Jane looked her niece up and down. “This town is worse than a dead end. You’ve got talent. You could do something with yourself in the city.”
Once again, hearing Jane insult Prosperity triggered a flare of resistance in Grace. She was suddenly grateful to Jackson.
“I can do something with myself right here.” Grace wasn’t exactly sure what she meant by this, but suddenly she began to feel excited. “All I was going to do in Seattle was get another waitressing job anyway. You said so yourself!”
“OK, Parrot. Nothin’ I can do to change what you think. It’s your life. You’d never listen to me anyway.” She slapped the wall with the flat of her hand—a gesture that combined celebration and frustration. “Good enough, then. I’m outta here. Sherrie’s ready to move in and I need the money. She just laughed at me when I offered to let her take over the Hoot Owl, so I’m cutting my losses and shutting it down.”
Grace’s thoughts started circling around the hole that had suddenly opened before her. If Jane closed the café, what was she going to do for money once Jackson’s bequest was used up? Sure, she could paint, but she’d never be able to support herself that way. The Hoot Owl was the only place she’d ever worked. But she’d be damned if she’d let Jane see her panic.
“I’ll only be here until I can get the cabin fixed up.” Grace threw her words at her aunt, hoping they’d land with a sting. “Go ahead. Leave. Shut up the café. I’ll be just fine. “
“You talk that over with Sherrie, but I know she’s not going to want you here long. She needs a steady rent-paying roommate. You were supposed to be living in Seattle, remember? She’s moving in on Monday. That’s only two days away.” Jane’s hands were clenched into balls balanced on her hips, elbows sharp, feet apart. It was a position that didn’t offer a hint of negotiating room.
Grace pushed past Jane and strode into the kitchen. She grabbed the telephone receiver and dialed Shauna’s house.
“You guys are going to have to leave without me. No, I just can’t, Shauna.” She forced her words out, knowing Jane could hear, and knowing Shauna would be furious. “I’m still coming down to Seattle, but I’ve got to stay here awhile longer. Jackson left me the old cabin and I have to stay till I can fix up the place. I owe it to Rose.”
Jane walked past, smirking and shaking her head.
“Look, I gotta go. I’ll give you a call in a few days.” She hung up the phone and walked out without a word more to her aunt.
***
Grace had never been inside the cabin. As a child, she dismissed the stories of ghosts, but now, holding the key in her hand, fear welled up. For a brief moment she wished Patrick were with her. Then, as if to chide herself for such weakening, she jammed the key into the lock and twisted, forcing the rusted mechanism to yield. She grabbed the metal body and yanked it down. The chain dropped away and before she could hesitate again, the door swung open.
In the moments it took for her eyes to adjust to the blackness, Grace recognized the odor of abandonment. In Prosperity’s climate wet, rot, and mold saturated anything left standing for long, yet this cabin smelled of dryness, dust, and, most of all, of loneliness. Grace stepped back and took a gulp of the outside air and then turned on her flashlight. It was a gray afternoon and the cabin’s small windows had long ago been boarded up. A thick tangle of cobwebs decorated the interior.
Grace pulled her father’s tattered Peterbilt cap from her back pocket and tucked her hair under it. Then she pulled on gloves, just in case. As she stepped inside she felt like a spelunker, but one who owned the cave. This was hers—spiders, daunting darkness, disheartening smell, and all. Gingerly, she scanned the floor with the flashlight: a few sow bugs moving slowly out of the light beam, mouse droppings all along the baseboards, thick webs masking the corners. She lifted the light to inspect the log walls. Massive tree trunks stacked one on another, the lower ones smoothed, waxy looking. Silence. No ghosts, no monsters, no magical creatures. Only a home full of emptiness. Waiting.
Jake Oliver had built the original one-room cabin before the turn of the century. The walls were formed of the unmilled trees, raw cylinders pegged to rest securely on one another, insulated with crumbling mortar. More than ninety years later, the place felt solid. Surely someone had replaced the roof at one point, because if it leaked, there was no evidence of it.
