Lonely Souls

by Rosemary Fifield

“So? I was making a point about the size of Vermont deer. You don’t see no racks hanging on my pa’s barn.”

  “So where is it? In the living room? And that still don’t explain why native Vermonters can’t hunt for food when they need it. Sonny ain’t no more native Vermonter than I am, “ Larry snapped.

  “Now, that could be argued,” Grant said quietly. “He goes back more generations on the land than you do.”

  “Now, how does anybody know that? I mean, prove it! Nobody even knows who his ma was. Except Nate, of course.”

  Dawson brought his chair down to the floor with an angry thump. Larry looked across the table at him. “No offense, Sonny, but we’re talking native Vermonter here. How do we know your ma didn’t cross over from New York? Or New Hampshire?”

  “What we do know is you’re a goddamn Canuck!” Blake laughed.

  “And you’re a horse’s ass!”

  Dawson rose to his feet. “I think you’re all horses’ asses. Let’s go, Blake, I’m starved.”

  “Yeah, I gotta go, too,” Larry said, “or Suzanne’ll eat everything herself.”

  “Yeah, you look underfed,” Dawson said, towering over him.

  Work started the following week on the old Dayton farm. Dawson and a crew began clearing out the debris and accumulations of two hundred years while Blake finished lining up the necessary workforce. Except for Allen Sloan, who was booked through Christmas, finding help fell into place rather easily, for November tended to be slow for most people connected with construction.

  Deer season did not present as large a problem as anticipated. Freeman made no move to post the land against hunting, and many of the crew hunted in the woods behind the barn where deer sign was in abundance. Larry shot his buck in the first hour of the first day, thereby ruining his plans to spend two weeks in the woods. Within the first week, half the crew was back on the job as they bagged their deer. Grant shot his on Thanksgiving Day while the rest of his family ate turkey at his parents’ house. Dawson brought in two, tagging one with a license taken out in Miriam’s name. His father shot a spikehorn and gave the meat to Blake after the latter spent two full weeks in the woods without firing a shot.

  Shane Freeman stopped in twice over the first three weeks. He came to monitor their progress as well as to prepare the inside of the house for the arrival of the moving van. He spoke briefly with Blake and Dawson each time, but kept primarily to himself and his chores. Snow had begun to fall in early November and the accumulation was substantial by the end of the month. He hired Clay Beaumont to plow the driveway and arranged for heating oil and utilities before returning to Maine once more. Grant and Larry approached him about the trees, but he said the decision was not his to make, and they should talk to Shelby Weaver-North when she arrived.

  Chapter Four

  December, 1987

  The entire town of Chatham buzzed with unanswered questions about the new owners of the Dayton place. Shane Freeman was as non-verbal as any good Yankee and somewhat distant, as well. He kept his visits to the property short and his socializing with townspeople to a minimum. What information could be had was more often the result of shared observations on the part of individuals with whom he made contact. Grant McIan’s parents were among the best at gleaning bits and pieces as they fell. On the first Saturday in December, they plied Grant with questions after serving him breakfast.

  “Have you figured out what this man does yet?” his mother asked as she refilled his cup from the china teapot.

  “He makes stringed instruments: harpsichords, clavichords, and hammered dulcimers. He’s going to take in students.”

  “You mean like apprenticeships?”

  “I guess so. That’s what the apartments are for. They’ll live in.”

  “How interesting,” his father said. “I’ll have more pie, dear. Just a sliver. So, Grant, what about the woman? Have you met her yet?”

  “No. She’s supposedly coming in two weeks.”

  “So you don’t know about using the trees?”

  “Not yet. Freeman said she wanted more information before she’d decide. I just hope she realizes we can’t wait much longer or we won’t be ready.”

  “Is she his wife?” his mother asked.

  “I don’t know. The guy says as little as possible.”

  “I would assume they’d have joint ownership if she were his wife,” his father sniffed.

