The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  A cloud settled over Esther’s face. “Excuse me for asking,” Esther asked guardedly, “but…what happened to all your money?”

  “Mike spent it.”

  The look of perplexity on Esther’s face made Nora laugh. She must have worn the same expression herself months ago when the lawyers told her she was broke.

  “Really,” said Nora. “I’m poor.”

  Esther’s face gathered into a picture of doubt. “Come on. You’re not poor like I’m poor. You still have this house, this land. Shoot. You have those ‘contacts’ you can call.”

  “Poor is poor. No use splitting hairs.”

  Nora watched as comprehension registered, then another undefined emotion grabbed hold of her features.

  “So,” Esther said with finality, “Mike left you with nothing too.”

  Nora swung her head around. “What?”

  Suddenly, Esther’s face mottled and she looked away.

  “Esther?”

  Esther turned to face Nora again. All her previous joy had fled. Now her features were set in seriousness.

  “Nora, there’s something I have to tell you. You’ve been fair with me, and I can’t accept your help without your knowing the truth about…” She took a breath. “About me and Mike.”

  Nora’s breath felt caught in her chest as an old, too familiar, suspicion took hold. She recognized this look. She had seen it far too many times to miss it now. Her heart tightened in a vise.

  “Esther, what about you and my husband?”

  Esther’s face suddenly appeared haunted. She took a deep breath and when she spoke her voice took on a faraway quality.

  “He used to like to watch me paint.”

  Nora’s heart skipped a beat. With a sense of impending doom, she huddled and rested her chin on her knees. In her mind’s eye she recalled how Mike used to watch her paint, back in the early days of their marriage. She could still picture him lying in the fields beside the canvas, eyeing the brush as it brought a blank canvas to life with hues of blue, yellow, green, and red. Only this time the woman holding the brush wasn’t herself. The hair blowing in the wind wasn’t the color of wheat but of strawberries.

  For the first time, she studied Esther’s long hair, her peaches-and-cream complexion, and her intense green eyes with a critical eye. Esther had an earthy beauty—very alluring. Her flame-colored hair matched her passionate nature as well as the color that now rose upon her cheeks.

  Nora chewed her trembling lip. Esther’s former disregard, her jealousy, her referrals to Mike: all the pieces fell into place. The clink clamored in Nora’s brain. The realization was deafening.

  “Oh, Esther,” she whispered.

  The color spread from Esther’s cheeks to cover her entire face. Centimeter by centimeter her chin jutted forward, by small degrees the flame in her eyes heightened, breath by breath her breathing hastened. Nora braced herself for the explosion.

  “What do you know of it?” Esther shouted at Nora. “You left him!”

  “I did not leave him!” Nora shouted back, scrambling to her feet. “I did not leave him!” She choked on a sob. “He drove me away!”

  Nora was so angry she was trembling and her hands made small fists at her side. She could not contain herself. She was like a bantam: pacing, fluttering her wings, beak forward, ready to strike. “Who the hell are you to throw this up at me now? What right have you?”

  That brought Esther to her feet and she towered over Nora by a good five inches. Esther breathed heavily, and Nora saw a wild anguish in her eyes as she stood there, mouthing but not making a sound. Nora glared back; she was not afraid.

  Then Esther’s rage disappeared as quickly as it had come. Her face stilled, then contorted, and she slumped to the floor, covering her face with her hands. Small, short cries escaped as her shoulders rocked.

  “I have no right,” Esther blurted out. “None at all. Except that I loved him.”

  Nora stood rooted to the spot. Oh, please, don’t let me hear this, she cried to herself. Not Esther. No, not Esther too. Pain, jealousy, betrayal, all stabbed her heart and it hurt. It hurt so badly.

  Nora slipped to the floor beside Esther. She did not reach out or try in any manner to comfort her. Compassion was beyond her. Still, she saw in the weeping, pathetic figure a mirror of herself a year ago. She could not help but pity Esther.

  “Why?” Nora asked in a husky voice. “Did Mike lure you out? He was like that. Esther, you know there were others. Many others.”

