Against his will came memories of all the other fires that he and Brice had built, in oil drums and in trash cans, and he tried to shut those thoughts away before they ruined everything. Brice was still a gaping wound inside his heart.
Riley spotted Hope skating over near the tent. He made his way in that direction, moving alongside the hockey game, careful to stay on the snow and not step out beyond the boards onto the cleared ice. Some of the spectators he passed had brought lawn chairs, but hardly anybody used them. It was too cold to sit around, so everybody stood in close huddles and stamped their feet and drank from steaming thermos cups and laughed while calling out advice and encouragement to the kids.
Drawing closer to the other end of the pond, Riley looked around but didn’t see Dylan. Maybe he would have her to himself. He tried to keep his hopefulness in check.
On the isolated patch of ice across the pond Hope skated among perhaps a dozen others, some of them content to simply circle, while others threw in something fancy now and then. She was all in white, from her figure skates to her one-piece snowsuit to her matching woolen cap and flowing scarf. People skated singly and in couples all around her, children shooting in and out between the adults’ legs, old folks moving slow with straight knees and much concentration, younger adults carrying on conversations as if skating took no more thought than walking. Hope seemed oblivious to them all. As Riley watched she suddenly flipped around and gathered speed with a short series of backward crossovers, watching out for others over her right shoulder. He saw the little crowd around her part as if on cue; a section of clear ice appeared and she did a step forward followed by a flawless axel, hanging in the air as if weightless, then moving into a graceful camel after her touchdown, arms extended identically, wrists cocked slightly, fingers composed as elegantly as any ballerina. It was executed so perfectly a nearby woman on the ice cried out in amazement and a couple who had been skating arm in arm behind her stopped dead in their tracks to clap. Hope giggled, hiding her face behind white gloved hands and shaking her head. Wooden now with self-consciousness, she melded back into the swirling flow of skaters as if to disappear among them.
Riley couldn’t breathe.
He watched as Hope restrained her fluid skating to simple laps around the ice, gliding smoothly among her community of friends, exchanging laughing comments, cheeks flushed with rosy health, smile as white as freshly fallen snow. Riley saw in Hope the world as it should be—graceful, effortless, lovely—all the words he knew fell short. The seminarian and professor in him thought of something, probably by Shakespeare. As soon go kindle fire with snow, as seek to quench the fire of love with words. Or maybe it wasn’t Shakespeare, but what of that? Riley only knew he longed to mix himself with her, to be in her life and to draw her into his forever.
The rhythmic pace of every skater near his ex-wife testified that he was not alone in this desire, for he saw their motions subtly shifting to match hers. It was as if Hope’s energy had soothed the aimless universe, spreading out to set the tempo of all life. Riley recognized this gathering of unity around her, had seen it often through the years. He remembered it surrounding her in high school, when he first fell in love. He remembered it in church, when he first saw its divine source. And against his will he remembered it in a clearing in the forest, in a wide circle of The People, dancing happily in celebration of Hope’s day, holding hands and singing in the smoky sunlight filtered through the soaring canopy, dancing in toward the center together, then backing out again, with Riley between Waytee and a naked man on one side and Hope between two women on the far side, Riley watching from a distance as she laughed in bare feet and a thin cotton shift—laughed, bubbling up and over with her love of life, the entire People moving as one, everybody come together in her honor, matching the rhythm of her steps with theirs, overjoyed because his precious Hope had been born that day and come to live with them. Riley remembered watching from the far side of the circle as the little wooden cross that he had carved for her bounced up and down on her chest with every barefoot dancing step. Riley remembered thinking, This is the day the Lord has made; I will rejoice and be glad in it. And with that memory his eyes began to water—tears freezing on his lashes—because in all good conscience he could not think those words and mean them anymore.
How could he rejoice in memories of such a day? It had been the very day he spoke to The People of other missionaries coming, healing men who would make their teeth feel better and take away their bodies’ suffering. He remembered standing in the place of honor at the center of Hope’s birthday circle, telling them to trust the newcomers, as if the doctors were the ones to fear, as if The People were the ones he should protect. Oh, the horrible irony.
