Sally tilted her head at Dix and slipped a crust of quiche to Lucky. “Don’t be so hard on yourself,” she said. “You’re a far better father than most of us get. And we’ve both seen what so-called good upbringings can produce.”
Dix looked away, uncomfortable with the compliment—and the memories. “Any word on Darius?” he asked.
“Well, you gave him quite the concussion when you pounded him onto the porch. But, sadly,” she said, grinning, “he recovered from that. Guess they’ve sent him home to his parents. They’re supposed to keep him under control. Rehabilitate him. Pay off his debts. He got probation and a fuck-ton of community service. Blah, blah. Slap on his rich-boy wrist.”
“Just so long as he’s away,” Dix said. “Just so long as he’s back over the blue line.”
“Next thing we hear from him, he’ll probably be running for public office.”
“Undoubtedly on some right-wing platform,” Dix said, smiling. “What about you?” he asked. “What are you doing?”
“Found an apartment. Working. Thinking about law school. Studying for the LSATs.”
“Law school? All these shenanigans inspire you?” Dix asked.
“Sort of,” Sally answered. “But really, Warren kind of inspired me.”
Dix raised his eyebrows.
“We had a couple of great talks in the hospital. During visiting hours. Waiting for you to wake up, those first few days.”
“Thank you,” Dix said. Warren had told him how much time she’d spent there. By herself. Even after visiting hours. Drove the staff nuts. “Thank you for being there for me.”
Sally waved her hand dismissively. “Me and those machines. Listening to you snore.”
Dix laughed. “I don’t snore!”
Sally grinned at him. Dix imagined her watching him sleep, watching the lines blip on the monitors while he lay there, his body healing. It was an intimate vision. An intimacy he’d experienced without even knowing it. He wanted to thank her again, thank her more. He didn’t know where to begin. And, once begun, where he would stop.
He asked her about the farmhouse. “What will you do with it now?”
“Post a few ‘No Trespassing’ signs and just let it rot into the ground,” she said. “Too much bad juju out there. Let Mother Nature sort it out.”
They both watched Colden inexpertly work a puzzle, attempting to position different-shaped blocks into inappropriate places. Even Lucky had sidled over as if to offer assistance. Dix wanted to ask Sally so many things. But his thoughts were all jumbled together and in the wrong places, just like Colden’s toy. He conjured a distant memory of that odd collection of patched-together buildings, sinking into the mud. The place where his daughter was born and her mother died and was cremated. He imagined what the place might look like a few years from now, a decade from now, thirty years from now. A time-lapse video of the encroaching forest, tiptoeing deer, feral cats, a foraging bear breaking into the kitchen played in his mind.
“Hey,” he said. “You want to take a little drive? There’s something I want to show you.”
“Sure. Sounds intriguing.” Sally stood and began to collect the plates.
“Leave it,” Dix said. “Let’s just go. The ravens and chipmunks can have what’s left.”
Sally stepped away from the table, swooped down with a dramatic gesture of her arms, scooped Colden up, and swung her in the air.
She is so natural with her, Dix thought. And then, So much more natural than I am.
Sally loaded Colden in the car seat in Dix’s truck. Lucky jumped into the foot well, and she climbed in after. She watched the familiar scenery tick by outside the window, the fallen leaves opening up the scenery. She breathed in the crisp, dry air and realized she felt happy. It had been a long time since she felt that way.
A few miles out of town, Dix turned into a once-wide but now-overgrown gravel drive. They drove past several NO TRESPASSING signs. Sally started to remark on this, to ask why they were heading onto posted land, but instead she kept her mouth shut and waited to see where Dix was taking her. It could be his land; he could have posted it for all she knew. They drove up a gently curving slope for a half mile, then suddenly, the dense trees gave way. Sally furrowed her brow in question at the view that opened up in front of her. In the midst of an overgrown acre of what had clearly once been lawn, there stood an imposing log home with a broad front porch. Her eyes flicked over a large garage, barn, shop. Dix stopped the truck near what was left of a half-dead tree with a ripped and jagged snag where a full crown of branches had once been.