  Esther wiped her eyes and sniffed as she nodded her head.

  “But not right away.”

  Bit by bit, Esther collected herself, pulling the damp hair from her face and wiping her nose. Red face, red hair, and now red eyes. Nora waited. She didn’t wait long. After a deep, shuddering breath, Esther continued.

  “He—he said you didn’t love him. Tha-that you and he weren’t, you know, weren’t together anymore.”

  Nora closed her eyes in shame. “That’s right,” she whispered. “We weren’t.”

  “I couldn’t help loving him. He was so different from the men I knew. Then he—he just stopped coming up. I waited and waited. It was so hard. I never dared try to contact him. Not ever. I knew he was married.” She blushed and cast a nervous glance at Nora.

  “Then one summer night he did come back. I saw the Jaguar go by. I was breathless. I hurried so to get cleaned up. Then you drove by too. I was terribly disappointed, but you left again, in a real hurry. I figured you had another row. Mike told me you used to fight a lot. So up I went, all dressed and excited to see him again.” Esther sniffed and let out a shaky laugh. “Well, I got what I deserved.”

  Nora remembered that night. Esther must have seen the same tawdry scene that she did. Probably felt the same shame. No, she thought again. Not quite the same. That particular shame was reserved for wives only.

  “It’s cruelly ironic.”

  “Yeah. He got two birds with one stone.” Esther covered her face with a hand and looked away. “I am so ashamed.”

  Nora was unmoved. She rubbed her temples. She felt like a piece of glass about to break into infinite pieces.

  “He wasn’t exactly your type.” Nora’s voice was hoarse in the strain.

  Esther sat up wiping her eyes and gathering herself together. “It’s not because of who he was but because he represented New York.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “I only understood it recently myself. It’s not an excuse, but… You see, all I’ve ever wanted to do was paint. I teach at night at the country college and show my work in local shows that no one ever comes to. But I dreamed of going to New York. Mike used to say he’d help me get there.”

  Nora hardened her heart. “So. You did it for the money.”

  Esther paled and her mouth dropped open. “No! It wasn’t like that at all. I thought I loved him. Really.”

  “And that makes it right?”

  Esther shook her head and looked at her hands. “No. I’m sorry. I am so very sorry.”

  “Yes, well.” Nora started to get up, but Esther shot out a hand to restrain her.

  “Please, let me explain.”

  Nora coolly looked down at the hand, then at Esther. Esther dropped her arm, recoiling.

  “I cannot discuss this any further,” Nora said, unconsciously assuming her haughty tone. “If you would be so kind as to leave now.”

  Esther looked completely defeated as she nodded. Her pride had been humbled. Picking herself up from the floor she slunk away, repeating, “I’m sorry” once more at the door.

  Nora remained staring at the floor, completely drained. It didn’t matter, she told herself again and again. Mike was dead. It was all over.

  But it wasn’t. Like an insidious snake, the truth danced before her, weaving, spitting its venom, mesmerizing her into depression. Nora leaned against the wall, exhausted. She gazed absently around the room. Tonight it looked tawdry and unkempt with its plywood floors and plastic-wrapped ceili
ngs. Books had been knocked off the dusty cinderblock shelves and the makeshift closet of nails and clothesline sagged in the middle, threatening to topple more of the iron hangers. The place was a mess. Who did she think she was kidding?

  She flopped her hands upon the floor, hitting the padded envelope that Esther had brought up to her. With little care and less interest, she picked out the four staples and pulled several papers from the envelope. They were from Ralph Bellows.

  Nora skimmed the first page. Then, sitting up sharply, she raced through the second, the third, and the fourth. Nora’s insides felt sore and raw, as though she’d just been mugged.

  Slowly, as if each movement brought pain, Nora doubled her knees and hugged them tight against her chest. Her vocal cords strained to keep the cry in, but the timbre of anguish grew louder than she could control. It escaped as a high hum from her tight lips. She began to rock back and forth as she tried desperately to lull the misery to sleep. Misery never sleeps. It welled up larger and larger inside until her chest swelled, pushing painfully against her rib cage.

