The House on Creek Road

by Caron Todd

  Eleanor smiled. “The ones with the chewy centers.”

  “I’m so angry with him, Grandma.” Her voice came out in a near whisper.

  Eleanor looked startled. “With your grandfather?”

  “With Andy.” The words sat in the air in front of her, as solid as rocks. Lightning didn’t strike.

  “That’s not such a surprise. He did a foolish thing, with disastrous results.”

  Still no lightning.

  “You’ve spent so much energy not facing this, Elizabeth. A person could build a pyramid with that determination. You weren’t so fearful when you were a child. You always waded into a situation, doing whatever you thought was right—”

  “Whatever I thought was right,” Liz repeated. “I was wrong half the time.”

  “Still, it was a side of you I liked.”

  Liz felt a twinge of pain at her grandmother’s use of the past tense.

  “Do you remember when you were quite small— Jennifer’s age—you told me about some boys you saw tormenting a snake in the school yard. They were older than you, but you weren’t afraid of them and you weren’t afraid of the snake. You just gave them what-for and carried the snake to safety in the woods.”

  “Good thing it wasn’t poisonous.”

  “We don’t have any poisonous snakes around here. But you didn’t know that, and you didn’t give it a moment’s thought.”

  “I should have.”

  Eleanor’s voice grew impatient. “I’m trying to show you something with a parable or whatever, and all you can do is argue.”

  Liz stared at the table, ashamed of herself but unable to cooperate.

  “Look at that face. Exactly the same face you made when you were three and in the wrong and knew it and were determined to stay there. Sometimes I wonder if we ever grow up at all. We get bigger and pretend to be wiser…”

  Liz managed a smile. “I did understand your parable.”

  “Well, that’s a start.”

  She’d made such a mess of things. Hugging anger to herself like a prize. What had she thought? That time wasn’t passing? That her life had a reset button? Her grandmother was right. It was time to get over it. Maybe that was the real reason she’d come home.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LIZ WASN’T SURE WHAT GETTING over it entailed, but during the next few days she tried. Each morning, regardless of what the illuminated dial of her wind-up clock told her, she jumped right up, feet warm in the socks she’d worn all night, and dressed quickly, pulling on one of the thick sweaters she’d found in boxes under the eaves. So many sweaters, mostly hand-knitted, cardigans and pullovers, adults’ and children’s, a history almost as expressive as the family photo albums. She got to the kitchen long before her grandmother, turned on a soft light that made the outside even blacker and started a fire in the woodstove. Before making breakfast, she had a hot drink. She was developing a taste for Eleanor’s instant coffee.

  She liked being up and productive in the dark morning, in the gradually warming kitchen, with only the dogs for company. The first day she made eggs and sausages and pan fried potatoes, just like Jack, only she was up early enough to cook it from scratch. The next, she dug around in the pantry and freezer and served Eleanor’s home canned peaches and warmed biscuits, a dense, sweet kind she remembered from when she was little, flavored with sour cream and nutmeg. The third morning she made porridge with chopped apple and cinnamon.

  “Here you are again, my dear. How long have you been awake?”

  “I didn’t look at the clock. Not long.” Liz moved the simmering kettle back onto the heat. The table was already set, including a bowl of brown sugar and jugs of milk and cream. Three baskets from a collection she’d found in the pantry sat in a row in the middle of the table, lined with white cotton napkins and filled with apples and oranges. She whipped the kettle off the stove at the first suggestion of a whistle.

  Eleanor took a deep, appreciative sniff when Liz put a bowl of hot cereal in front of her. “It smells like apple crisp. And the table looks lovely. You found my baskets.”

  Liz carried her bowl of oatmeal to the table. “There was a whole collection on one of the lower shelves in the pantry. Fifteen or twenty of them, all different sizes.”

  Eleanor moved the napkin so she could feel the edge of the basket closest to her. “Still solid. We made them, you know. My sisters and I.”

  “You made these baskets?”

  “Hats, too. From straw during harvest.”

