Lonely Souls

by Rosemary Fifield

  “Can I ask you something?” Dawson said as he and Shelby worked side by side. Shelby nodded. “Why do you care what someone looks like? I would think that would be the last thing of importance to you.”

  “It’s not that I care.” Shelby reached for the next item she could find in the dish drainer. “It’s just something a seeing person takes for granted, and I used to be a seeing person. Plus it helps me form an image in my mind to identify them with. When I say ‘Ma’ to you, you have an immediate image of your ma. I have to make mine up.”

  “What is your image of my ma?”

  “Short, round. Brown hair with gray streaks, probably in a short hairstyle that doesn’t take much fuss. A pleasant face with smiling blue eyes. Sort of a no-nonsense person who wears housedresses and sensible shoes. And an apron.” Shelby laughed at herself. “I guess I’m picturing my grandma.”

  “Not bad. She’s almost all gray and she doesn’t wear aprons, but the rest is pretty close. Her eyes are more green than blue.”

  “Can I ask you something? Don’t you judge people on first impressions when you see them?”

  Dawson rinsed the silverware in his hand and dropped it into the dish drainer for her to find. “I suppose.”

  “What was your first impression of Shane?”

  Dawson thought back to the day he and Blake went to meet Shane at Dayton’s farm. “Rich guy from the city. Strictly business. Used to getting his way. Not friendly.”

  “Why ‘used to getting his way?’”

  “Because of his good looks.”

  “Exactly. All based on how he looks.”

  “His extraordinary good looks,” Dawson corrected her.

  “And you disliked him for them.”

  Dawson glanced at her. She was right, of course.

  “You felt they gave him some sort of privilege that other people don’t get. Like, maybe, yourself.”

  “Don’t they?”

  “Sometimes. But I think sometimes they work against him.”

  “It’s more than just his looks. It’s his bearing. How he holds his head. He kind of looks down his nose at people. His eyes are cold.”

  “His eyes are pale blue. How warm can pale blue eyes be?” she smiled. “But you see what I’m saying? Everything you said about him is based on seeing him. I’ve never seen him. Everything I knew about him was based on listening to him, talking with him, or what other people told me.”

  “And feeling him up,” Dawson grinned. When she didn’t answer, he said, “I’m smiling, Shelby,” so she wouldn’t take offense.

  “I know,” she smiled back. “I can hear it in your voice.”

  Dawson dumped the water from the plastic dishpan and turned it upside down in the sink.

  “Can I ask you something else?” Shelby asked.

  “What?”

  “Why don’t you love Cassie?”

  Her question took Dawson by surprise. “You mean, ‘Why am I not in love with Cassie.’ Because it’s not true that I don’t love her. She’s like my best friend. But it’s not a marrying love. I mean, if I ended up married to her, I don’t think it would be a terrible thing. It just wouldn’t be … special.”

  Shelby had set down the dry silverware and was standing at the counter with her eyes downcast. At moments like this, when she exhibited the mannerisms of a seeing person, he had to remind himself that she was blind.

  “You must know what I mean,” he said. “You were married.” He watched her closely for signs of distress at the mention of her late husband, remembering their conversation while working together on the fence.

  “I know what you mean,” she said, without moving. “ I can’t explain how it works, but I know what you’re saying.”

  Dawson took the wet towel from her hands and hung it on the end of the cabinet to dry. “I think we’re capable of loving more than one person of the opposite sex. And probably of marrying any one of them, if we’re not looking for that … special thing, whatever it is.”

  She turned her face toward his. “What do you think it is? What is it for you?”

  “The one person that … if you can’t look forward to being with them every day, you’re going to feel … I don’t know … empty.” Dawson watched her ponder his answer. “It’s how I feel about you,” he said softly.

  Shelby smiled quietly at him, then reached out her arms to encircle his waist. She rested her head against his chest, and he bent down to touch his lips to her hair as he crossed his arms over her shoulders.

  “What if only one person in a marriage feels that way, but not the other?” she asked. “I mean, is it fair for one to be in love and the other only to love?”

  Dawson smiled. “Is it fair? For one person to be special, and the other one just ‘good enough?’ I guess it depends on how egotistical the second one is.”

  “I’m serious,” she said, still pressing her cheek to his chest. “Doesn’t everyone deserve to be cherished?”

  “That might be too much to ask for. Sure, I want my someone to be in love with me. But if, in the end, that person agrees to be a part of my life, didn’t I still get what I asked for? To be able to be with her every day?”

  Shelby wordlessly tightened her grip around him.

  “Maybe,” he continued. “the bigger question is, why would she not wait to find her own special person? Or does that happen only once in a lifetime?”

  “I don’t believe it happens only once in a lifetime. There are too many people in the world for there to be only one. That’s the stuff of novels.”