They both stared out the windshield in silence. The home had a sad air of desertion, of something once grand and now long forgotten. A sapling pushed up through the front porch. Weeds sprouted from the gutters. Empty planters hung from wrought-iron hooks. Lucky stood up between Sally’s legs. Colden had fallen asleep. Sally listened to her light snores as she waited for Dix to explain.
“This,” he finally said, his voice a whispered breath. “This is Miranda’s house.”
Sally surveyed the spread in front of her and imagined it in its more well-cared-for days. “They really were fucking rich, weren’t they?”
“Rich in dollars. Poor in spirit,” Dix said.
“White-people problems,” Sally said. “First World problems.”
“Yeah, but problems nonetheless,” Dix said. “I guess I always thought of Miranda as having a kind of psychological limp. Healed crooked from whatever hurt her. Like my dog.”
They both quietly opened their doors and slipped from the truck. Sally took several steps into the yard, toward the house. A squirrel chattered at them from where it clung to a gutter. One of the boards covering a window had fallen free. It swayed back and forth in a fitful gust of wind, held in place by a single screw. A tattered velvet curtain hung outside a broken pane.
“Who owns this place now?” Sally asked.
“I do,” Dix said, his voice flat and quiet.
Sally blew air between her lips. “Miranda never knew you bought it, did she?”
Dix shook his head.
“Let her save money and save face.”
Dix shrugged.
“And now you’re giving it back to nature, aren’t you?’
Dix nodded. “Some things can’t be fixed,” he said. “Some things just need to be let go.”
Sally turned her head over her shoulder and looked at Dix where he stood near the open-doored truck. This was a good man. A very good man who had no idea how good he was. It took his eyes some moments to stop their wandering surveillance and come to rest on hers. She held his gaze for a long time. No joking now. No smart-ass or snark. She wanted him to know how dear he was to her. How much she admired and respected him. That she adored him. She made herself feel it, all of it all at once, because she wanted him to feel it, to know it so deep in his bones that the speaking of it became unnecessary. When she was sure he got it, that he had registered her feelings, understood and accepted them, she dropped her eyes.
There, she thought. Let him chew on that for a moment.
A moment was all it took. Two strides later, he was behind her, his long arms clasped around her shoulders, his chin resting on the part in her hair. She reached up and wrapped her fingers around his hand. She let her cheek drop until it rested on his forearm. Lucky trotted up and lay down at their feet. Colden, still asleep in the truck, murmured from deep inside a baby dream. Sally felt Dix snug his arms tighter around her. She smiled and closed her eyes. It felt like he was never letting go.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
With deepest thanks to:
The team at Lake Union Publishing, who make my literary life not only deeply pleasurable but possible.
All the individuals and organizations who preserve, protect, and maintain the Adirondack Park, where I have spent many—although not nearly enough—sweaty, muddy, bug-slapping, contented, contemplative hours.
Ned, for climbing so many mountains with me.
ABOUT THE A
UTHOR
Photo © 2013 Brooke McConnell
Laurel Saville is an award-winning author of numerous books, articles, essays, and short fiction. Her work has appeared in the LA Times Magazine, the Bark, NYTimes.com, and other publications. She holds an MFA from the Bennington Writing Seminars and lives and writes near Seattle. She is also a corporate communications consultant and has taught and spoken at a variety of colleges and writing conferences.
Her memoir, Unraveling Anne, won the memoir category of the 2011 Indie Book Awards and was a runner-up to the grand prize winner at the Hollywood Book Festival. Her first novel, Henry and Rachel, a fictionalized account of her great-grandparents’ lives, was a finalist for a Nancy Pearl Award from the Pacific Northwest Writers Association. Connect with Laurel at www.LaurelSaville.com.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
CONTENTS
MIRANDA AND DIX
DARIUS AND SALLY
DARIUS AND MIRANDA
DIX AND SALLY
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
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