  “Did you really?” Liz took a closer look at the weave. “How?”

  “It’s quite simple. Time consuming, although nothing really seemed time consuming then. Things just took as long as they took. We soaked the stalks in water so they’d be pliable, then we split them length-ways and pressed them flat. When they were dry, we wove them together.”

  She made the steps sound easy. Liz looked at the row of baskets, thinking of all the others in the cupboard. “That’s a lot of straw stalks.” Eleanor had a whole world of experience tucked away inside. Who knew how many generations before her had prepared and woven straw? No one else in the family could do it now.

  “Elizabeth?”

  “Yes, Grandma?”

  Eleanor looked at her steadily for a moment. “Are you managing, dear?”

  Liz nodded vigorously. Her grandmother had worried about her long enough. “I’m putting things in perspective.”

  “Are you really? I only see the same strained face I’ve seen all week.”

  “This is what I look like. This is me on a good day.”

  Eleanor smiled. “I wish I could advise you better than I have.”

  “Grandma, you’ve been wonderful.”

  Both women concentrated on their porridge. Heart to heart talks weren’t a usual part of the Robb repertoire, and they’d had several. Eleanor seemed embarrassed whenever another one loomed. “I’m sure you know about the importance of sufficient sleep and fresh air, good food and exercise.”

  “All things you’ve been trying to make me do since I got here.” Liz hesitated. If she couldn’t convince her grandmother she was doing fine, she might as well say what was bothering her.

  “My problem is taking that step, the one where you move from being furious with people to being not furious. I just can’t do it.”

  Eleanor added a little more cream and brown sugar to her cereal. “My father would have applauded you. Once someone earned his distrust, he believed in keeping an eye on that person for life.”

  “So I come by the impulse honestly.”

  “My mother didn’t agree with him, though. Not completely. She believed in keeping an eye on people who gave her a reason, but she also thought she should give them another chance.”

  It was a smaller step, one Liz might be able to take.

  “Of course, that calls for time and a certain amount of togetherness. It’s difficult to do long distance.”

  Liz almost laughed. Her grandmother was more subtle than her uncle, but she was beginning to wonder if they had the same goal. They seemed so sure home and family could fix whatever ailed you. Where did they find that certainty? She wasn’t sure of anything. Every time she got her feet under her, something spun out of control again. It was like playing Blind Man’s Bluff or Pin the Tail on the Donkey…she was always dizzy and in the dark and unsure where she was going. The oddest thing now was how content she was to be here. Her visit had passed the two week mark a few days ago, but leaving for Vancouver was the last thing on her mind.

  JACK HADN’T SAID anything outright about fresh air, exercise or keeping busy, but he came by to take Liz out each afternoon. He didn’t mention Andy or ask why in the world she was hanging on to something that had happened so long ago. She was aware that he felt more for her than compassion and that it might be unfair to lean on him, but she couldn’t deny herself the comfort he offered.

  They went skating on the creek one day and to Pam’s classroom to see the children’s finished books the next. Today t
hey were going to visit the Christmas tree field. Of course, it looked exactly the same as it had the last time they’d seen it, but now that he was the renter, and not a suspected trespasser, Jack wanted to show it to Liz again.

  They drove, even though it was walking distance, continuing north on the road that followed Eleanor’s property line. Bella and Dora lay on a pile of burlap sacks in the back of the truck, sensibly keeping their heads down, out of the cold. The municipality hadn’t scattered salt or sand, so the snow looked as clean as it had the day it fell. Rows of tracks wound in and out of the ditches, proof that deer were still in the area.

  Jack turned onto the access bridging the ditch and stopped at a barbed wire fence. The concern Liz saw in his face whenever he looked at her disappeared when he turned to the parcel of land that Eleanor had said was his for as long as he wanted. She hadn’t offered to sell it to him yet, but Liz thought she was close.

  “You can see why this is such a good location.”

  “I’m not sure I can.”

