Watching the Sky Cry

by J. B. Hartnett

  My uncle chuckled at my attempt to make a joke. “How do you tell the difference now?”

  “One’s usually followed by sirens. Sometimes,” I added with a grin.

  He continued to laugh as we got closer to what I now knew was a full-sized school bus. “Is this yours?”

  “Ardie calls it ‘wishful thinking’.” He moved close, running his hand over the worn letters that read, Guerneville School District. “I’m thinking it was meant to be though.”

  “Oh yeah? Why’s that?” I had a burning desire to climb inside and finally open that emergency handle at the back window. All those school fieldtrips as a kid, I had to admit, I was always tempted to be the naughty kid who tripped fire alarms and disrupted the class. Alas, I was a good kid. Probably because my mom was a teacher at my school, and I respected her enough not to make her job any harder than it was.

  He moved to the side and pushed the bi-fold doors open. “Some guy in England converted a bus into an actual house. It’s narrow, and I’m thinking, after a while, it would get real old. But,” he said, holding his hand out to take me inside. Then he took a mini Maglite from his pocket and shined it around. “I’ve gutted it, so if you can picture what it would look like with a small kitchenette, drop the floor where the steering wheel is, you can fit a queen-size bed. The ‘tiny home’ movement has given me a lot of ideas…” He went on and on, but not only did I clearly see his vision, I saw a vision of my own.

  He stopped and shined the flashlight toward my face. “Think you can handle it?”

  “Handle what?” I asked.

  “Think you can handle turning a bus into a hotel room? I’m sure we’re just a stopping point for you, as much as your dad wants you to stay here.” He looked away as he went on. “I just assumed that, with the drama you had here last time, it wouldn’t be the kind of place you’d stay long-term.” Then his eyes returned to me. “Anyway, it’s their dream,” he said, shining the light toward the end of the bus. “Not yours. But, however long you’re gonna be here, I have my eye on a couple more. So as long as you’re here, I can keep you busy.” He winked.

  I thought about it as I walked the length of the bus, the hollowed metal sound echoing with each step, and nodded as I gave my firm answer. “I can do this, Uncle Lee.” I may not have been a trained interior designer, but I wanted this project so badly, I could taste it. It was the perfect job to throw myself into while I figured out what was next for me.

  “I know you can,” he said. “I figure, we’ll start with one. It’ll cost more than the cabins, have more privacy, plus I already have it zoned; just need to get the plumbing and electrical out here. Was also thinking of building an en suite off the back with a Jacuzzi tub or something. But we’ll see how it goes. Got a guy who can get me a couple more…”

  “I can do this,” I told him again. “I would love to do this.”

  “Ardie wants to teach you how to process the bookings. We have a service that cleans the cottages, but we want to redecorate them and maybe build six more. And, hopefully by next summer, we’re opening a ‘garden café.’” He emphasized the words with air quotes as if he thought the idea sounded lame. But I knew my aunt and knew whatever her idea was, he’d do anything to make it a reality. “What I’m saying is, we have work for you. We’d have to hire someone anyway. I’d rather it be family.”

  I was happy, too, and the way I conveyed this to my uncle…

  “I think we can market it as a honeymoon, or even a wedding destination. It’s unique, and wineries abound, like, everywhere. And if I offer a free weekend to the bridal magazines and planners in exchange for advertising? It’ll be a success, Uncle Lee. And you know, I just read this whole thing about tiny homes, too. Very trendy. These’ll give people a taste for them without committing to actually buying one themselves.”

  He smiled at me, not the grin I was used to. This was something I’d only seen on him once, the same regretful smile he’d given me at the airport when I was fifteen. “Wish I could erase the pain for you, baby girl.”

  “Please,” I whispered in the darkened, hollow shell of the bus.

  “But we love you; you know we love you. And we’re here for you, whatever you need. You just ask. Billy, your mom and dad, Ardie…you gave ‘em a scare, Ry. Think you know that.”

  I moved through the door and stepped back outside. I needed air, to breathe, to think…

  “Rylie.”

