"Doesn't she go to school?"
"The schools are having a week's holiday—something to do with the end of the semester. She'll be over in an hour or so."
"Mary Kate told me that this is a llama ranch."
"It is. The finest in the world, we like to think."
"Are the llamas here? I mean, can I see them?"
"You'll see them eventually."
"Mary Kate says they're like camels."
He grinned, but seemed pleased that she was interested. "Llamas are camelids, part of the same family as camels and vicuña and alpacas. One difference between camels and llamas is that llamas don't have a hump. They've become popular in the United States, which is how Rooney and I happened to get into the llama business. It helps that they're lovable animals."
Llamas, Jane thought to herself. Try as she might, she couldn't pull up a corresponding picture of a llama from her memory bank. It wasn't surprising; her memory worked in strange ways. Sometimes an idea about something she'd thought she knew nothing about swam unbidden to the surface, and she'd spend days wondering where it came from or what significance it had. Other times, when a memory should have been readily retrievable, it simply wasn't there.
"So you're headed for California," Duncan said.
She stiffened involuntarily. "Yes," she said.
"Just going for a visit?"
Her mind raced. What to tell him? How much to tell him? She'd learned to mete out only enough information to get by in any given situation, and sometimes she avoided even that.
He was smiling at her in an encouraging way, and this seemed overly familiar to her. She wished he wouldn't act so friendly.
"I'm planning to live there," she said finally, watching carefully to see if he accepted this. He only nodded and went on to the next question.
"Is there anyone I should call? Anyone who is expecting you?"
What should she say now? If she told him the truth, that she had no one, that she'd been living on the streets due to a bizarre run of bad luck, he might not believe that she hadn't brought all of it upon herself, or that she wasn't a mental case or—well, he might think all sorts of things that would give him good reason to boot her and Amos out into the snow. She wasn't well enough to leave yet, she knew that. She had to stay here for now if she was to survive, and survive she must.
"My friend—the one I'll be living with at first—is on a—a trip. To Europe. No, there's no one to call," she said, the lie rolling glibly from her lips.
If disbelief clouded his eyes, she couldn't see it; he lowered his eyelids and seemed to be thinking.
"Where does this friend of yours live?"
"In Sausalito," she said, pulling the name of the city out of thin air.
"And you have a job lined up there, I suppose?" he asked.
"Oh, of course. I'm a librarian," she said, surprising even herself with this announcement. But library work was something she knew about after spending long hours in the library sheltering from the weather. If she had to, she could probably come up with a fairly accurate description of what a librarian did all day long.
"A librarian? Then you must enjoy reading. I'll bring some books for you."
She felt a sudden sickening wave of guilt and put down her fork. Lying had become a habit out of necessity. It was a way to protect herself, and she had become an accomplished liar. But never had she disliked herself as much as she did now after lying to Duncan.
He glanced toward her. "Is anything wrong?" he asked when he saw the expression on her face.
There was nothing to do but lie again.
"No, it's just that I can't eat any more. It was a wonderful breakfast, though," she hastened to add. This, at least, was certainly true.
He surveyed the tray. "You did all right, considering what you've been through. Amos, do you think you could eat some of this?"
Amos stretched, got up from his place on the floor near the heat register, and followed Duncan out of the room. She heard Duncan talking to him downstairs.
So. It had started again. The deceit, the falsehoods, the scrambling to cover her tracks so that no one would learn anything of importance about her or her past. Or even her future, now that she had invented a fictitious friend.
She lay back on the pillows, picturing this imaginary friend, who would, if she existed, have dark hair and blue eyes that lighted up when they shared jokes. She'd drive a small green car and have an office job that she took seriously. This person would also have a boyfriend that she wanted to take seriously but couldn't because he wasn't ready to settle down. Her name would be Elizabeth, a name that Jane had always loved. She would wear a gold Egyptian ankh charm on a chain around her neck.
