Molly remained subdued through the meal. Later, she took one of the babies from Ed and sat next to Rosie on the sofa. Studying the child's tiny fingers, she found herself gripped with an intense longing.
“Whatta you thinking about?” asked Rosie.
Molly turned to her and smiled wanly.“Oh, just about how nice little babies are. Just look at this wonderful, perfect, little hand.”
Driving back out to the farm in Newfield, Molly sat quietly in the car recalling that previous, bleak Thanksgiving and how she had spent it alone imagining Danny's bones being gathered up by the police and submitted for DNA testing. But this, in its own cruel way, was worse, far worse. Without the old man, Daniel didn’t have a chance. And this time it was her doing! There was no one else in the world to blame.
Without the lights of the city, the countryside seemed blanketed in unrelieved darkness. There was little to see but what was revealed by the cone of headlights: cold pavement with a light dusting of snow, naked trees, stretches of wind-whipped fields and blank emptiness. They drove on past a caved-in barn, a lone trailer with a bare porch light, an ancient truck without wheels abandoned at the edge of the road.
“I’ve made so many mistakes,” whispered Molly in the darkness of the car.“What I wanted was for Danny to fit in. Fit in,” she reiterated bitterly.“How could I have been so dumb?”
Tripoli didn’t know what to say. At least she was finally talking. Since they had moved from the trailer and packed away Daniel's things into the attic, she hadn’t uttered his name. Tripoli reached over and took her hand, held it as they traveled home together.
Molly spent her days fixing up the house. First she cleaned, giving the place a thorough scrubbing. The house had been long neglected; the kitchen was coated with an ancient layer of grime that predated Tripoli's occupancy; sometimes it took the flat blade of a spackling knife to peel up the layers of grease. But she kept at it. When the room felt sufficiently clean, she started painting, first the kitchen walls, then the worn faces of the cabinets.
Outside the farmhouse the weather seemed ever more chaotic. Some days it was so cold that it was painful just to venture out for a quick armload of wood. Then, overnight, the temperature would start to rise and by noon it would be fifty, sometimes even sixty degrees. The snow would melt and Molly would be out in shirt sleeves cleaning up dead branches in the yard, only to wake up the next morning to see that a heavy snow storm had hit during the night.
Each evening, when Tripoli came home from the station, he found the kitchen table set and a warm meal waiting. He would quickly tend to the animals, and then they would sit down to dinner. Molly made him soups with potatoes and leeks, spicy risottos, pastas with eggplant and mushrooms. She even started baking her own bread. It was all wonderfully tasty, all vegetarian—just terrific.
Molly started avidly reading the daily newspapers Tripoli brought home from work. The papers were peppered with stories about the extreme fluctuations in the weather patterns and the continued speculation about the effects of global warming. Of course, it got her thinking about Daniel, who was never far from her thoughts.
“The warming,” he had said, the day of the tornado, gazing up at the big yacht perched on the top of West Hill.
“But how did you know?”
“I could feel it.”
Molly wondered if she, too, could learn to sense the coming weather. Could anyone? Was it somehow there if you simply opened your mind's eye, as Wally Schuman had written?
For the first time since moving out to the farm, Molly picked up her journal, read back through it, then started writing in it again. She wrote about her hike with Daniel through the ancient gorge near Taughannock Falls and how he had known about the ice-age glaciers that had created this remarkable topography, about the Indians who had farmed this land and tended apple orchards. And she recalled his ominous warning about what appeared to be transpiring in the world around her.“Unless we do something,” he had warned,“something terrible is going to happen to us.”Was it already in progress? she wondered.
“What's that you’re writing?” asked Tripoli one evening, coming up from behind her as she sat hunched over her notebook.
“Oh, it's nothing,” she said, quickly closing the book.
“Come on, let me see.”
“Oh, it's just some random thoughts,” she said, stuffing the book into a drawer.
“I just hope to God you’re not writing about me or our sex life,” he said with a wink.
“Don’t flatter yourself,” she said with a faint smile.
On Daniel's sixth birthday, Tripoli decided to pay up Molly's lapsed insurance. He also got her car relicensed, inspected, and back on the road. “It's not good to be just stuck out here brooding,” he said, gently. “Maybe you want to get out a little bit.”
Molly thought about Daniel's birthday. She had missed his fifth and now this one, too. Two birthdays in a row that poor Danny was without his mother. It got her thinking about his birthmark, and she dug out the photos of Matthew that Tripoli still hung on to. Enlarging the image with a magnifying glass, she all but gasped when she saw the striking similarity.
Molly mustered up the courage to face people again. The city was busy with last-minute Christmas shoppers. The downtown was strung with colored lights and decorations, and there were bell ringers in front of the bank and the sheepskin store. She picked up supplies from Bishop's hardware, and then went to Wegman's to relieve Tripoli from the task of grocery shopping. After her long absence, it seemed strange to be in traffic, to see people bustling around the stores, to bump into the students that clogged the aisles and checkout lines. Life continued to move on, she realized, with or without her. She could either become a part of it again, or remain aloof. A hermit, she thought, and then laughed sadly.
