by Nan Rossiter
Callie looked over and shook her head. “Not yet, but I don’t want to take up any more of your time. Besides, don’t you need to get back to your project?” she asked, nodding toward the river.
“It can wait,” Linden replied, suddenly remembering the beer he’d left out on a rock.
“Well, I’d love to treat you to dinner, Linden,” she said with a sigh. “It’s the least I can do, but Henry doesn’t do very well in restaurants.”
Linden looked over at the little boy sitting on the wall. He hadn’t moved since Callie arrived. He just sat quietly, watching the cows. Linden followed his gaze and suddenly realized how much he wanted Callie to stay.
“We could order a pizza,” he suggested.
Callie looked over. “Are you sure?”
He nodded.
“Okay, but I’m paying,” she said, and then remembered she didn’t have any money. “I mean, I’m paying you back.”
Linden smiled. “We’ll see.”
While they waited for the pizza to arrive, Linden introduced Callie to all of the animals and explained how each one had come to live with him. Callie listened attentively and realized that Linden was still the same tenderhearted boy she’d known in high school, ever willing to help and always the first to offer. As they walked back toward the cabin, the one resident who hadn’t been introduced swooped out of the barn and settled in the tall Norway spruce across the meadow, his stately form silhouetted against the dusky sky. Henry pointed, and Linden tousled his hair. “Yup, that’s Atticus.”
“Atticus?” Callie asked, thinking back to their tenth-grade English class, and raising her eyebrows.
Linden grinned. “Atticus was already a resident with a name when I moved in,” he said, “and I’m sure you can guess who named him.”
Callie laughed. “I think that was one of Mr. Coleman’s favorite books.”
Linden nodded. “That and Our Town.”
A noisy, green Plymouth Horizon rumbled into the driveway. “Did you order a pizza?” the driver called through his window. Linden nodded and pulled his wallet from his pocket as he walked toward the car. “This place is really tucked away,” the driver commented, hoping for a big tip. Linden gave him an extra five. “Thanks, man!” the driver said with a grin as he pulled away.
“So, what do you think?” Linden asked, turning to Callie. “Shall we eat on the porch?”
“Sounds good,” she replied.
Linden handed the box to her and quickly rearranged the wicker chairs and side table. “How ’bout a beer?”
Callie smiled. “Sure. I can’t remember the last time I had a beer.”
“Milk for Henry?”
“If you have enough. Do you need help?”
“Nope,” he said, disappearing inside. Moments later, he reappeared with two bottles tucked under his arm, a small glass of milk, paper plates, napkins, and a crate for Henry to sit on. Callie opened the pizza box and slid slices onto the plates, and Linden put one on the table for Henry. Springer plopped down next to Henry and, before long, he had a sloppy string of drool hanging from his jowls. Linden shook his head in dismay. “Springer, try to pull yourself together.” The big yellow Lab looked up at the mention of his name, thumped his tail hopefully, and turned his attention back to Henry. Callie watched Henry take another bite and realized that he hadn’t fussed the whole time they were there.
An awkward silence fell over the porch, and Callie listened to the incessant buzz of insects in the trees. She was about to ask Linden how his parents were when another sound drifted across the meadow. Henry looked out into the inky darkness, and Linden smiled. “That’s Atticus,” he said softly. “Do you know what he’s saying?” Henry furrowed his brow, and Linden continued, “He’s saying, ‘Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you aaaall?’ ” Callie watched Henry nod and caught her breath as Linden went on, “If you keep listening, maybe his lady friend will answer.” Moments later, they heard another owl calling from far away, Who cooks for you? Who cooks for you? Henry pointed, and Callie remarked in surprise, “It does sound like that’s what they’re saying!”
Linden nodded. “I heard a lot of owls when I hiked the AT.” He leaned back and took a sip of his beer. “We also had a close encounter with a moose when we crossed into Maine.” He looked at the dogs. “Didn’t we, guys?” He stroked Kat’s head. “He was big.” Then he looked at Callie. “My two protectors were so brave, they just peeked at him through my legs!” He grinned affectionately at the dogs. “You guys had my back, right?” The dogs thumped their tails again in happy agreement. Henry reached out and gave them each a piece of pizza crust and Linden teased him, “You know, Henry, if you keep feeding them, they might follow you home.” Henry nodded and gave them each another piece. Linden just laughed, but Callie shook her head.
