurry to do that, Tyke.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because Miriam gave it to you straight. Two angels told me about you, and in order for you to shake their hands and tell them thank you, I’m afraid you’ll have to cock up your toes.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Christmas Eve. In all his life, Gabe had never experienced such a pleasurable evening. For the holiday meal, Nan gave him the place of honor at the head of the table, and she took her rightful position as his wife at the opposite end, affording him a wonderful view of her sparkling eyes, which looked at him with a love that brought a lump to his throat. Christopher and Laney took the two chairs at the wa
ll side, and Tyke Baden sat to Gabe’s left, where Jasper lay at his feet, clearly hoping the old fellow would share some of the bounty. The array of food took up the entire serving space, which sported platters, bowls, baskets, and small plates. The turkey held pride of place right in front of Gabe, roasted to a dark golden brown and perfuming the entire room. In Gabe’s estimation, words could not describe the heavenly redolence of the stuffing, now scooped into a dish and steaming, the aromatic sweetness of hot yeast rolls fresh from the oven and brushed with butter, and the myriad side dishes, including mashed potatoes, giblet gravy, mixed vegetables, cranberry jam, and a whipped-cream salad that Nan called ambrosia, which she’d made with rehydrated fruit, nuts, and fresh apples. He’d never seen anything like this before in his life. Not once.

  For the first time since his arrival, it fell to Gabe to give thanks for the meal. Him? He wished Nan had forewarned him so he could plan some remarks, and he hoped God would understand that all he could do was his best. Since the family had grown, he asked that everyone join hands, and then, speaking straight from the heart, he expressed appreciation of the many favors bestowed on those beneath this roof, and he asked the Lord to bless the bounty on the table. While everyone chimed in with amen, Gabe sent up a private prayer of thanks. His month with Nan had been a priceless experience, teaching him so many things, not the least of which were how to pray and have faith in things he couldn’t actually see or touch.

  Gabe had never carved a turkey, and he was caught unprepared when he realized that the head of the household was expected to do the honors. What if he botched the job? As Gabe picked up the sharp knife and long-handled fork, Tyke, either by accident or design, muttered instructions without seeming to do so.

  “That turkey’s so tender the legs and wings are about to fall off. I’d get them out of the way first.” Gabe removed them to an awaiting platter. Then Tyke said, “This is the moment, Nan. When Gabe cuts off an outer slice of that breast, we’ll see juice spurt a bit if the white meat is moist.”

  And so it went until Gabe had carved the entire turkey as if he’d done it dozens of times. The razor-sharp knife cut thin, even slices, and when Jasper let out a whine, Gabe slid a small piece off the plate, hoping it looked accidental. The dog wolfed it down, gazing up at him with adoring brown eyes. Nan’s lips twitched, but she didn’t say a word.

  When every dish on the table had been passed around, Gabe could barely wait to eat, but for some reason no one did. Christopher reached for his fork, but at once yanked his hand back when a faint thump came from beneath the table. The boy darted a startled look at Laney, who looked back at him with such faked innocence that even Nan stifled a giggle.

  Obviously something was expected of him, Gabe thought, but what? He’d already blessed the meal. Had he left something out? He glanced imploringly at his wife. With a twinkle of mirth dancing in her eyes, she gestured quickly with her hand, pretending to put an invisible bite of food into her mouth.

  Marveling at all the absurd rules that polite people lived by, Gabe dutifully forked a bite of turkey into his mouth, and then, as if the starting shot at the horse races had just gone off, everyone began to eat. The meal was superb, with a plethora—a big word Gabe loved—of tastes to please almost anyone’s palate. Within fifteen minutes, Gabe had had two helpings of everything except stuffing, of which he’d had three, and he was so full that he couldn’t possibly hold another morsel. Apparently Nan felt the same way, because she suggested that dessert be served later. No one disagreed, and her cheeks flushed a delicate shade of pink at the compliments showered on her about her superb cooking.

  Everyone pitched in to help clean the kitchen. Christopher washed, Laney rinsed, Tyke sat on a chair by the sink to dry, Jasper patrolled among everyone in case anything was dropped after he’d wolfed down a bowl of uneaten servings, and Gabe helped Nan put stuff away. With so many hands, the mess disappeared in short order. When Nan was satisfied that all was up to snuff, the family moved to the sitting room. And they were a family, Gabe thought. Tyke had suggested that the children call him Pop, and they’d quickly warmed to that idea. When the old man got himself positioned on the settee, both kids sat on the patterned wool rug at his feet, begging for a story about the “olden” days.

  Tyke’s seamed face dissolved into a wrinkled smile as he told a tale of his childhood, when he and a friend had taken a dislike to a neighboring apple farmer and decided to put a burlap bag filled with fresh cow manure on his porch, set it afire, knock on his door, and then run.