If only he had stayed to guide his Christian brothers from the States. He remembered his cowardly resistance to the sabbatical idea, sitting in their tiny cabin in a clearing, the weak satellite telephone signal further eroding his token effort. It was obvious the newcomers would need interpreters, a go-between to warn them of taboos. He was necessary, indispensable. But the missions board had argued well. It was only for two months, they said, a much deserved vacation after all his time away. Allow a month or so to introduce the doctors to The People and then return home to Maine. The doctors will be fine. You deserve a rest.
How those words had tempted him. After four straight years at work for the Lord without a break, he had been so very, very tired. But in the end it was not weariness that led him to the devil. It had been something infinitely worse.
With a worried look from Hope beside him in the darkness of their corrugated cabin, he had listened as the final question came. Haven’t you succeeded? What it meant, what he knew they really meant to ask, was had he disciplined their brutishness? And he—almighty Riley, tamer of the savages—could not bear to let them doubt his worth. After all, The People were not killing anymore, or drinking as they once had done. Most were true believers now. They could all be trusted.
Riley Keep had done his work, and it was good.
Wiping frozen tears beside Teal Pond, Riley turned away from the sight of Hope and forced himself to think of other things, less happy things than beauty on the ice. It did not take him long to put his thoughts in order. Returning his attention to the pond he saw her at the shoreline now, with two men by the warm-up tent, neither of them Dylan. The men’s backs were to Riley as he approached, but he had a clear view of Hope’s face in the instant that she saw him coming.
She was smiling and then she saw him and then she was not smiling.
Standing behind the men, Riley said, “You can still skate.”
“Oh no. Did you see that?”
“Wow.”
“I was so embarrassed.”
“Why? Did you do it to show off?”
“I don’t think so.” She cocked her head, looking at him. “It just came out.”
He let her see his eyes, just for a second, without meaning to. “Well then. . . .”
The two men with her turned toward Riley, and his heart began to race. One was the chief of police. The other was Bill Hightower. He had done his best to avoid these men, the only ones besides Henry Reardon and the homeless at the shelter who had met him as Stanley Livingston. Riley was in disguise as someone clean-cut now, with his new false teeth, eyeglasses, and store-bought wardrobe. He had regained his former weight and put on muscle. Many people from his former life now recognized him around Dublin—old neighbors and acquaintances greeting him at work and on the streets—but would these men see past his new disguise and perceive the skinny, toothless, shaggy Stanley Livingston? Would Bill Hightower see him as that person stranded in the woods? Would the chief recognize the prisoner he had accused of murder in his jail? Was this the end of Riley’s new life as his old self?
Riley thought of running. Then Hightower smiled warmly and extended a gloved hand. “Reverend Keep, isn’t it? Or should I call you Professor?”
Riley let the hand hang in the air a moment longer than he sho
uld, loath to pretend civility to this man who had run him out of town, but also celebrating, for clearly Hightower did not see a hint of Stanley Livingston. Finally he took the tall man’s hand, saying, “It’s been a long time since anybody called me either one.”
Hope said, “You remember Bill Hightower, Riley.”
“Of course he does,” said Hightower. “But it’s been a while. I think we last saw each other at some kind of function over at Bowditch. Maybe a fund-raiser?”
Riley didn’t know what to say. He had been to many fund-raisers in his short time at Bowditch, but remembered very few. Most of them had open bars.
“Any relation to the mayor here?” asked the chief.
“I once had that honor,” replied Riley, daring to lift his eyes toward Hope. She had looked away.
“Oh, nicely said!” exclaimed Hightower. “Reverend Keep, this is our chief of police, Steve Novak.”
“Nice to meet you, Chief.” Riley shook the policeman’s hand.
“Call me Steve.” The big man searched his face. “Have we met before?”