  Crumpling the pages in her fists, Nora moaned. “I cannot bear any more.” Unable to stop the flow of misery, she buried her face against her knees and unleashed the avalanche of tears.

  A sweet-smelling wind was blowing in from the south as C.W. hiked up the mountain for his appointment with Nora. A sweet smell for a foul day, he thought. This late in the fall, dusk set earlier in the evening. Already, the vibrant pink and blue sunset was lowering in the western sky. As he walked the gravel road, equally vibrant colored leaves fell around him, twirling in the breeze.

  Turning the final curve, he spied the big house over the field of purple heather. Though night was setting in, the house was dark. Not a single bulb shone. He panicked, thinking himself a fool for leaving her alone. He broke into a run. As C.W. approached, the melancholy music of Ravel poured out loudly across the mountains.

  C.W. entered the house with caution, holding the screen door with his hands to prevent it from slamming. He could hear only the music. Looking around, all was back in order, yet not. She had evidently cleaned up the mess, but no dinner was on the stove. Only an opened wine bottle sat on the counter.

  “Nora?” he called. No response. Only music. He followed the sad strains through the kitchen, up to the great room, but it, too, was empty. Fear gripped him. He was about to head up to Nora’s room when from the corner of his eyes, he spotted a shadowed movement out on the deck.

  He strode across the room and slid open the glass doors.

  “Nora?” he bellowed.

  “I’m here.” It was a hushed response from a dark corner.

  Relief flooded him as he crossed the distance to her side. Nora was curled up under a blanket on the wooden bench, resting her chin upon her knees. Her eyes were on the sunset, now but a long, thin pink line in the valley.

  He lay his hand upon her shoulder. “What’s wrong?”

  She didn’t speak immediately but waited until the waning sunset sank into darkness. Then, when he could no longer see her face, she answered.

  “It’s all over. I’ve lost.”

  His fingers tightened on her shoulders. “The auction is two weeks off. I thought we decided we’d have time to come up with something.”

  She reached out and handed him a large padded envelope.

  “Everything is gone. Here. Read it. It’s from Bellows. The Blair Bank won’t wait two weeks. I can’t make it. I can’t balance that budget without my account.”

  C.W. shook open the papers as he paced to the window where light shone out in a narrow beam.

  Dear Mrs. MacKenzie (Nora):

  It is my unfortunate duty to inform you of the latest development concerning your estate. After reinvestigation, the estate is compelled to rescind the interestbearing account established in your name. Apparently, a loan made to SavMor, a MacKenzie company, has suddenly been refused a delayed repayment schedule by the Blair Bank. (See attached letter.)

  It is most unfortunate, but the money is required immediately. There it is. I wish it were not so.

  I hope that this transaction does not inconvenience you too greatly. Please inform me if I can be of any assistance.

  Sincerely,

  Ralph Bellows

  Another page briefly described the SavMor property, and another was a copy of a letter from the Blair Bank, signed by Sidney Teller.

  C.W. carefully and with precision folded the crumpled papers and slipped them into the envelope. His hands shook in anger.

  C.W. leaned against the window, his head falling back against the cold glass. So, it was Sidney. Sidney was behind the MacKenzie deals. Sidney had orchestrated the robbery. Sidney was bringing him, and his family, down. C.W.’s anguish redoubled. Why Sidney? His brother-in-law, Cornelia’s husband, his colleague, and friend. He had hoped it was Agatha. But all fingers pointed to Sidney.

  He swallowed the news; it was bitter. Now he was alone in this fight. He felt like the leader of a retreating army. The ammunition was stolen, the morale was low. He released a laugh, for fear he might cry.

  C.W. lowered his head to gaze at Nora. His eyes acclimated to the dark, giving him full view of her slumped shoulders and sagging jaw. She had once said, with such spirit, “There were some things worth fighting for.” He had taken that spirit to heart; it was his rallying call. Where was that spirit now, Nora? The I Ching taught that adversity breaks the inferior man’s will but only bends the superior man’s spirit. How far could Nora bend before she broke?