  I turned and listened, but didn’t give him my eyes. But I did tell him what I needed and wanted him to hear.

  “I’ve talked and talked and talked. My parents made me talk to a therapist, and I did. I had before anyway…after… Thing is, Uncle Lee…” I swallowed down the emotion and forged ahead. “I thought I lost him once. It’s like I’d experienced the loss already. Lost our baby, sat by his bedside and prayed so fucking hard he’d just open his eyes and come back to me. I just…” I breathed again, my breath hitching before I could go on.

  “You just what?”

  I shook my head. “The second time, he didn’t open his eyes.”

  As hard as I’d fought the emotions, there they were, laid bare like winter trees bereft of leaves. Uncle Lee kept my hand held in his while I cried it out. Then, after a few minutes, he gave it a squeeze. “Dinner’s probably done. You ready to eat?”

  “Yeah,” I replied and wiped beneath each eye.

  “You’re home for now, Rylie.”

  And looking all around me, he was not wrong. “Yeah.”

  I was home, surrounded by a kind of beauty I never thought I would see again. Two years ago, even six months ago, I could’ve been standing right where I was now and felt nothing. My world had been darkness, stale air, and cardboard trees. Nothing felt alive, least of all me. And I’d never felt more alone. I’d walk past a couple holding hands and envy their happiness. How could they be so cruel and careless with their smiles and laughter?

  But finally, I could see the majesty of nature, the unfathomable height of the redwoods, the variations of green on leaves and grass, and I could feel it in my bones. I didn’t have to fear the sensation. I would be okay, as long as I was in the arms of the trees, the meadows, the river, and the guidance of the people who loved me.

  SIX

  I’d stayed in the cottages more times than I could count. Every Christmas, Easter, and summer, my parents had a cottage, and Billy and I shared one next to them. I couldn’t express how happy I was they hadn’t changed. With the exception of rewiring and redecorating back in the eighties, they’d maintained a rustic charm, complete with squeaking screen doors, wood burning fireplaces, and paned, storybook windows.

  Since leaving Southern California at the end of August, I made a habit of writing Nick a postcard on the first of the month. It was my way of taking my emotional pulse. When I was done, I placed each one on the tiny brick mantelpiece of cottage four, never to see a stamp.

  When he was first gone, there were days I missed him so much I couldn’t breathe. That was why I’d gone back to work. It was easier than having to deal with the myriad of emotions that came my way every five seconds. My first week at the cottage, I was surprised when hours had gone by and not once had I thought of him. I assumed it was because I didn’t have the house to bombard me with memories. Then the hours turned to days. Then weeks. And I eventually had to come to terms with the guilt of moving on. But the pain had dulled into the distance and found a comfortable corner of my heart. Last June marked two years since I’d lost him. Nick would be with me, always, but he wouldn’t want me to keep some kind of futile candle in the window, hoping for his return one day.

  I knew this, because I wouldn’t want that for him.

  My parents came up for Thanksgiving, allowing me time to settle in over those first months of autumn. But after we celebrated pilgrims and Indians and turkey, they promised to return in four weeks for Christmas. Finally, by February, I’d been at the little cottage over five months, long enough to know it was time to get my own place. I loved the
cottages, and I loved being close to my aunt and uncle. I didn’t have the pressure of paying bills or taking out the garbage bins. More importantly, it gave me a chance to get my head straight without any other responsibilities. But the close proximity meant I could hear everything. From trumpeting flatulence to cries of passion, each one pushed me closer to finding my own home.

  Those first six months, I forced myself into a routine, going to town, eating at a restaurant—even though I had most meals with my aunt and uncle—but, I thought it was good for me to have these little rituals, things normal people did and I’d do when I had my own place. I had yet to conquer the grocery store, because it wasn’t open twenty-four hours. But that would come in time. I smiled and was friendly with the people in town. Some I recognized, some knew me immediately and asked after my aunt and uncle. Still, I hadn’t taken the mammoth step to make friends.