Riley couldn’t find his voice.
Unknowingly, Hope came to his rescue. “I think Riley left town a little while before you moved here, Steve. He just got back a few months ago.”
Still looking straight at Riley’s face, the chief said, “Maybe I’ve seen ya around Dublin?”
“Maybe.” Riley cleared his throat. “Uh, I’m working at the Downtown Diner.”
“Really? Doin’ what?”
“Serving. Cleaning. A little cooking. Whatever Sadie needs.”
“But I thought you were a preacher or a professor or something.”
“It’s a long story.”
“I’d sure like to hear it.”
“I, uh . . .”
“Steve,” said Hope. “Maybe we should change the subject.”
“What? Oh, sorry. Always getting too personal with people.” But even then his eyes were right on Riley. “Goes with the job.”
Hope and the two men kept on talking, kidding each other, gossiping a little, calling to friends and neighbors on the ice, having a good time. Riley said as little as possible. It felt strange, people acting like they were at a party when no one held a drink. Riley had no idea what to say or do. He had been living on another level for too long. He was a child at play among adults; the game was charades and every clue was way above his head. He could not keep from thinking the lawyer or policeman would eventually see through him—especially the policeman, who had a disconcerting way of looking straight at Riley’s face. The man was most likely trained to memorize a person’s features, to recognize a fugitive— even one so thoroughly disguised as Riley.
His best defense would be to walk away, but how could he explain that when he was there at Hope’s invitation? He stole a glance at the beautiful woman who had once been his wife; he watched her as she watched the skaters on the ice, her profile perfect, like a Grecian sculpture of a goddess. In the distance just beyond her, Riley saw a movement. His daughter stepped from the tree line, closely followed by a young man wearing a dark trench coat and a black watch cap. The friendly chatter of Riley’s companions became an unintelligible droning in the background as he observed Bree hurrying toward them, the young man following, then catching up and reaching out to lay a hand on her arm. His daughter stopped and shook the hand off, her posture defiant. She said something to the boy and then set out again, her face an angry mask. When the boy behind her grabbed her arm again, yanking her to a halt, Riley looked at Hope and said, “I’m gonna go say hello to Bree.” Hope nodded as he set out toward their daughter.
Bree stood facing Riley’s direction, her arms crossed in defiance. The young man’s back was turned. She looked past the boy, seeing Riley come. He rejoiced at the relief in her eyes. Removing his gloves as he drew near, Riley called, “Bree? You okay?”
The young man turned. Up close Riley saw a silver ring in each of his ears, another through his nose, and a fringe of hair below his cap in alternating shades of blond and green and purple. The young man’s eyes flashed with annoyance at the interruption. Twin puffs of steamy breath shot from his nostrils like smoke from an angry cartoon bull. He was maybe twenty pounds heavier than Riley, three inches taller, and twenty-five years younger. He said, “Who are you, man?”
Riley ignored the boy, looking past him. “Bree?”
“I’m okay.”
“You sure?”
The young man looked back at Bree. “Who’s this guy, baby?”
Bree set her jaw stubbornly, saying nothing.
Riley asked, “You wanna come warm up in the tent with me a while?”
“Yeah,” said Bree, pushing past the boy.
“Wait a minute!” The young man reached out to grab her arm again.
Riley said, “You need to let her go.”
“Hey, man, this ain’t your business.”
“Just let her go, okay?”
Bree couldn’t break the young man’s grip this time. She winced at the pressure of his fingers on her arm. At the sight of that, although Riley knew nothing about fighting, although it never crossed his mind to even move, his fist shot out and connected solidly with the young man’s jaw. The sudden attack seemed to surprise both the boy and Bree. It certainly surprised Riley. Releasing her, the young man swung around to face him squarely, one hand rubbing his jaw, the other hanging loosely at his side.
Bree touched the young man’s arm. “You okay?”
“Sure.”