  Dawson smiled. “Well, that’s encouraging.”

  “I don’t believe in love at first sight, either,” Shelby said, releasing him and moving away. “Or first touch,” she added with a small smile. “It didn’t happen that way with Kevin. I wouldn’t have trusted it if it had.”

  “So you’re saying I still have a chance.”

  Shelby frowned. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to … to not freak out when things get … intense.”

  “Do you ever read the bible?”

  She shook her head.

  Dawson went into the living room and took his mother’s bible from the bookshelf, then walked back into the kitchen. He flipped to 1 Corinthians 13 and read it out loud to her: “Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.” He closed the book. “I love you, Shelby. I’ll wait.”

  The power in North Chatham went out at two-fourteen when the major boughs of a giant elm near the North Chatham substation collapsed under their ice burden and ripped out a series of transmission lines. Within minutes, the surge caused additional transformers throughout the area to go down, and soon all of the Chatham villages, as well as two of the neighboring towns, were without power.

  Cassie was ready with oil lamps and candles. Her dad’s house was heated with wood, and her sisters had done a good job of filling the woodshed closest to the house. Her dad used the oxygen as a crutch, but was not dependent on it, so the loss of power would not affect him. So far, nothing had changed for her personally, and she hoped to keep it that way. The baby was due in a week, and she expected she would not be fortunate enough to go early anyway.

  Being off the grid, Grant was totally unaware of the power outages around town. Eventually his beeper would go off with home and school building security alarms triggered by the loss of power, but because of his isolation he would wait to see if those closer to the affected buildings reported anything other than an alarm failure. So far no calls had come in from Chatham residents in need of first responder services, and so he continued to page through the Fine Woodworking magazines his mother had given him as a Christmas gift and enjoyed his afternoon alone.

  Marcia was on the phone with Teddy when the power went out. He didn’t usually call when h
e was on the road, but he was aware of the nor’easter and wanted to check in to make sure she was okay. He reminded her of how to start the generator and asked her to call his parents to make sure their unit was working, as well. She promised she would, told him she loved him, and confirmed that he would be home on Monday. Then she hung up and made the call to Arthur and Claire before going back to the book she was reading.

  Miriam was in her room sorting through a collection of Nate’s clothes she had yet to remove from her closet. There were a few flannel shirts that Sonny could wear, but most of Nate’s things were old and worn and of little value to anyone. She had not held onto them due to sentimentality; getting rid of them was just one of those things she had never gotten around to, and today was the perfect day. Some of it she would donate to the First Congregational Church clothing drive; most of it she would cut up into rags. She found it interesting that she could live with the man for over forty years and feel so little impact from his death. She hadn’t wished for it, but neither had she been devastated by his loss. They had become more like siblings over the years, caring for one another in a mutually beneficial relationship based on familiarity and habit more than anything else.

  Outside of Miriam’s bedroom door, at the wall-mounted phone hanging in the kitchen, Dawson had answered a call for Shelby.

  “It’s Shane,” he said as he put the phone into Shelby’s hand and left the room.

  “Shane! Where are you?”

  “East Jipipi, Massachusetts.”

  Shelby laughed. “Where are you really?”

  “I have no idea. Somewhere in southern Mass in a motel. The weather’s crazy here. What’s happening there?”

  Shelby’s smile disappeared. “Why are you in a motel?”

  “Because I was driving home to you, and the weather went nuts.”

  “Who’s with you?”

  “Absolutely no one.” His voice hardened. “You know, Shelby, there are motels right in the big city. I didn’t have to go to Nowhere, Massachusetts to shack up with someone.”

  “I’m sorry, Shane. I didn’t mean it that way.”

  “The hell you didn’t, Shelby. You know, if we’re going to go back to Portland together, you’re going to have to get over this. We are not married, Shel.”

  What was it Dawson had read to her? Love always trusts …

  “I’m sorry, Shane. I really am. And you don’t have to worry about going back there. I know that’s not what you want.”

  “I want what’s going to be best for you.”

  Shelby closed her eyes as tears threatened to form. The depth of Shane’s love for her had always exceeded her love for him; he had never treated her as poorly as she was now treating him.

  “I’m sorry, Shane,” she said, swallowing hard. “I love you. I really do. And I miss you. The last thing I want to do is to hurt you. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

  “Look, the TV weather guy says the worst of it should be over here by suppertime. If they clear the roads, I could be home by midnight.”

  “Don’t do that. There’s no point in getting home at midnight. You won’t be able to get up that driveway anyway. Will somebody be planning to plow it?”

  “Clay Beaumont’s been doing it. I’ll give him a call and make sure we’re on his list. But you’re right. He probably won’t get to it before tomorrow morning. But I’ll be home before noon, Shel. I promise. And we can talk about all of this then.”