  “Oh, Grahame, don’t be so archaic. They don’t even share names anymore. Why should they share property? Push your plate this way.”

  Grant finished the last of his pie and laid his fork across the empty china plate, shaking his head as his mother offered to cut him more.

  “Don’t short-change yourself now,” Irene McIan said sternly. “Working in the woods is going to be cold today.”

  Grant covered his plate with his hand to ward off an incoming piece of pie. “I’m fine. If I eat any more I won’t be able to bend over to do anything.”

  Irene pouted as she put the pie back into the pie plate. “ I heard from Loretta that they’re hiring a live-in housekeeper.”

  “Could be. Someone needs a wheelchair ramp. Probably her.”

  “Oh, really? You didn’t tell us that part!”

  Grant shrugged. “You didn’t ask.”

  “Grant, you can be so exasperating!” His mother pursed her lips in irritation, and Grant laughed.

  “So who did Loretta say they’re hiring?” Grant’s father asked. “Anyone we know?”

  “Well, from what I understand, he narrowed it down to three, and she’s going to pick the final one,” Irene said. “I know one of the three is Floyd Marsh’s oldest girl. And one is some lady from White River. I don’t know who the other is.”

  “You’re slipping, Mother,” Grant said as he rose from the table. “Thanks for breakfast. I’ve got to go. Larry’s waiting.”

  “How’s their little baby?”

  Grant tucked his flannel shirt into his green wool pants and adjusted the suspenders. “Fine. Cries all the time.”

  “I saw Larry’s mother a few days ago. She was ecstatic.”

  “I’m sure.” Grant avoided what he knew would be her meaningful stare. “Thanks again. It was delicious.” He took his parka from the hook at their back door and stepped out into the icy sunshine with a sigh of relief.

  Grant and Larry spent their weekends on snowshoes. They traveled through the woods pulling pipeline out of the record-high snow and securing it higher on the trees. The land they worked belonged to Larry’s brother Leon, whose primary interest had been the white pine and hemlock he had logged out years before. The maples were a relatively young but promising stand covering several acres in a sheltered valley with eastern exposures. Grant and Larry had begun tapping these trees two years before when they had formed their sugaring partnership, adding about a hundred fifty taps to the three hundred already available in the sugar orchard surrounding Grant’s cabin. In addition, they hung buckets on assorted maples throughout Chatham, bringing their current total to a little over five hundred taps. In a good year, these might yield about one hundred twenty-five gallons of finished maple syrup. Their long-range goal was to produce eight times that much.

  Traveling on snowshoes was hard work. Today the snow had a thin coating of ice that made it harder to break through and left them slipping and sliding backwards on the inclines. Downhill trips were even more hazardous, and by the end of the day they were exhausted and starving. Larry invited Grant to his house for supper, an invitation Grant accepted with great appreciation. Going home to his cold, dark cabin to eat a bowl of cereal was the last thing he felt like doing at the moment.

  Suzanne greeted Grant with a cup of coffee and a hug. Chicken and squash were cooking in the oven, potatoes and creamed corn on the stove. The house was cheery, warm, and cozy, and a moment of despair flashed over Grant. But it did no good to brood. If he wanted warm and cozy, he could move back in with his parents. Still, the thought of what might have been was hard to
dispel, especially in Suzanne’s company. She and Corey were still close friends and shared many of the same mannerisms. Watching Suzanne often made the memories harder to bear.

  After dinner the two men did the dishes while Suzanne disappeared into the bedroom to nurse the baby. When she came out, she handed the tightly swaddled little bundle to Grant with a grin. “Here, if you’re going to babysit for us some night, you’ll need to practice.”

  “Oh?” Grant looked down at the tiny red face and even tinier hands that were all that showed outside the blanket. The baby was really quite homely, red and wrinkled, with scratches on its little cheeks and a forceps bruise on its head. Not an easy delivery, Larry had said; Suzanne had bled a lot afterwards as well. Grant shuddered at what women went through to bring babies into the world. Perhaps it was just as well that he maintained his distance from the whole process.