Jake and his wife had lived there for nearly forty years. Grace could see the alterations he’d made to accommodate his family and those few items of modernity he deemed worthwhile. At the far end of the space, which appeared to Grace to be about the same size as the living room in Jane’s small house, stood a stone fireplace. There were a couple of wires attached to the ceiling with small white porcelain tubes. She followed the length of this ancient electrical wiring till it disappeared where the ceiling and wall met. In the wall to her left, next to a small window, was an opening that led down a step to another door—the passage old Jake and his family had originally used to reach the outhouse, long since demolished.
Grace leaned against this door, tight in its frame. It didn’t budge. She backed up and kicked at it with her booted foot. She pulled back and gave another, more ferocious kick, and with that it swung open to reveal a tiny space that brought the term “water closet” to mind. The room seemed embarrassed by its own necessity. There were a seatless toilet and tiny sink, both mottled with rust stains. Grace turned the tap. Nothing. Of course, the water must have been shut off long ago.
She turned back into the main room and cast her light around. What did they do for a kitchen? There were shelves next to the fireplace and a small wooden table with a surface that looked more like a chopping block than a place to eat. The floor, made of wide planks of thick pine, was smooth and rutted from use; dark scars, shadows of ghost furniture, marked where a chair and a bed had rested.
Grace stood in front of the fireplace. She slipped out of her boots, and slid her feet into two small depressions in the floor. An image filled her mind of a small, dark-skinned woman kneeling as she fed the fire. Jake’s wife, rumored to have been a Snohomish Indian, probably used this fireplace for cooking. As Grace stood there, she was filled with a soft, sweet sensation. In all its barrenness, this shelter embraced and welcomed her. She shone the light on the walls—something in this old place was calling to her, something she’d never expected to find in Prosperity. This cabin offered itself as a canvas; it begged for color, for animation, for an artist’s touch.
Grace swallowed hard. Her mind began to spin with images; her fingers itched to grab her paints. But there was so much to do. She couldn’t just scrub it down and move in. She prided herself on being low-maintenance, as Pat had once said. But she did need a kitchen and a working bathroom if she were really going to live here.
She needed Walt deVore.
***
When he wasn’t drinking, Walt could fix anything. Before Grace was born, Walt had been Jackson’s right-hand man around the mill, working on engines and keeping the equipment and the log trucks in good shape. Jane still hired him whenever she had plumbing problems at the café and he’d take care of everything. He often worked off his bar bill by putting up shelves and helping keep the Bullhook in shape.
Walt liked to tease Grace, reminding her how he changed her diapers and rocked her to sleep. “I knew you when, kiddo,” he’d say whenever she talked about moving to the city. “You’re a Prosperity girl through and through.” He did know her well.
She knew him, too. Her earliest memories of Walt were of a man slumped over on the bench outside of the tavern. She’d been about ten or so when her dad had told her Walt’s story.
“You know, Parrot, each of us can only be responsible for so much in this world—things are going to happen that you just can’t control.”
Everyone in town knew what a great mechanic Walt was—he’d started fixing cars when he was in high school—so they were pleased when Jackson hired him to maintain the milling equipment and keep the trucks in good repair. Thos
e giant haulers were built to withstand abuse, but as with any machines, things would go wrong. Walt could hear a noise in an engine or feel the resistance of a brake pedal and know just how to fix it. The drivers relied on him.
About the same time Jackson hired Walt, he also took on a guy to handle the books: Nathan Roberge. Warren spat whenever he said that name and there was a tone in his voice that scared Grace and warned her not to ask questions.
As Warren told it, Nathan didn’t appreciate how essential Walt’s work was. Things were pretty busy at the mill back then and there were days when Walt couldn’t get to all the trucks as fast as he wanted to. When he went to Jackson and told him he needed to hire another mechanic, Jackson said it was a matter of affording it. He told Walt to talk with Nathan.
“I can just imagine how that bastard responded.” Warren couldn’t contain his bitterness, even in Grace’s presence. “Bottom line was all that mattered to him. So, of course he said, ‘no way.’”