“Don’t give him any ideas!”
They were quiet for a while, and Henry pushed his plate away, climbed down, and nestled between the two dogs, contentedly stroking their soft fur.
Callie sighed. “I guess we should get going.” She paused thoughtfully. “Linden, this was great. Thank you.”
24
It was well past Henry’s bedtime when Callie pulled into the driveway. She slipped his seat belt over his head and carried him inside. He was not happy about it, though, and he stomped his feet when she stood him in front of the toilet. “Go,” she said, and he went—all over the back of the seat. She quickly realized he was still half asleep and not even aiming, so she reached around to help. When he was done, she propped him on the counter, washed his hands and face, carried him to the bedroom, slipped on his pajamas, and gently laid him down, covering only his legs with the sheet.
Callie had never liked the design of windows in ranch-style homes: Although they could be left open on rainy days, they always seemed to block the breeze and, since they were usually installed four feet above the floor, any air current that did slip in was well above the height of a bed. She pushed the bracket of Henry’s window out all the way and hoped that the fans were still in the basement. Before going to look, though, she knelt beside his bed and whispered his prayer.
“Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep.
Thy love go with me through the night and wake me up in the morning light.
God bless me and Mom, help Papa get better ... and bless Linden.
Amen.”
She tucked Travelin’ Bear near him and gently kissed his warm forehead. Then she went to the basement to look for the fans and the tools she would need to install the eyehooks. She came back up lugging two old floor fans and set one up in Henry’s room, oscillating on low, and the second one in the living room. With the fan drawing cool air in from outside, she picked up the remote, aimed it at the TV, and pushed the power button. Nothing happened, so she walked over and turned it on manually. The eleven o’clock news was just ending and the weatherman was giving a quick recap: “It’s going to be hot and humid all week with a line of severe thunderstorms coming through on Friday. Summer is in full swing now, and we’ll feel it this week, except in the mountains, where it’ll be a good ten degrees cooler.” The anchorman smiled and tapped his pen. “Sounds like it will be a good week to head up to the Presiden-tials for a hike!” The weatherman nodded in agreement.
Callie sighed. “Great! Another hot week,” she mumbled as she retreated to the kitchen to look for the eyehooks, but they were nowhere to be found. She wondered if she’d left them in the car. She located a flashlight in a drawer and pushed the switch, but it only flickered weakly and went out. She sighed in frustration and riffled through the junk drawer, looking for batteries. She found a pen and paper instead and, after she got the pen to work, she used it to scrawl the word batteries in bold letters across the top of the paper. Then she went outside and felt around in the car until she found the paper bag with the eyehooks in it under the passenger seat.
As she walked back to the house, she thought she heard an owl and paused to listen. It called several times
, but there was never a reply. Finally, she went inside, dumped the eyehooks on the counter, and pushed a chair over to the door. She wanted the hooks to be within her reach but well out of Henry’s. As she stood on the chair in the brightly lit house, listening to the TV, and working on her project, she realized her heart felt lighter than it had in months. It felt good to be home.
The next morning, she was up with the sun and, even though she’d stayed up late, she felt better rested than she had in a long time. She peeked in on Henry. He was curled up with Travelin’ Bear tucked between his chest and his knees, and he was completely uncovered. She switched off his fan and slipped quietly to the kitchen to make coffee. While it perked cheerfully, she went back down the hall to take a quick shower, feeling much more at ease now that the doors were hooked.
She closed the bathroom door and slipped off the faded J.Crew pink boxers and white T-shirt that she always wore to bed in the summer. And while she waited for the water to warm up, she stood on her parents’ old metal scale. The needle bounced up, danced a little, and settled on 104. Six pounds lighter than she’d weighed in high school. That’s what stress will do, she thought. Stepping off the scale, she reached around the shower curtain to check the water temp and caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror. She couldn’t remember when she’d last seen her reflection in a full-length mirror. She reached up self-consciously and tucked several strands of long blond hair behind her ear, and sighed. As out of control as ever! She ran her fingertip lightly along the outline of the tan bib she always had in the summer, and then she looked down. Slowly, she ran her hand over her flat stomach and studied her thighs. Then she turned. Not much change there, but how long will it last without exercise? Maybe I should get one of those baby joggers.