An ankh... Why had Jane thought of that? In her mind's eye she could picture it, a cross topped with a circle on a short chain, so short that the charm rested in the hollow of a woman's throat. The woman was not the pretend friend Elizabeth, but someone real and warm and dear, someone... someone. But who?
Jane squeezed her eyes shut, willing the image of a face to present itself. She saw nothing but the inside of her eyelids, a black void.
Tears forced their way between her lashes, and she beat a silent fist on the blanket. Why? Why? Why couldn't she remember? And where did these disconnected images come from, anyway? They intruded on her consciousness at unlikely times, empty of meaning and signifying nothing.
If only she could remember! If she could recall important things that cast light on her past, maybe she wouldn't have to start all over again. Perhaps there was someplace where she belonged, with people who would welcome her with open arms and hearts, who cared about her. Who loved her.
But of course, all of this was as much a figment of her imagination as the pretend friend named Elizabeth, or the librarian job, or any of the rest of it. The reality was that she had no one, and there was no point in avoiding it. The important thing was to get to California, and once there never to look back.
Jane sat up and swung her feet over the edge of the bed. A momentary dizziness overtook her, and she waited until it passed. In the bathroom she studied her reflection in the mirror above the sink. She looked so haggard that she scarcely recognized herself.
Everything in this bathroom was so clean and shiny. She touched an experimental fingertip to the chrome-plated faucet and quickly rubbed off the mark it left. She opened the medicine cabinet for a curious look inside and jumped when Duncan's image suddenly appeared in its mirror.
"Oh, I didn't mean to interrupt," he said.
Quickly, she closed the medicine cabinet, wishing he hadn't caught her opening it.
"I—I was wondering if you have an extra toothbrush. And a comb," she said awkwardly.
"Of course. I should have thought of that," he said. He went away for a few moments and returned with a toothbrush, a comb in a cellophane package and a hairbrush. He went away again, and Jane, waiting in the bedroom, heard him digging in a drawer in the bathroom across the hall. Soon he returned with toothpaste and other toiletries.
"There are towels on the towel rods over the tub," he told her, and then he seemed to think of something else. "Wait," he said, leaving the room. In a moment he returned bearing a pile of clothing.
"I think you might be able to find some things in here to wear," he told her. He held up a pair of jeans. "These are some of the jeans Mary Kate shrank. Maybe you can get some wear out of them. There are a couple of shirts and sweaters, all too big for you, but clean. We ought to see about getting you new clothes."
"I won't need them," Jane said with a hint of stubbornness. "I won't be here long, anyway. Only until I'm strong enough to leave."
"Dr. Walker says it will be at least two weeks," he reminded her.
Her chin shot up. "I hope to be gone before that. I can't go on being a burden to you." And lying to you, she thought to herself.
He rested his hands on her shoulders and looked deep into her eyes. "You're not a burden," he said quietly. "Please don't ever say that again.
" He removed his hands and turned quickly toward the door as if embarrassed by his own intensity. "Enjoy your bath," he said over his shoulder as though in afterthought.
He was so nice. Why did he treat her with such openness and trust? Perhaps he was this way with everyone, she thought, feeling a grudging admiration for him. At the same time, she felt a twinge of disdain. He wouldn't last more than a day or two on the streets.
She stopped thinking about him as soon as she stepped into the bathtub. It was a luxury to which she hadn't been accustomed. Quick washes in public rest rooms were her norm, and a cold-water shower in a crowded shelter was considered a treat. She shampooed her hair under the shower. She scrubbed her skin until it was red from the friction, and then patted herself dry with a huge white bath sheet. She had never felt so clean in her life.
When she came out of the bathroom, fresh sheets had been turned down and a note was on the pillow.
"I'll be back to see that you eat lunch," it said. It was signed, "Duncan."
There seemed no end to the man's thoughtfulness, and that only made her own deceit more unconscionable. Duncan, she thought, savoring the name. Duncan. She had never known anyone with that name before. It had a distinguished ring to it. It was different. Not like the name Jane, which was so ordinary that it was customarily used to denote anonymous people, the kind of people who didn't have a name of their own.