That left Walt trying to keep up. And he did—until one day he couldn’t.
According to Warren, Russell Thomas was a really good truck driver and a nice guy, liked by everybody. Like most of the drivers who worked for Jackson, Russ left his truck in the maintenance yard every few months for Walt to go over.
At the end of one long day, Warren had hitched a ride down the mountain with Russ. Tired, Warren closed his eyes, resting as Russ drove. When he woke up, they were in the maintenance yard and Russ was calling out to Walt, “Somethin’s not right with the brakes. I was getting a bit of a pull to the right comin’ down just now. Can you take a look at her before tomorrow?”
Walt came out and shook his head. “Don’t know. I’m mighty busy with this skidder that broke down. You got to drive it tomorrow?”
“Yeah, well, she drives all right enough. They got some loads for me not too far up the mountain tomorrow. I think I can manage with her. Maybe you can take a look at the end of the week.”
“You sure, Russ? Maybe someone else can handle your loads. I could get to her by tomorrow afternoon most likely.”
“Naw, it’s not a big deal. I just hit some good rocks the other day, might not even be the brakes. My luck it’s probably the whole damn front end. But she’ll make a few more runs. I’ll keep her light. Don’t worry about it. I’ll bring her in on Friday.”
As Warren told the story to Parrot, Walt even tried to talk Russ out of that plan. He’d grabbed the bar on the door of Russ’s cab and hoisted himself up to look Russ in the eye. “I don’t like the sound of anything wrong with the brakes,” he said. “I’d put the skidder aside and take care of you, but Nathan has his eye on me. Wants that skidder back on the mountain soon as possible.” Warren never forgot those words.
Or the fact that Russ’s son, Jeremy, demanded to ride with his dad on this seventh birthday the next day.
Years later, long after her pain had become a chronic ache and the insurance money had dried up, Sherrie, Jeremy’s mom, filled Parrot in on some details of the story when they both worked at the café.
One day after she’d taken a plate of food across the street to where Walt was lying on his bench, Sherrie had given Grace her version of the story: Russ had promised to let their son ride with him in the truck on his birthday, she said. Of course, Jeremy was all excited about it. He’d insisted Sherrie pack two extra-big lunches the night before.
“He was going to spend the day with his Dad and there was nothing in the world that could have made him happier.” Sherrie smiled at the memory.
Russ had forgotten about his promise. But Sherrie wasn’t about to let him disappoint their son. If the truck was in good enough shape for Russ to keep hauling, Jeremy deserved his ride. Russ relented. “The truck can handle light runs. I’ll take him.”
“I sent them off without a second thought,” Sherrie said. “The kid was so proud and happy. I’ll always remember that grin on his face.” Sherrie sighed and sat down at the café counter next to Grace. “You know men by now, honey. Something gets in them when they’re doing a job and they can’t help themselves: they gotta keep up. Anyway, Russ must have decided to add a little more weight on that last run. Everything probably looked good.”
“Your dad came to me after the accident,” Sherrie told Grace. “He told me he and Henry had followed Russ’s truck down the mountain. He saw the whole thing. Called it in.” Sherrie stared down at the dingy countertop. “Took me a long time before I could ask him just what happened.
“For some reason, Russ took the first steep curve down from the landing a little too fast. Maybe it was those brakes. Who knows? His right front tire slipped and got caught in the ditch. Warren said he must have pulled the wheel a bit too hard to the left and overcorrected.” Sherrie’s voice took on a hypnotic quality, as if she were in a trance. “The truck rolled two-and-a-half times before it came to rest on its side down at the bottom of the mountain. I’ve got this thing in my head, like I was there or something—I can hear the awful sound of the truck turning over, the logs sliding out of the binders, the wheels bouncing off the boulders, the crash of metal as it landed. Jeremy bled to death before the aid car got there, you know. Russ never came to. He died a week later in the hospital. That was a blessing at least. He’d never have been able to live with himself.”