  “Okay. Please, be careful. I love you, Shane.”

  Shelby was hanging up the phone when Dawson walked through the kitchen with his mother close behind. Miriam was saying something about the generator and the refrigerated bulk tank, and then their voices disappeared into the ell.

  The winds quieted just before nightfall, and the snow tapered off as the clouds over Vermont began to thin. They separated and skidded away, and by eight p.m. the darkened villages of Chatham lay beneath a clear and calm star-studded sky. The occasional square of weak yellow light shown here and there on the mounds of snow outside barn windows, powered by tractor-driven generators like the one the Penfields used to run the refrigerated bulk tank that would hold their milk until the dairy truck could come to take it away. Inside the darkened houses, candle flames glowed within glass chimneys, and kerosene or oil-burning lamps shown in selected rooms. The only steady streams of light were emitted by the myriad trucks and tractors that now ventured out to attack the drifted snow clogging their driveways and dooryards and those of their neighbors.

  Miriam had cooked dinner on the wood-burning cookstove and put the pot of leftovers in a snowbank when they were done eating. They would open the refrigerator as little as possible, and hope the power was restored before they had to move all of the food out into the snow. Working in the pool of light from the kerosene lamp, she took hot water from the stove’s reservoir to wash her dishes, then replenished it with snow so they would have plenty of hot water for washing up before going to bed. That done, she carried the kerosene lamp into the living room and set it on the little table beside her favorite armchair so she could work on the sweater she was knitting for Cassie’s baby. On the couch across from her, barely visible in the darkness, Shelby was using a battery-powered cassette player to listen to one of the audiobooks that had come in the mail.

  Dawson suited up for the cold and began the hours-long job of clearing the yard and the driveway. He began by shoveling his way out the first ell door. Drifts as high as his shoulder had piled against the house and ell in places. He shoveled a path along the length of the ell, freeing the doors as he went, until he reached the barn’s big sliding doors. They were heavily snowed in, and he shoveled for a long time before he was able to move one along its track far enough for the tractor to pass through the opening. The plow was already mounted; he started up the tractor and began the tedious job of moving mounds of snow out of the dooryard. Eventually he would clear the driveway, but there was no hurry. The town truck might not reach their part of Chatham Ridge before morning.

  Not that it mattered. If he wanted to go anywhere, his snowmobile would take him there. And he just might go. He had heard Shelby on the phone. In spite of everything, she still loved Shane. How stupid of him to bare his heart when all he would ever be to her was a curiosity. Just the thought of it made him angry now, and he had to calm himself down so he could concentrate on finishing the yard and still have time to take that ride.

  Chapter Twenty

  Easter Sunday, April 3, 1988

  Clay Beaumont arrived at Floyd Marsh’s house a little after six a.m. Floyd wasn’t on his list of paying customers, but considering his heart attack and all, he was a neighbor in need. Besides, it wouldn’t take long. Most of Floyd’s double-wide driveway was filled with rounded, car-shaped mounds of snow that no plow could tackle. But he could still clear the edges where the town plow had added even more to the ledge of snow the younger Marsh girls would have to shovel.

  He pulled up to the end of the driveway, dropped his plow in front of the pile, and dragged it backwards into the street. There was nowhere else to go with it. He moved over and did it again until the high bank had been removed, then dropped his plow on the road and pushed the snow away from the driveway toward the front of the house. The road was already so narrow, a little more snow wouldn’t hurt.

  He had hoped Jeanine might notice him plowing her driveway and come out to say “thanks,” but there were no signs of life at the Marsh place yet. He had come too early. He wouldn’t see her in church today either; there were too many driveways waiting to be plowed. Maybe she wouldn’t even go. Cassie must be due any minute now, and Floyd hadn’t been seen out of the house since he came home from the hospital. Clay would have to wait until next Sunday to see Jeanine. Floyd hadn’t been letting her out of his sight since Cassie had gone and got herself pregnant.

  Grant was standing in the doorway of his cabin, enjoying the view along with his morning coffee. The cloudless sky was an intense shade of deep blue and the new sn
ow a blinding pure white. Every color was vibrant in the morning light as though making up for the dullness of yesterday. The sun-warmed branches of the long-needled white pines were already shedding their burdens of snow, bobbing upwards as torrents of white powder sifted off. It wouldn’t take long for the heads of the maples to warm and the sap to begin coursing through them once more.

  He had plowed his road, the road to the sugarhouse, and his parents’ driveway last night before going to bed. The town truck had come through just as he was finishing, leaving a new barrier of snow in its wake, and he had had to clean the entrance to the driveway all over again. Plowing for money had never appealed to him—it seemed like a great way to ruin a good pickup—but this storm would provide some real income for those who did. People would be digging out for days.