  “There’s a bit of a slope facing north—balsams like that. It means the field would warm up slowly in the spring, so new growth wouldn’t start before the last frost.”

  “It’s close to the big creek, too.”

  “That might not be good in a really wet year, but it’ll give the trees some protection from drought. The surrounding woods will provide a windbreak. This road stays in good shape in all weather, so it should support the traffic for a choose and cut operation.”

  He pointed out a protected spot near the creek. “I’m planning to build a shack down there, with a woodstove, and keep a pot of cocoa simmering. People could go in to warm up, discuss which tree they want to cut. I thought I’d keep a section of the creek cleared so they could go skating, too.”

  “You could sell homemade decorations, get local craftspeople involved,” Liz said, catching his enthusiasm. “Oh! You could sell baking, the traditional treats a lot of people don’t have time to make anymore. Gingerbread men and plum pudding and mince tarts.”

  “That’s getting a little cuter than I envisioned. I’m seeing an outdoor experience.”

  “More shooting your own goose while you get your tree?”

  “Hm,” he said doubtfully. “More hide in a blind and take pictures of them.”

  “Oh, real he-man stuff. But Jack…an eight year wait.” Far into a future where she didn’t fit.

  “It’s not that long, Liz. Not with the other crops to see to in the meantime. The next six months will be hard, though. I want to see my field without snow. I want to start digging.” He backed up onto the road. “How about a hot drink at my place?”

  “Sounds good.”

  He checked the dogs through the cab’s rear window, then accelerated, heading south. Bella and Dora stood up when the truck turned down Jack’s driveway and jumped out as soon as it came to a stop. They rushed around the back of the house, following a set of footprints.

  “Company?” Liz asked.

  “I hope not. I think those are just my tracks.”

  They followed the dogs and found them sniffing around some foundation shrubs.

  “Mice?”

  “Probably. And other intruders.” Jack held back a few branches so Liz could see a plywood door. “That friend of mine who made you so uncomfortable the day I was in Brandon? This is how he got in. Under the addition and into the cellar, then up through the trapdoor in the kitchen.”

  She had assumed the friend had found a key. “What an odd thing to do. Most people would leave a note. ‘Sorry I missed you. Catch you next time.’”

  Jack’s face showed a mix of affection and aggravation. “Reid loves games. They’re a passion for him, to the extent that most people would say they’re not games anymore. Coming to my house when I’m not here, finding some convoluted way in, making sure I notice he did it…that’s all vintage Reid.”

  “And is that the game in itself? Or is there more to it?”

  Jack indicated the dogs, darting toward them, then leaping away. Dora used her nose to toss snow into the air, then bit the flakes as they came back down. “Think of Reid scampering around out there. He’s trying to interest me in playing.”

  Liz smiled at the picture. “Are you going to play?”

  “Reluctantly. I’ve prepared something that should keep him busy for a while.”

  She was curious about what that might be, but Jack didn’t elaborate. “He must have been poking around your place for a while to have found this way in.”

  “That bothers me, too.” He touched a gloved hand to her nose. “Let’s go in, Rudolph.”

  “What about the second man?” she asked on the way to the door. “You haven’t mentioned him.”

  He’d stiffened. It was hardly noticeable, but she always seemed to catch his changes of mood. “I don’t know who Reid brought with him.”

  “Well, that’s just plain rude. If I were you I wouldn’t go along with it.”

  “I’ve almost changed my mind several times.” He shrugged. “I guess I have a soft spot for Reid.”

  She hung her coat beside his on the hat stand. Jack added a couple of logs to the embers smoldering in the Franklin stove, then stood with his hands near the heat. He wouldn’t offer her coffee this late in the day. It was his contribution to solving her sleep problems. Liz went to the cupboard herself. “Do you have cocoa?”

  “How about warm milk?”

  “It’s not that late!”

  “I can froth it with the cappuccino machine, add a drop of vanilla and a sprinkle of nutmeg. Not so shabby. Sit by the stove and I’ll get it for you.”