The simple act of bathing had exhausted her, and she fell asleep but woke up later when Mary Kate came in and jiggled the bed in a determined fashion.
"I thought you'd never wake up," was Mary Kate's impatient greeting.
"I was so tired," Jane said, pushing herself upright against the pillow.
"Duncan came in while you were sleeping. He left a sandwich for you and some soup in a thermos. Can I pour the soup into the bowl?"
"Of course," Jane said, then regretted it when Mary Kate predictably spilled soup onto the sheet. Mary Kate ran to get a damp cloth, tripping over Amos in the process. Amos scurried out of the room, clearly unwilling to tangle with her so soon after the debacles of bath and laundry chute. Jane and Mary Kate managed to mop up the soup, and Jane offered her companion half of the sandwich. Mary Kate accepted with delight.
She sat at the end of the bed munching bologna and cheese and firing off questions so fast that Jane's head spun. Today Mary Kate was full of questions.
"Duncan said you were in that old mine during the snowstorm. How'd you get there?"
"I walked," Jane told her.
"Far?"
"From the highway." She tried to stick to the truth, but why, she didn't know. After lying to Duncan, it probably wouldn't make any difference if she fibbed to Mary Kate.
"Have you taken your antibiotic pill yet? I told Duncan I'd make sure you did."
"I took it," Jane assured her.
"Where did you come from, anyway?" Mary Kate wanted to know.
"Oh, all kinds of places," Jane said, evasively but certainly truthfully. "Say, could you hand me that glass of water?"
Mary Kate handed her the water, then settled in for more intensive interrogation.
"Where were you going? Are you planning to live there, or are you only on vacation? What kind of job do you have? Who—"
Jane thought it was long past time to interrupt this flow of questions.
"I feel really tired, Mary Kate, and my throat hurts terribly. Will you please pull down that shade? There, that's better. I think I'll sleep."
"You slept before," Mary Kate pointed out with a scowl, but she left the room and shut the door behind her.
Jane closed her eyes, fighting the confusion that so often enveloped her when faced with a battery of questions. There were so many questions and so few answers. It was such a helpless feeling, and you had to be careful because people's motives in asking the questions weren't always aboveboard. If you gave the wrong answers, or worse yet, if there was no answer, you could be hauled away or arrested or thrown out of wherever you were.
But Mary Kate was hardly a threat, and as for Duncan, he seemed above all to be kind and gentle. And Wyoming wasn't Chicago, where you had to be cautious about talking about yourself to strangers, or Saint Louis, where the shelter had been a nightmare, or Kansas City, where she'd had no choice but to panhandle at the bus station for money to buy food. Here the food was served regularly, and it tasted good, and no one seemed in a hurry for her to move on.
She couldn't help feeling that she didn't deserve such good fortune. And yet she had no choice but to accept it for now, at least until she regained her strength.
And then she would start her new life in California.
* * *
In a few days, Jane was up and about. Her bruises faded, her cough improved, and her sore throat abated. Duncan seemed happy to see her moving around the house. He would come in bearing the cold, crisp scent of the outdoors, hanging up his coat and smiling at her in a way that no one had ever smiled at her before, at least within her memory. His smile brightened the days and made the cool gray and mauve shadows of winter recede into the corners of the house. For some reason that she didn't understand, it made her happy to see him smile, but she found it difficult to smile back. Usually she just looked quickly down at the floor, unsure how to respond.
Once Jane, in a fit of gratitude, tried to tell him how embarrassed she was at having to depend on him for a place to stay and for all the food that he kept pushing on her.
"Don't be silly. This is a big house, and there's plenty of room," he said easily.
Jane grew accustomed to the sounds of the house, of Rooney's gruff greeting when he stomped in from the outside, of Mary Kate's giggles when Duncan gently teased her about a boy at school. The two of them had free access to the house, and they never knocked, just walked in.