  Until one day, only two weeks ago, I walked past the window of one of the real estate offices in town. I skimmed pictures of apartments, thinking I’d just rent until I found something I loved. So when my eyes stopped on what could only be called my dream home, I was shocked, thinking it couldn’t be that easy.

  But it was.

  “Hi there!” a lovely blond woman greeted.

  “The two-story shingled place…is it still for sale?”

  “Oh my… Rylie? God, you’re Rylie Truscott! I remember you! I’m Lucy! I used to crush so hard on your brother.”

  And just like that, it was easy to make a new friend. After a phone call to their other office in Healdsburg, she drove me up the winding road herself. We stopped for coffee along the way, and Lucy explained she’d been a hospice nurse until three years ago. She said she just couldn’t handle it anymore, and that’s why she went for her real estate license.

  Her previous career opened the door for me to tell her about Nick, what those final months had been like, and, for the first time, probably ever, I felt like someone really understood what I’d been through.

  We sat with our coffees on the deck upstairs, casually talking while we waited for the seller’s agent. “Yep, the pictures didn’t lie.” I smiled.

  There were three decks in total. One off the master bedroom upstairs, one off the living room downstairs, and one off the kitchen, also downstairs. In short, it was raw wood and open beams, a place that made you feel as if the outdoors and indoors shook hands and patted each other on the back when you walked in or out.

  If I’d had any doubts, there was one feature, an octagonal window with divided panes, that reminded me of a kaleidoscope. Such a small thing, but it sold me on the place. “That window clinched it. I hope it works out,” I said, voicing my giant concern to her.

  “I don’t work with this agent much. The other office handles the more, well…” Her eyes took in the five great windows of the upstairs landing. “Let’s just say, prestigious properties. The owner of this place has a few in the area. Custom builds.” She sipped her coffee then turned her attention back to me. “Can I ask you a question?”

  “Sure.” I smiled and waited.

  “After what happened with, um, Quentin, all those years ago, why’d you choose this place?” she asked.

  Of course, I’d briefly told her about Quentin, though she didn’t seem surprised. I looked at my knees, keeping my focus on anywhere but her, and shrugged.

  “It felt like the right thing to do. I knew my aunt and uncle would probably give me a job. But really, that’s an excuse. I can’t pin it down, but I knew coming here would somehow heal me.” And so far, I hadn’t been wrong about that.

  “Rylie…” Her voice was hesitant, but the sound of a car parking in the driveway below us stopped whatever she was about to say. “That’ll be the agent.”

  “Was there something—?”

  “Not important.” She grinned. “It’ll wait.”

  The substantial paperwork was almost as daunting as the prospect of buying bath towels and furniture, but I fought the anxiety, knowing I could back out, even though it would cost me. But also knowing I would never change my mind.

  “Lucky for you, my client wants to get rid of this place.” The agent seemed a little snippy to me, but maybe I was just being sensitive. “I’ll have the rest of the paperwork for you in a few days. Shall I send that to your aunt and uncle’s place?” I wasn’t imagining it. Though she was extremely beautiful, every enunciated word was staccato and curt.

  “Yes, that would be fine.” It was then I tried to win her over. “I’m sorry, we weren’t really introduced. I’m Ry—”

  She sounded exasperated as she stacked the papers in a tidy pile on the kitchen counter and said, “I know exactly who you are, Ms. Truscott.”

  I hazarded a glance toward Lucy, who gave me a bug-eyed and silent, “I have no idea.”

  Alyssa, the agent, scooped up her purse, the formal offer papers, and headed toward the door. “Please lock up when you’re done here, Lucy. The seller asked for a two-month close. If your financing goes through, you should have the keys in eight weeks. Congratulations.”

  She hadn’t meant that last part at all.

  Lucy and I stood there in awkward silence until I heard the car start below. “Is this place haunted or something?” I joked. “Did I say something wrong?”

  “Have you and Alyssa met before?”

  “Not that I know of,” I replied. “Maybe the sale before mine didn’t go through or something. Or maybe she’s just having a really, really bad day.”

  I’d had plenty of those.