  The dogs had already claimed the hearth, so Liz moved a chair as close to the stove as she could without disturbing them. As usual, the table was full of paperwork. Not just work this time. Handwritten music, too. “Do you write your own songs, Jack?”

  “If you’re using the word ‘songs,’ I’d have to say no.”

  She picked up one of the sheets. Enforced piano lessons were a murky part of her childhood. Mentally, she ran through a few bars of the music. “I guess I don’t remember how the notes should sound—this doesn’t seem all that tuneful.”

  He glanced at the paper she held. “That one’s an unfortunate experiment. A friend of mine told me that algebra is the basis of some modern compositions. I thought I’d give it a whirl.” He handed her a mug of steamed milk, fragrant with nutmeg. He’d made some for himself, too.

  The kitchen chairs were too close together. Liz’s body was still on a low hum from that light-hearted touch on the nose. It wasn’t right. Not for him, when her mind was half with Andy, and not for Andy. “Let’s sit in the living room.”

  She led the way. He’d started painting the week before and he’d already done nearly the whole downstairs, the same off-white everywhere. He said he liked the simplicity, and the way the shade changed in different light. “It’s really coming along in here, Jack. No nail holes is a good look for the room.”

  Jack pretended to throw a cushion at her.

  “Now all you need is a vacuum. Maybe I’ll get you one for Christmas.”

  “Will you be here at Christmas?”

  The question caught her by surprise. It shouldn’t have—there shouldn’t be any doubt that she’d be in her apartment or visiting her parents in White Rock. “I suppose not. I’ll have to leave your present with Grandma to put under your tree.” She chose the armchair so there was no chance of him ending up beside her. “When I called my landlord he asked how much longer I’d be away, and I couldn’t tell him. But I’ll have to go back eventually, won’t I?”

  “Not necessarily.”

  “Grandma and I will never finish going through her things. We haven’t even looked in the garage or the storehouse or the garden shed or the barn. There’s a limit to how much her life can be tidied up. I can either stop helping at some point, or I can stay forever, packing boxes and drinking tea.”

  “That sounds all right. As long as it’s herbal in the a
fternoon.” Jack smiled. “So, within reason, you’ve done all you came to do.”

  “There’s one thing I haven’t done.”

  “What’s that?”

  “I’ve never heard you play your guitar.”

  Jack put his mug on the coffee table. “At last, something I can fix!” He brushed past her to pick up the instrument and took it to the sofa, where he had lots of room for knees and elbows and the guitar’s long neck. As soon as he settled it over his leg and felt for the strings, she could see he played often. He ran his fingertips up and down, strumming variations on the scale.

  “It already sounds pretty, even when it’s just notes.”

  “I got my first guitar from a secondhand store off Henderson Highway. Fifteen dollars. That was a big chunk of my newspaper delivery earnings, so I thought my uncle would be mad. Luckily for me, it turned out he liked the sound, too.”

  A moment later Liz recognized “Silent Night.” It was beautiful on guitar, the instrument it had been written for originally, when the organ in a German church broke down for Christmas Eve. Jack played three verses, then moved without pausing to music that sounded Spanish, then to a sixties folk song. The music stopped her thinking. It was a relief to have her mind quiet.

  A few bars into a new piece, she realized he was playing a simplified Beethoven sonata. “Pathetique.” She only knew what it was because she had tried to learn it in the last year of her piano lessons. Even then, botched and clumsy, it had touched her. Funny how some music made you feel the worst and the best at once, the saddest of possibilities and the most hopeful. His long fingers brushed the strings, and the notes fell one by one on the air, peaceful and sorrowful at the same time.

  When it stopped, Liz heard herself say, “I didn’t tell you everything about the night Andy died.”

  “Oh?” Jack sat still, the guitar quiet on his leg.

  Now she couldn’t say it. It was the one thing she’d never admitted. She’d always known it was there, the monster at the back of the closet, but she’d refused to look at it all this time. It made the whole story a lie.