  “Do you know what the real kicker is?” Nora asked out of the blue. Her voice was laced with uncharacteristic bitterness. “First I put my trust in Mike, and he died leaving me worse than penniless. Then I put my trust in this farm, with an almost religious zeal, and it can’t break even.” She let out a sharp laugh. “I sure know how to pick them.”

  C.W. gathered his wits and moved to sit beside her on the bench. He gripped both her shoulders, giving her a gentle shake.

  “That’s the problem, Nora,” he said slowly. “You’re not picking. You’ve been drowning in rough waters and are grabbing for anything that remotely resembles a lifeline. What you need to do is learn how to swim. And to do that you have to put the trust in yourself. Otherwise your trust will always be misplaced.”

  She looked at him with a queer expression on her face. “I could have chosen a little cash, you know, but I picked the farm. This was going to be my security. My future.”

  He dropped his hands. She wasn’t listening. “Security, huh?” He shook his head. “Anyone who depends on a farm for his security is nuts. First of all, it has one of the lowest rates of return on the market. Second, and this is important, so listen up, boss lady.

  “Second, security doesn’t come from a profit margin, whether it be a farm or a restaurant or a bank. Security is the knowledge that whatever happens, whatever garbage fate throws your way, you trust in yourself.”

  She tossed a dubious glance his way. “But what happens when you don’t know who you are, and you don’t trust in yourself?”

  “Then you’ve got a problem. A serious one,” he said without missing a beat.

  “Right,” she replied dourly.

  He ran his hand through his hair. “Nora, it’s only one farm.”

  She stood up and glared at him. “Only one farm!” she shouted back at him. “It’s my farm. It’s all I have left in the world.”

  He was glad to see her spirit, yet she was missing the point. “It’s not all you have left. You have yourself!” He held back from adding that she also had him. He was certain she did not want to hear that now.

  Suddenly her face twisted and she buried her face in her hands. “Damn these tears,” she cried. “I hate them. I am so damn tired of crying. I am so tired of being hurt.”

  He sat and watched her suffer, suffering himself. He rubbed his large hands together, then looked at them with disgust. What good were these big, strong hands when they couldn’t patch up her battered soul?
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  She wiped the tears away with determined strokes and smoothed out her hair. After a quick wipe of the nose, she straightened and faced him.

  “Listen, it’s getting late. Let’s call it a day.”

  “If you’d like to talk…”

  “No, I wouldn’t. I’ve said enough already.”

  It was a dismissal. He knew she was shooting from a point of pain, but it still hit its mark. He gathered his books and grabbed his coat. She hadn’t turned to walk him to the door, or even bid him farewell. She sat on the deck, arms folded and chin back to her knees. Her only movement was an occasional wiping of her eyes.

  “Nora, look at me. I have to leave. Tomorrow. Just for a few days. But I won’t leave you like this.”

  She lifted her eyes. Even in the dark, her despair was easy to read.

  “It’ll work out. Trust me,” he demanded, his finger jabbing the air.

  “I trust no one,” she said in a thin voice.

  “Such cold words. Not even a good-bye.”

  “The truth is cold. Farewells are bitter. I have learned this too late in my life.”

  Hoisting his books with a frustrated yank, C.W. marched away, his heels reverberating on the wooden deck. At the stairs, he stopped, his hand gripping the railing. Damn fate, he thought, his face contorting in anger. Tomorrow he was taking a chance that could spin his life into orbit. He didn’t deserve this treatment. Neither, he decided, did she.

  Spinning on his heel, he swept down upon her like a March wind, lifting her in his arms and kissing her, long and hard, with a passion born of desperation.

  “Do not give up hope,” he said, squeezing her tight.

  Then he turned and disappeared into the darkness.

  Alone and breathless, Nora shivered in the night air.

  23

  SIDNEY TELLER HAD been sitting on the edge of his chair ever since Charles Blair walked into this hastily rented conference room on the outskirts of the city. When he first saw Charles walk in with his faded jeans and checkered flannel shirt, he had been appalled. The Charles Blair he knew had always been an impeccable dresser. That wasn’t the only radical change.