  He was pondering this thought when a knock sounded at the kitchen door. Larry shuffled over and opened the door to let in a slim young woman wearing a down vest and earmuffs, and Grant’s heart momentarily stopped. Corey Sloan’s smile faded ever so slightly as her eyes met his.

  “Well, hello, Grant. I didn’t realize you were here.” Her normally husky voice was deeper than usual, as though she were getting over a cold. She turned to Suzanne and handed her a brown paper bag. “Some things I baked and that book you wanted. I can’t stay. I just thought I’d drop these off.”

  “Pull up a chair,” Suzanne said. “You can stay a minute.”

  But Corey seemed determined. “No, really. I shouldn’t get near the baby anyway. I’ve had a cold.”

  Grant cleared his throat. “Please stay, Corey. I was just leaving. I’m sure everything in my house is stone cold by now, and I really should go.”

  He handed the baby to Suzanne and took his coat from the chair. For an awkward moment the two women stood silently by while he put on the parka.

  “You know, this is stupid,” Suzanne said at last. “I mean, excuse me if I’m being insensitive, but hasn’t it been an awfully long time? Corey, sit down and have a cup of coffee, and, Grant, take off the coat and have a beer. Larry, close your mouth and get Grant a beer. Here.” She pulled two chairs out from the table and gestured for Corey to sit, then sat beside her. The baby began to cry, and Suzanne fumbled under her sweatshirt for a moment, then lifted it, exposing a large brown nipple. Grant looked away in embarrassment and started to leave once more.

  “Sit down,” Larry said quietly. “She’s right. Bud or Molson?”

  Grant shook his head. “Nothing, thanks.” He sat reluctantly in the chair across from Corey feeling incredibly out of place.

  “It’s nice to see you, Grant,” she said. “By the way, you looked good holding that baby.” Her eyes rested on his, and Grant took the opportunity to study her face. She was beautiful. Her cheeks were rosy from the cold and her liquid blue eyes sparkled as always. She was wearing her naturally curly hair short these days, and it glinted copper beneath the overhead light.

  “Thanks,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on hers. “It’s good to see you, too. You look great. As always.”

  “Coffee for everyone,” Larry announced as he distributed the mugs. “Wow, listen to that kid slurp. He knows good stuff when he finds it. A true breast man like his father.”

  “There’s a cranberry bread in that bag,” Corey said, ignoring him.

  “Get the butter, Larry.” Suzanne gestured toward the counter with her chin while giving her husband a meaningful stare. “And a knife.”

  They kept the conversation on contemporary subjects. Corey and her father had been back to the farm at Shane Freeman’s invitation. She had feared Wes would be stricken by the changes in the barn, but he felt the construction would help save the historic structure, and he was pleased that the barn was in use once more. He had taken Freeman inside the house and showed him where he had always suspected a walk-in fireplace might be hidden behind a plastered wall, and pointed out the gunstock corner posts and original wainscoting visible beneath the layers of wallpaper and paint. Freeman seemed genuinely interested, and Corey was impressed with him. And wasn’t he handsome? She and Suzanne giggled like two high school girls, and Larry rolled his eyes.

  They talked about the coming holiday season and the snow and the questionable condition of the town roads. Then the conversation moved on to sugaring and gardening and the apple trees Larry had planted behind their house. Grant watched Corey’s face whenever he could, and when their eyes occasionally met, hers were no longer cautious but smiled warmly into his. He smiled back and drank his coffee and wished this evening would never end. But when the living room clock struck ten, Corey looked startled.

  “Oh my gosh! I told Allen I was only going to stay for a few minutes, and it’s been two hours!”

  “I’m sure he’s used to it,” Larry said. “I always add an hour to Suzanne’s predictions.”