“I’m back driving my car,” she wrote in her journal.“Maybe it's good for me to get out, but the car suddenly feels as big as a boat. I’m just another person adding to the problem. What I wonder about is, what can I do now to lessen the harm that I’ve done? What would Danny want me to do?”
Molly finished painting the living room and then started on the dining room. Tripoli's farm house, she thought, was really a gem in the rough. The frame was constructed of heavy hand-hewn timbers, and the high-ceilinged rooms all had old chestnut trim and wainscoting. A handsome wooden staircase with beautiful hand-carved spindles led to the upstairs rooms, some of which were almost palatial in size. After years in a tiny trailer, it felt as though she were living in a mansion. And all the house needed, she saw, was some stripping and painting and polishing to bring out its inherent beauty.
In fact, the more she threw herself into work, the better she felt. Her strength was returning and she was gaining back the weight she had lost. And with these changes, the ardor she had felt for Tripoli slowly returned. She came to look forward to their lovemaking in the evenings after dinner or in the early mornings when they embraced in a state of blissful half-sleep. One Sunday they stayed in bed the entire day. They made love in the morning and then Tripoli brought her breakfast. They lounged in bed, reading the Sunday paper, then made love in the afternoon. Then did it yet again in the early evening when the sun had gone down and the stars twinkled through the bedroom window. Long after their lovemaking had exhausted them, Molly continued to cling to him as though, in the velvet darkness of winter, she were trying to absorb him.
“Do you think we’re setting a record?” asked Tripoli with a laugh.
“Hush,” she said, planting her fingers on his lips as if they might lose the moment.“Don’t talk. No words. I just want to feel you.”
Wally Schuman showed up on a Tuesday afternoon right before Christmas while Tripoli was still in town. It was the day of another heavy snow, and the driveway was so deep that he had to leave his car on the main road. His red goatee was encrusted with ice and he looked frozen.
“Come in quick,” said Molly, as the snow blew in through the door.
Stamping hi
s feet and removing his boots, Wally explained that he had run into Tripoli in the courthouse and had inquired about how Molly was doing.“The roads didn’t look so bad when I started out in town,” he confessed, rubbing his red hands to get them warm.
After Molly made him some hot tea, he sat by the stove slowly drying out, steam coming off his wet clothes.
“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself about Daniel,” he said, sipping the hot tea.
“I suppose what's done is done, and I can’t undo it.”
“Well, at the very least, I think Daniel got people thinking about the effects of their actions on the Earth. And that's a good start.” He then went into the reason for his visit. The Journal was short staffed. Knowing that Molly had worked as an editor at the magazine and… “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to try your hand on a few pieces. I’ve got to warn you that it doesn’t pay much.”
“Did Tripoli put you up to this?”
He looked genuinely surprised. “No. No. This was my idea entirely.”
“And I was the only writer in town that came to mind,” she smiled and wondered if Tripoli had been sneaking peeks at her journal. Deep down he was, after all, a nosy cop.
“Well,” Wally admitted, “I do have another motive, too. I still think a lot about Danny…Daniel.” He held his hands over the stove, stretching his fingers, examined them, and then shifted his gaze to Molly. “I’m convinced he was destined to return to the woods again,” he said looking her in the eye. “Maybe not as early as this. Maybe not to face the forest alone. But I think that what happened to Daniel was not your doing,” he said with a warm and generous smile.“And I think people need to understand that. And not just for your sake, but for the town's.”
The change in Molly was obvious to Tripoli, though he didn’t dare mention it for fear her state of well-being might simply evaporate. She seemed to be in a continuous state of metamorphosis. She certainly wasn’t the same woman he had met that fateful day he had taken on the case of her missing son. The edges to her personality had been rounded, and in their place was a seamless acceptance of life and its vagaries, an understanding that small pleasures and rewards were momentary and fleeting, and needed to be taken where and when one found them. Even Molly's body had changed, he noticed. Her thighs and hips had taken on more womanly contours. Her face was filling out and her breasts seemed larger, more firm. What should have alerted him, eluded him, Tripoli who had no such experience before.
“I want to get rid of my car,” she said, and Tripoli looked at her surprised. “And I want you to get rid of yours, too. They’re both just polluting wrecks on wheels.”
“Okay,” he smiled. “Do I take a horse and buggy to get to work?”
“No, but…do you think we could afford one of those new hybrid cars?”
“Well…yeah…” he scratched his head.“I suppose so. But what about mine? The Caprice belongs to the department.”
“Get them to change, too.”
“You mean the whole fleet?”
“Why not? This is a progressive town, right? They’re always patting themselves on the back, saying how enlightened they are. Well, let them put their money where it counts.”
“It's not going to be easy convincing Matlin.”
“Go talk to the mayor. Common Council. You might be surprised.”
“You go talk to them.”
“Okay. I will. But first you talk to Matlin.”
Tripoli swallowed.
“Oh, come on. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”
“No,” he replied quickly,“of course not.”
They spent a quiet Christmas together. Tripoli had gone out and cut a small a tree, and they set it up and decorated it in the newly finished living room. She had knitted him a scarf and a pair of matching wool socks to go with it. Tripoli had dozens of gifts for her. Perfume and jewelry. A fancy nightgown that she couldn’t use until spring. A set of bath oils and a couple of cookbooks that he had found on sale.