She gave his arm a pat and set out toward the warm-up tent without a backward glance at either of them. Riley remained facing the young man near the ice. Suddenly he remembered taking off his gloves while he was walking over. He realized he had intended for this to happen. He had prepared for it. He felt ashamed. Watching the young man’s hands he said, “You okay?”
The boy spat into the snow. Riley saw no blood in it. Looking down on him, the boy said, “You hit like a girl.”
“I know. Just . . . leave her alone.”
“Hey, man, I love her!”
Me too, thought Riley, turning away from the boy.
He followed his daughter’s slightly bowlegged gait toward the warm-up tent. To his left he saw Hightower on the ice, a towering scarecrow plodding along on his skates. He saw Hope and the police chief still in conversation beside the tent. Riley felt relieved. It seemed no one had witnessed his pathetic demonstration.
Up ahead, Bree slipped between the flaps of the tent’s entrance. Riley followed. Inside were a lot of unoccupied folding chairs and ten or twelve people standing next to a folding table. Several hissing propane heaters struggled in vain against the freezing temperature. On the table was a steaming pot of cider, its fruity aroma rich in Riley’s nostrils. He helped himself to two foam cups and filled them and carried them toward Bree, who stood at a heater near the back, smoking a cigarette.
“Here you go,” said Riley.
Wordlessly, she took the cup.
He said, “I didn’t know you smoked.”
Looking away, she did not reply.
He said, “Why would you do that?”
“You oughta know. I’m addicted.”
He let that settle in. Then, “How’s your arm? Did that boy hurt you?”
“You didn’t have to hit him.”
“I’m sorry, Vachee.”
She glanced at him, and then away again. Was that disappointment in her eyes? She took a long, deep drag and then ground out her cigarette on the earth beneath her boot. They stood silently, sipping the hot cider. Riley heard voices through the fabric of the tent: Hope and the police chief, standing just there, three feet away but out of sight. He tried to ignore them. He tried to remember the last time he had been alone with his daughter. He could not recall.
“Sometimes I say things to him,” said Bree. “I can be kinda mean. I don’t know why.”
The confession made his hand tremble as he took a sip. It was the first time she had said anything important
to him since his return. He tried to think of a wise reply. He heard the policeman’s voice beyond the fabric of the tent, telling Hope she had to take something more seriously. His mind wandered back and forth between the conversations as Bree kept talking.
“He’s not a bad person. I know you think he is, but he’s really not.”
Riley thought a moment. “He’s a lot bigger than I am but he didn’t try to hit me back. That’s something.”
When Bree didn’t reply, he wondered if he had made a mistake, saying something positive about the boy. Should he have disagreed with her? Told her there was never any excuse for a man to lay his hands on someone the way her boyfriend had? But how could he say that when he himself had walked into her life from out of nowhere, out of nothing, and punched her young man in the jaw?
Outside the tent the police chief’s voice warned Hope about the Mercedes. People wanted to know how she could afford such a car on a mayor’s salary. People were talking. A councilman had asked the chief to investigate officially.
He did not want to do it, but maybe Hope should go ahead and let him know where the car had come from.
Hope replied, her voice almost too weak to hear, saying she was sure the car had come from Dylan. He had a new client, some company in Delaware, and he was making lots of money as a lawyer, and he wanted her to marry him.
“I don’t know what to do,” said Bree.
Marry him. What to do. With a wooden heart Riley forced himself to focus on his daughter. What did she mean? Was she talking about the way the young man grabbed her arm? Was she talking about whatever caused the confrontation in the first place, whatever happened between the boy and Bree back in the woods? Or was she talking about something completely different? Should he ask these questions, gather more details? What if she then wanted his advice? What if she listened to him and took some course of action and it did not end well? How could he not have known a hundred thousand dollar car from out of nowhere might get the town mayor in trouble? Riley sipped his cider and thought about his other foolish plans for Hope and Bree, already set in motion. The car was nothing—a mere hint of the destruction he could cause with good intentions.
The Cure Page 15