Walt had trouble living with himself, too. After Russ and Jeremy died, he stopped going to work. His sister Marcia in Seattle came up and took him down to live with her and her son, Charlie.
“You remember that kid, Parrot? He used to hang around the café waiting for his dad. You were just a toddler and he was a teenager, but he put up with you.” Grace had a faint memory of some boy who asked her if her name she meant could fly, but nothing more. She shook her head, impatient to hear what happened to Walt in Seattle. “Anyone could tell you Walt’s not a city guy.” Sherrie shrugged. “He was back in Prosperity a couple of years later, but he never held a steady job again.”
By the time Grace was old enough to have a conversation with him, Walt spent most of his time keeping a barstool warm.
***
Now that she’d been inside the cabin, Grace decided the lock and chain were unnecessary, so she pocketed the key and headed to the café.
Kev was at his table by the window. When Grace walked in, he started bouncing on his seat and called out to her, “You didn’t go to the city like you said. You’re here!”
“Hey, Kev. Well, there’s been a change of plans. Looks like I’ll be staying for a while.”
Ignoring her aunt’s raised eyebrows, Grace reached across the counter and filled a cup with black coffee.
“Good morning,” Jane offered.
Grace looked at her aunt without responding. They hadn’t spoken since throwing verbal jabs in the hallway the day before and Grace didn’t want to open the door to another round of the battle over staying or leaving Prosperity.
“Shauna called last night and left this number. She sounded pretty damn happy.” Jane held out a scrap of paper.
“Thanks,” Grace mumbled and pocketed the paper; even her friend’s excitement about the city wasn’t going to make her question her decision.
Walt was right where she knew he’d be—sitting on the sagging bench outside the Bullhook. Carrying the cup Grace headed for the door and stopped at Kev’s table. “I gotta take this to Walt over there.” She lifted her chin to indicate the man across the street. “I’ll see you later.”
“Ha!” Kev grinned, “I said ‘maybe, maybe not!’ Ha!”
“Yes, you did, Kev.” Grace smiled at the boy.
She heard Jane’s gruff, “humph,” as she opened the door. At least Kev was happy she was staying. Walt would be too. And Jackson’s money would keep her alive for a while.
Grace crossed the empty street and sat on the bench next to Walt. “Have you had your coffee yet?”
He squinted at her through tired eyes and reached out for the cup. “How’s Rose? You takin’ care of her?”
“Oh,” Grace exh
aled slowly. She’d nearly forgotten that the whole project with the cabin was tied to enormous loss. “She seems to be managing. Wants to be alone now, so I left her at the house.”
“Yeah, she would,” Walt sipped the dark brew and looked appraisingly at the young woman, who obviously had more on her mind. “You going to the big city soon, then?”
Grace leaned toward him. “No. Something amazing has happened. I’m staying, at least for a while.” She watched him slowly drink his coffee and gather himself. “Guess what?”
“You’re gonna get married after all, then? Well…” Just like Jane, Walt couldn’t imagine any other reason for her to stay in Prosperity.
“No. No!” Grace was impatient now, and irritated. No one thought of her as capable of being truly independent—if she wasn’t going to go to Seattle with her girlfriends, it must be because she was staying to live with Pat. Well, at least Jackson had given her more credit than that. This thought stabbed a knife into the shield separating her from her grief. She shivered and clenched her fist.
“I’m not getting married. I’m not living with Pat or with anyone else. Not even Jane.” Walt’s eyes widened.
“I’ve got my own place! “
He looked down into the cup and tipped his head back to take a final swallow. Then he looked at her. “What are you saying?”
“Jackson…” Her throat tightened around his name. She forced a cough and continued. “He left me the old cabin by the mill.” Grace reached in her pocket and produced the key; she held it up for him to see.
He tilted his head. “Really? That place livable?”
“Well, it needs a little work. I thought you might want to help me out. He left me some money, too, so I can pay you.” She couldn’t sit still any longer and started bouncing as if she were imitating Kev. She’d managed to tuck her grief away, and now excitement spilled from her.
What We Take For Truth Page 6