So this is what it's like to be part of a family, Jane thought, although these people weren't actually connected by blood. Rooney had lived on the ranch most of his adult life, but his wife had died years before, and he and Duncan were like father and son. There was genuine affection between them. As for Mary Kate, she was adorable. Most of the time, anyway.
When Jane started to feel better, Duncan invited Rooney and Mary Kate over for Sunday dinner. Duncan prepared a roast and they ate in the big dining room, where Duncan set the table with his mother's china. Jane tried to help but felt clumsy in the kitchen. Duncan said he didn't mind, that all she was supposed to do was sit there and look beautiful. She didn't know how to take the compliment, so she hunted up cloth napkins and napkin rings to give the table a look of elegance.
After they all sat down to dinner, Mary Kate entertained them with funny stories about school, and Rooney told a joke about fleas and a dog that Jane didn't understand. She laughed anyway, looking from Duncan to Mary Kate to Rooney and trying her best to fit in.
As she looked around the table at the others' smiling faces, relaxed and bright with sociability after the satisfying dinner, she knew that someday she would have friends like these in her life, suntanned people who would visit her home and relish after-dinner conversation around the swimming pool. She would figure out how to be a gracious hostess, she would learn to cook, she would—
"Jane! Jane, this is the second time I've asked you. Have you been over to see the llamas yet?" Mary Kate peered over at her, puzzled at Jane's inattentiveness.
Duncan cleared his throat. "The doctor hasn't said she could go out. It's mighty cold out there."
"I'd like to see the llamas," Jane said.
"Howard said you should stay inside for two weeks," Duncan reminded her. "It hasn't been that long yet."
She shifted uneasily in her chair. "I was thinking I could go as far as the barn. I'm feeling stronger now."
"You'd better follow Howard's instructions and wait until he gives you the go-ahead before you go traipsing around outside. Our Wyoming winters can be harsh." Thus ensued a lively discussion about the temperature, which was due to dip below zero again that night.
Jane said n
othing, but since she was feeling so much better, she wondered why she couldn't leave the ranch now.
After dinner she went to her room and brushed aside the draperies to look at the llamas. She had a clear view of the barn and corral from her window. She watched with growing fascination as they milled around their enclosure. The llamas seemed a remarkable array of colors, sizes and shapes. They looked nothing like camels, which is what she had expected them to look like, minus the humps, of course. They sported thick woolly coats and walked with a graceful elegance.
She felt a sudden urge to get closer to them. What she could see of their gentle faces intrigued her, but since Duncan had prohibited her from going outside until the weather grew warmer, she'd have to wait. According to Rooney's weather report at the dinner table tonight, the cold spell following the blizzard seemed to have settled in to stay.
Mary Kate came into the room without knocking and stood behind Jane. "See that pale gray and white one on the far side of the herd?" she asked, hopping from one foot to the other.
"Mmm-hmm," Jane replied. She had grown accustomed to her company over the past week. The girl seemed lonely, and so was she.
"That's Dearling, my very favorite," Mary Kate confided. "You should see her face up close. She has black rings around her eyes, so she looks just like she's wearing eyeliner."
"Why did you name her Dearling?"
"She's so dear, the sweetest little thing I ever saw. She follows me around better than a dog, and she never rolls in the dirt the way the other llamas do. Grandpa says that's normal llama behavior, but I think it's disgusting."
Jane had to smile at this statement, because Mary Kate wasn't exactly the cleanest person Jane had ever met, and in her travels she'd certainly come across her share of those who simply didn't care how dirty they were.
As Mary Kate babbled on, they saw Duncan step out of the barn and call to the llamas, who turned almost in unison and made their way toward him with a dignified gait.
Jane was surprised at the way the llamas craned their long necks against Duncan's body, nuzzling at his shoulder or cheek until he petted them. She hadn't expected llamas to display such affection toward humans, but she was beginning to realize that Duncan was the kind of person who naturally inspired trust.
Until Spring Page 4