  “Yeah, maybe. If she wasn’t my superior, I’d tell on her. But hey, this is all yours, and it’s a great house.”

  I loved her enthusiasm.

  So, armed with consumer confidence, I said goodbye to the new house and hoped the mortgage gods, and fate, were smiling down on me.

  ****

  The following day, I endured a scolding from my dad, who said I should have taken Uncle Lee with me before I signed the papers. But I explained it was done, he had to get over it, and more importantly, come and see it in two months. I hadn’t even begun to think of buying a single thing for the new place, mostly because I was knee-deep in the bus renovation.

  So far, I’d only contacted two publications, and one, Bay Bride, had accepted my offer of a weekend getaway in exchange for a review. That little achievement prompted Uncle Lee to buy two more buses with Aunt Ardie’s blessing.

  While my plans for the two new buses took shape, Lucy, in her not-so-subtle way, informed me I was a waste of “hot ass.” I’d kept my head down, learned the ins and outs of the cottages, and helped my aunt whenever I could. It was easy to fall into this new life, solitude my happy companion, but definitely not a distraction. I knew where I was and what I was doing, very much back to living once again.

  So, for the second time in roughly two-and-a-half years, I fixed my unruly hair into big, smooth waves, just like I’d done for my night out with John. It was a look that might have appeared natural, but took me two hours to perfect. My makeup felt so foreign, I assumed it was what a wall felt like when it was spackled. I’d gained back the weight I’d lost, and then some, so I filled out every article of dated clothing I’d brought with me, necessitating a hurried trip to the local mall.

  With new, black jeans, a slinky top that screamed Hello tits! And a pair of black cowboy boots I decided needed a new home with me, I was finally ready.

  The bang on the cottage door was followed by Lucy walking right in, bringing the crisp March air with her. My friend didn’t just walk into a room; she arrived. Her confidence almost outshined her natural beauty. One of those girls who didn’t need makeup at all. She threw on some jeans, heels, and red lipstick, and looked like a model.

  “Ready?” She inspected my outfit from hair to boots. “Wow, those boots are killer. I’m gonna need to borrow those.”

  Regardless of my love for them, I wasn’t quite there with footwear confidence. “You don’t think they’re too much?” I picked up the other two pairs of
boots I owned and a pair of black stilettos I feared might result in a broken ankle.

  She surveyed my boots again and declared, “Cowboys on your feet means cowboys in your bed.”

  I stifled a laugh. “Did you just make that up?”

  “I did, but it’s also a theory I tested, and it just so happens to be true. Let’s hit it.”

  As we left, I saw Uncle Lee talking to one of the guests a few cottages down. It was the perfect distraction for me to have a second alone.

  “I’ll meet you at the car. I think I forgot my lipstick. I’ll lock up and say hey to my uncle.”

  “Okay,” she replied as she walked away, her hand scrolling up and down the screen of her phone. I moved into the tiny, main room of the cottage and looked at my growing stack of postcards. I’d placed a small teacup and saucer next to them, a candle inside the cup, and my weddings rings hidden underneath. I had a little ritual when I added a postcard, lighting the candle and sending out a prayer. I’d told John I didn’t believe, but that was a lie. I always hoped my prayer reached Nick, wherever he was. But tonight was different than my one night with John. I knew in my bones tonight was a turning point.

  “It’s time,” I said toward the mantle as I leaned down and grabbed my purse.

  And, in only another hour or so, I’d learn that timing…

  Was everything.

  ****

  The Boon was a local bar hidden away on the edge of town. There were no signs, and, from the outside, it looked like some abandoned, forgotten business. But once you walked in, it was a typical roadhouse. The clientele was mixed, and it wasn’t hard to single out the owners of the Harleys lined up outside. But since the advent of TV shows dedicated to motorcycle clubs, I imagined these men were corporate weekend road warriors rather than rough, drug cartel-type, gun-toting MC members. Everyone looked comfortable, local, probably worked a day job in The City, maybe Oakland or San Jose, anywhere along 101. And all they wanted was to blow off steam, have a few beers, and listen to good music.