  “I need to go, too,” Grant said. As he pulled on his parka, Corey rose and zipped up her vest. She kissed Suzanne and Larry good-night, and Grant’s heart began to pound. If they ended up outdoors together, what would he say to her?

  His concerns were unfounded, for just at that moment the red beeper hanging on his belt put out a high-pitched, two-toned alarm followed by the sound of an authoritative male voice: “Attention Wild River Ambulance, Chatham Fast Squad. Report to the Alfred Gilman residence on Dorlander Pond Road for an elderly woman who has fallen from her porch. Time of your tone twenty-two-oh-eight.”

  “Gotta go,” Grant said, pulling his gloves. “Thanks, Suzanne. See you tomorrow, Larry.” He smiled and nodded his good-bye to Corey and hurried out the kitchen door.

  The Chatham Fast Squad was a group of volunteers trained in emergency first aid. They served as first responders to Chatham residents in need of emergency medical care, for the closest hospital was over twenty miles away, and the ambulance came from the town of Wild River, ten miles in the opposite direction. Grant had been a member of the Fast Squad for just over four years. During that time he had witnessed two deaths, and knew he had saved at least one life. In between, he had bandaged many wounds, supported sprained backs, calmed frightened children, and reassured distressed adults. Motor vehicle accidents, domestic violence, tractor rollovers, or severe allergic reactions—the calls came through at all hours of the day and night—some of them at very inopportune times—but he tried to respond to them all.

  Now, as he pulled out of Larry’s driveway with the red light flashing atop his truck, he ran over in his mind the possible problems they might encounter and how they should be handled. If the woman had fallen off the porch into the snow, she probably hadn’t broken anything, but what if she had? How would they keep her warm without moving her if there was the possibility of a fracture? What if she had had a heart attack? He had never had occasion to use his CPR training; the one cardiac arrest victim he had attended had been in arrest of over fifteen minutes, way beyond the restorative capabilities of cardiopulmonary resuscitation. He had used his knowledge of the Heimlich maneuver once to dislodge food from the throat of a child at a church summer supper and had later been cited by the local Lion’s Club for his quick and level-headed life-saving response. A month later, he had watched Floyd Marsh’s wife die before the ambulance arrived at the scene of her single-car accident.

  Two Fast Squad members who carried two-way radios signed on the air. He recognized one as Cynthia Dumaine, Larry’s sister-in-law who lived only half a mile from the Gilman residence. The other was John Millstone, a nurse-practitioner whose specialty was emergency medicine. With Cynthia and John on the scene, the Gilman woman would be well taken care of. Relieved, he turned off his red light as he made the left onto Dorlander Pond Road. This one would be a learning experience, preparation for the day Cynthia and John were out of town and Grant would have to make the right decisions.

  Three members of the Fast Squad were there then he arrived, the third being Bob Beaumont, Clay’s dad. Mrs. Gilman was up on the
old porch, a rickety Victorian affair hanging off the old farmhouse. She had apparently broken both wrists, for Cynthia was applying splints with Bob Beaumont’s help while John bandaged a cut on the woman’s head. Alfred Gilman, his face as white as his hair, came out of the house with several waddled up blankets apparently torn from the bed. Grant hurried up onto the porch to take them. He covered Mrs. Gilman as best he could, tucking the blankets in around her frail body in an effort to keep her warm. Then he went inside the brightly lit house and found a heavy gray coat for Alfred. He draped it over the shoulders of the old man, who was kneeling on the porch beside his wife, apparently upset because he could not hold her hand. Grant knelt beside him and touched the old man’s arm.

  “Alfred, she’s going to be okay, but her wrists are broken. I know you want to hold her hand to make her feel better, but that would make it worse. Here, put your hand on her cheek and let her know you’re here.” The old man, a stroke victim who could no longer speak, extended his arm and gently brushed his wife’s pale cheek. She smiled a weak, pain-filled smile at his touch and opened her watery eyes. Tears trickled out, and he carefully wiped them away with his thumb.