Jewelry, she thought, out here in the sticks? Perfume? Though the gifts were a little inappropriate, she knew his sentiments were sincere. After Christmas dinner, they lay on the rug in front of the fireplace watching the flames dance and talked quietly about Daniel. “I wish Danny was with us,” she said, gazing at the tree. “He would have loved this. Just think of it,” she added wistfully. “The three of us together. Here.”
When Molly had finished sprucing up the dining room, stripping and varnishing all the woodwork, she went back to town to get material for curtains. The room called for something cheerful, colorful, perhaps in yellow and green. She found the perfect fabric in a sheer material that was on sale, and bought enough for all the downstairs rooms.
Then she headed over to City Hall where she had a morning meeting with the mayor.
“Danny's mother, of course!” said Mayor Rankin getting to his feet to take Molly's hand.“Please. Please sit down.” He offered her a chair.“I was going to call you, in fact. Chief Matlin called me about updating the fleet. It's funny how everything comes together at once,” he leaned back in his chair and played with his mustache.
“Oh?” she said, trying to disguise her surprise.
“A year ago, six months ago, if I had suggested replacing those tanks that pass as police cars I’d have been booed and thrown out of office. Now people seem to be receptive to the idea.”
“Why's that?” she asked.
“I think it's a lot of things.”
“Danny?”
“Well, yes. Among others. Certainly. Look, I’d like to ask a favor. You could make my job a lot easier.”
“What's that?”
“I’d like you speak to the Common Council.”
“But…But…” Molly stuttered.“But I’m not a speaker.”
“I think you’ll do just fine. And what I’m hoping to propose is not just replacing police cars, but all city vehicles.”
“Well, in that case…” said Molly.
“I knew you’d see it my way.” Mayor Rankin smiled and led her to the door.
As she was coming out of City Hall, she passed her old boss hurrying up the street. For an instant, she almost didn’t recognize him. Larry was clad in an expensive Italian suit largely hidden by a jauntily unbuttoned camel's hair coat. His hair was newly styled and brilliantly moussed. He was freshly tanned as if just back from a Caribbean vacation, and his skin seemed to glow. Hardly the down-at-the-heels businessman she might have anticipated, given Sandy's dire report.
“Larry,” she gulped, unable to hide her surprise.
He looked at her for a moment.“Oh, Molly. Molly. How are you doing?” he exclaimed cheerfully, as if they had seen each other only a day ago.“How's everything going? Are you working these days?”
She shook her head.
“Just hanging out, eh?”
She nodded.
“What a waste of talent,” he said with a smile she couldn’t quite read.“I always had big expectations for you.”
Strange, she thought, not a word about Danny. “I heard about the magazine,” she finally ventured.“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, that!” He flicked his hand and laughed.“That's already history. Didn’t you hear? I’ve just opened up a new firm. Internet marketing. Things are taking off again. You know,” he turned philosophical, “sometimes blessings come in disguise. You think you’re on the right track and—whoops,” he checked his watch.“I’m late for an appointment.” He started to move off. “But I definitely want to talk to you. Might have a key place for you in the organization,” he said, turning his head as he retreated into the distance. “How about lunch some time? Why don’t you give me a call? We’ll play catch-up. Gotta dash.” And then he was gone.
Molly liked living at the farmhouse. It took just a quick walk through Tripoli's field, and she was deep in the Connecticut Hill wilderness. It felt right being in the country, and crunching through the ice-layered forest gave her solace, a sense of connection with Danny. Often, she wou
ld find herself talking to him, as if Danny were still there, close to her. She would tell him about her new life on the farm, about the toasty wood stove they had in the kitchen, how they were fixing up the house, finishing up all the rooms. How there was so much space—not like the old trailer. How life here was good and wholesome, and how she wished he were here with her to enjoy it.
On cold days, when the sun came out and the wind on the hilltop fell to a calm, the winter air became so still that Molly found she could hear for miles. She could hear the scurrying of squirrels on the icy ground, could make out the snap of twigs as a trio of deer stepped gingerly, nearly out of sight, through the distant woods. Here, high on the crest of the hill, if she listened she could hear the very bowels of the earth itself groaning and shifting under her feet, ever in motion as it had been for eons. Sometimes, when she spoke to Danny, she swore she thought she could detect traces of his voice, feel his presence, sense his eyes upon her.
She recalled the walks they had taken together and how Danny had sprung to life when they fled the office for the outdoors. In her mind's eye, she could still see him climbing the high hill behind the trailer park and prancing like a deer through the deep grass and wild flowers of summer. How little it had taken to make him happy! What a terrible mistake she had made in not moving out here with him right from the beginning. Oh, how he would have loved it here, might have grown and thrived here. This, after all, had been their dream before her faintheartedness in the face of uncertainty had insinuated itself into their life. Now, day by day, her surroundings, she realized, were transforming her: her view of life, of love, even her sense of her body was now different. Her period had skipped a month and she began to wonder.
THE LAST BOY Page 43