She opened the bathroom door and listened. The house was quiet, so she dropped her towel within reach of the tub, left the door open a crack, and climbed in. The warm water felt refreshing, and she finally relaxed. While she washed, she pictured Linden and wondered what he was doing at that moment.
Twenty minutes later she was in the kitchen, sipping coffee and rinsing blueberries. She’d bought two pints the day before with the hope of making muffins. She’d just started grating lemon zest when Henry wandered into the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. “Good morning, buddy,” she said. “Did you remember to go to the bathroom?” Henry made a face and stomped his foot, and she knew he hadn’t. “Could you please go?” she asked gently, but he ignored her, and wandered into the living room. Callie rinsed her hands and followed him. “Let’s go,” she said firmly. He pretended he didn’t hear her, so she picked him up, but he squirmed and kicked violently. “We can do this the easy way or we can do it the hard way,” she said, struggling with him. As she carried him down the hall, though, he swung around and knocked one of the pictures off the wall. Callie looked down at the spider web of broken glass over a portrait of her parents and clenched her jaw. She closed her eyes and, through gritted teeth, whispered, “Please help me not lose it.”
She continued down the hall, set Henry in front of the toilet, and roughly pulled his pajama shorts down. “Go,” she said sternly, but he just stood there with his arms crossed. She continued in the same firm tone. “Henry, if you don’t go, I am going to take away your LEGOs.” With that, a steady stream hit the water. After she made sure he washed his hands, she went back down the hall and picked up the portrait.
Henry looked at the picture and pointed. “Don’t touch,” she said, pushing his hand away. “The glass is sharp. It can cut.” He reached out to point again. “Henry, did you hear me?” she said sharply. His brow furrowed, and he clenched his fists. Callie looked at his face, trying to understand. Then she looked at the picture and said, “That’s Papa when he was younger, and this is Grandma.” She paused, not knowing what else to say. How do I explain who this lovely lady is? And how do I explain why she isn’t a part of our lives? “She was my mom,” she said finally, her heart aching with renewed grief. She put the picture on the kitchen counter and threw away the broken glass, the pieces crashing together as they fell into the pail.
She turned back to the muffins, poured milk into the bowl of sifted ingredients, and asked him if he wanted to stir. He pushed a chair over and she handed him the spoon, and he immediately began to scrape it around the bowl, causing big puffs of flour and sugar to fly out. “Try to keep it in the bowl,” she said, but he continued to stir with such vigor that the milk and eggs began splashing out too. She grabbed his hand. “You are really testing me today!” she said angrily. In one sweeping motion he wrenched his hand away and threw the spoon across the kitchen. It sailed through the air, hit the window, cracking it, and clattered to the floor, leaving a trail of gooey batter in its wake. Callie grabbed both of his wrists and pulled him off the chair, and he immediately began to scream. “I’m really going to lose it, Henry!” she warned. “Cut it out!” She tried to pick him up, but he sprawled on the floor and continued to carry on. Callie turned away from him and stared out the window. “I thought You didn’t give us any more than we can handle,” she said, her voice choked with emotion.
With Henry still rocking back and forth on the floor, Callie thought about Linden’s words, “He understands everything I say.” How can that be? she wondered. Did Linden communicate differently? How in the world did he get him to cooperate so easily? She shook her head. She just didn’t know how to communicate differently. She didn’t know how to help him, and she definitely didn’t know how much more she could take. “Please, show me what to do,” she prayed.
Just then, there was a knock at the door, and Henry stopped crying and looked up. Standing outside the door was the telephone repairman. Callie unhooked the door and said, “I am so glad you’re here.”