  “We figured his house’d smell like cow sh—excuse me, ma’am—cow manure for days. So we hid in some bushes, giggling so hard our sides hurt, so we could watch that mean old farmer stomp out the flames. We pictured him with cow manure clear to his knees!”

  “What happened, Pop?” Christopher demanded with alacrity. It seemed clear to Gabe that Christopher was thinking this was a prank he’d like to play on someone. “Was he mad? Did you get away clean, or did he know who did it?”

  Nan shot Gabe a worried look, but he motioned for her to wait. Gabe didn’t believe the man would put bad ideas into either child’s head.

  “Well,” Tyke said slowly, to draw out the suspense, “his wife came to the door, and when she went to stomping, the flames licked up and caught her skirt afire.”

  “Oh, no!” Laney gasped, and put a hand over her heart.

  Christopher’s smile vanished, replaced by a horrified expression. “Did she burn up, Pop?”

  Tyke settled a hand on the girl’s golden head and fixed Christopher with a level gaze. “Of course not. My friend and I raced back to save her. We got her skirts out in record time, and she didn’t even get singed. But we were both caught red-handed, and I mean that literally, because we blistered our fingers and palms putting out her skirts. Our hands hurt for days, and ’course our folks found out what we’d done. As punishment, our fathers made us not only clean that mean old farmer’s stoop, but also whitewash his fence and paint his house. We worked nigh onto a month, hating every minute, but deep down we both knew we had it coming. And we learned a good lesson or two, the first being that when you play mean pranks, you may do harm to the wrong person.”

  “What was the other lesson you learned?” Christopher asked. A thoughtful frown creased his forehead.

  Tyke chuckled and shook his head. “Well, by month’s end, we discovered that the mean old farmer wasn’t really so mean. In fact, we both liked him. And you could’ve knocked both of us over with a feather when he paid us fair wages for painting his house. By then we both felt so bad about the whole doggone thing that we tried to give it back, but he said we’d earned it. I reckon we learned from that experience to get acquainted better with a person before we judged him. And,” he added meaningfully, “not to believe everything we heard about folks.”

  Gabe flashed a grin at Nan that held just a hint of I told you so.

  Gabe had just joined his wife in front of the tree to help light the candles when Christopher tugged urgently on his sleeve. Gabe followed the boy into the kitchen.

  His blue eyes wide, Christopher whispered, “We got no presents for Pop!”

  For Gabe, it was an oh-shit! moment, but he settled for saying, “Uh-oh. Now what’ll we do?”

  Nan joined them just then, and when she’d been updated on the conversation, she said, “The only thing to do is share our gifts with him.” She smiled at Gabe. “I got you a couple of nice things I haven’t wrapped yet. They would work, if you don’t mind not receiving them yourself. And I have some men’s knitted socks on display downstairs. I can quickly wrap those for him.”

  Gabe didn’t give a hang about receiving Christmas presents, because he knew he wouldn’t be around to use them. “Great plan. I’ll go downstairs with you to wrap them while Laney and Christopher keep Pop occupied.”

  Christopher had clearly fallen in love with the old man. “I got a book under the tree. I can tell
by feeling that it’s a book for certain sure. I ain’t sure who got it for me or what it’s about, but it can go to Pop, too.”

  “No!” Gabe protested. “That’s my present for you, the only special thing I got you!”

  Christopher grinned. “I’ll get to enjoy it all the same, because Pop can’t read no more. I’ll read it to him, and then he’ll have no more use for it.”

  Gabe guessed the kid had a point. “All right. When we hand out gifts to each other, I’ll give that one to Pop. But it’ll mean I won’t have a present for you. I’ll feel bad about that.”

  Christopher’s eyes went misty. “You already gave me the best present when you brought me home with you.”

  Gabe felt that tightness in his throat again. He laid a hand briefly on the boy’s shoulder and turned away.

  After Nan finished lighting the candles on the tree, Gabe helped her sneak gifts downstairs to her workroom. Laughing like a couple of kids, they hurriedly wrapped gifts for Pop. “This is a beautiful razor, Nan. I’ve never owned one with an ivory handle. Thank you for picking out something so beautiful for me.”

  Her cheek dimpled. “It goes to Pop now.”

  “Which just goes to show that it truly is the thought that counts,” Gabe replied. “I’ll know when he opens it that you chose it for me. Besides I’ll—” He broke off. He’d almost said he’d never have a chance to use it anyway. “Such a fine gift will sure make him happy, I think,” he amended.

  Soon they were back upstairs. Gabe engaged Pop in conversation, while Nan, hiding gifts in her skirts, slipped over to the tree to put the new presents beneath the boughs. Afterward, Laney got out her violin and played Christmas carols. Nan and Pop knew all the words, and this time around, Gabe and Christopher were able to chime in during the refrains.