25
When Linden pulled up in front of the old farmhouse the next morning, the sun was just peeking over the hill but a gently disheveled gentleman with white hair was already outside pulling weeds. He had the scholarly appearance of an Ivy League alum, but when Linden greeted him as Mr. Thompson, he held up his hand. “Please, Linden, call me Fairbanks.” He wiped his hands on his wrinkled khaki pants, took off his round tortoiseshell glasses, rubbed them on the tattered T-shirt that hung carelessly below his threadbare white oxford, and reached out to shake hands, his blue eyes twinkling in the sunlight. Completing his outfit were gray argyle socks and worn buck shoes. So this is how a writer lives, Linden thought. They walked over and leaned against the split rail fence in the hazy sunshine to talk about the project.
“I don’t want it to be perfect,” Fairbanks said, absentmindedly taking off his glasses again and holding them up to the light. “No string lines or anything like that. I’d just like it to be restored to its original purpose: maintaining pastures and keeping in animals.” Linden nodded, and Fairbanks suggested they walk a bit of the property so he could show Linden what he meant. “The frozen ground swell has damaged the wall, pushing the stones off and spilling the upper boulders into the sun,” he said, pointing to a clutch of stones that had fallen on the grass.
Linden smiled. “Frost.”
Fairbanks studied Linden and chuckled at his new friend’s pun. “Yes, Frost and frost!”
Fairbanks Thompson was a nature editorialist, and his contributions to the New York Times were legendary among his peers, and well-loved by his readers. He’d also written several best-selling books, but he’d just begun considering retirement when his publisher suggested he write a memoir. The old man had been mulling the idea over while visiting friends in New England when he stumbled upon, and fell in love with, the old Dublin farmhouse. It was the perfect setting, he decided, to write a memoir.
When Linden and Fairbanks returned to the house, they shook hands again and Fairbanks said he’d be inside, trying to write, if Linden needed anything. As Linden climbed back into his truck, he called after him. “Young man, what do you know of Harlow’s Pub?”
Linden smiled. “It’s good.”
The old gentleman nodde
d, running his hand through his untamed mane. “I have friends coming,” he explained, his voice trailing off.
Linden waved as he pulled away. He drove up through the pastures and parked in the shade. When he climbed out, he looked back down at the farmhouse, feeling a bit envious of the writer’s lifestyle. At one time, he’d dreamed of being an artist. In high school he had been the kid that drew all the posters for the school plays; in fact, he still had several of them tucked away in an old portfolio. His favorite was the one he’d designed for Our Town. It was a montage with a small New England town in the background, and on the lower left, the narrator was speaking and motioning with his hands; on the right side, Emily and George were walking together, and George was tossing a ball into the air. Everyone at the high school had raved about the poster and his ability to capture his classmates’ likenesses. Several people had even asked him to sign their copies. After that, he’d been voted class artist, but when he mentioned going to art school instead of a liberal arts college, his mother wouldn’t hear of it. He could still hear the derision in her voice. “What in the world would you do with an art degree?” she’d asked. In the end, much to her dismay, he’d ended up with no degree at all.
The day was hazy and hot, and Linden pulled his T-shirt over his head and dropped it onto the sunny grass. As he surveyed the wall, he noticed that every stone had a unique map of moss and lichen and, from the pattern, he could almost guess its previous position on the wall. He was glad Fairbanks didn’t want him to use string. A true New England wall wasn’t perfect. It wandered along where it was needed, its path determined by the landscape. If it encountered a tree, it went around it, and then it continued to follow the lay of the land.
Linden worked steadily, and by late morning his stomach was rumbling. He usually packed a couple of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, but that morning he’d realized, too late, that he was out of bread, so he’d made a quick stop at the deli and treated himself to a ham and Swiss grinder with lettuce, tomato, mustard, and mayo. It was a welcome change and he devoured it quickly, washing it down with a quart of orange Gatorade. His voracious appetite had not diminished at all since high school, and sometimes he worried that, if his metabolism ever slowed down, he’d balloon into a much larger version of himself. He sighed, popped the second of three Oreos in his mouth, and decided he didn’t need to worry about that just yet. While munching on the last Oreo, he looked up at the endless summer sky and wondered what Callie was doing at that moment. He’d told her he’d be home in the late afternoon if she wanted to leave Henry with him, but she had seemed reluctant. Maybe he’d swing by on his way home and see if she’d changed her mind. It had been so good to see her; and one thing was certain. . . she was as beautiful as ever.