No Coming Back

by Jessie Salisbury

  Ken stopped again and took another swallow of his water to regain a measure of composure. “Rich and Dad kept on arguing for a few minutes, Rich telling Dad what he’d been doing to Archie all this time. He ended up saying, ‘I must have taken it if you think I did, because you are always right.’ I guess Dad hit him again, but Rich just said, ‘God help me, Jim. I didn’t do it.’ Rich left then, went out into the freezing rain. I don’t know where he was going. I don’t think he knew. I don’t know how fast he was driving but he didn’t get three miles, just outside the city headed north. After seeing his car, I don’t know how he lived through it.”

  “What did you do?”

  Ken banged his clenched fist on the table and said as steadily as he could manage through clenched teeth, “Went out the way I had come in. I couldn’t have talked to Dad then for anything. I went downtown and got a room at the Holiday Inn and called from there, said I was in Massachusetts and it was too icy to drive any further. When I got home the next day I found out what had happened to Rich. They didn’t expect him to live, Mother was under sedation, and Dad wasn’t talking to anybody.”

  Susan picked up his hand and held it against her breast. “How awful. For him and you. And you haven’t really forgiven your father, either, have you?”

  He shook his head, not looking up at her. “I know Rich didn’t do it and I suppose so does Dad, but he can’t admit he was wrong. No one ever told Mother, either, and one of these days she’ll find out.”

  “And then what?”

  “I don’t know.” Ken raised his eyes and smiled at her across the table, surprised at the relief he felt, the lightening of the secret load he had carried for months. “We’re here for an evening out, for us. Let’s forget all of that, shall we?”

  “Of course.” She wrinkled her nose at him. “But I can’t say I’m sorry you’re finally over that Wendy thing.”

  He tried to laugh. “I guess I’ve outgrown it,” he said, meeting her laughing eyes. “Now I have you.”

  She smiled. “Yes. You have me.”

  40.

  Over a late and leisurely supper in his kitchen, Rich asked Laura if she would spend Labor Day with him at the Hopkinton Fair. “I haven’t been there in years,” he told her. “I used to go every year with my father. Mom and Wendy usually went off someplace else that day and left the two of us for some father-son bonding, I guess you’d call it. Those were some of the best days of my young life.”

  She regarded him seriously over the top of her teacup. “Going with me won’t spoil that memory of your father?”

  “How could it?” He paused a moment, smiling into her eyes. “I’m trying to make some new memories to go with those. Good memories. With you.”

  She returned his smile but asked soberly, “You didn’t go with your stepfather?”

  Rich shook his head. “Never. County fairs weren’t his thing, and back then, when my mother first married Jim, I didn’t want to go. That was a memory I wanted to keep safe from him. I did other things.”

  She stirred her tea, keeping her attention on the cup. “I’ve never been to a county fair. I thought about it a few times, but never had anyone to go with. Aren’t there are a lot of them around the state?”

  “There are. Dad and I went to several, but Hopkinton is the best. One of the biggest and oldest.” He grinned at her, remembering. “It takes all day to see it, really experience it, get the whole feel of it, the events and competitions, and if they have fireworks at night to top it off . . .”

  “It won’t be too much for you?”

  That irritated him and he knew it was irrational. She meant his knee and he didn’t want to think about it limiting his activities. “I think I know what I’m capable of doing.” He was instantly sorry for the rough tone. She was just thinking of his well-being.

  “Of course you do. Don’t get annoyed at me if I think about you when you don’t think about yourself.”

  He relented, knowing she did and wanting her company. “I’m sorry. I try not to think about my knee. There are places to sit if I get tired.”

  “Wonderful. I don’t work that weekend so, sure, I’d love to go.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Labor Day was a typical early fall day, bidding fair to be hot but not too humid. Rich decided to go early, to be there soon after the fair opened and the air was coolest.

  “You look even prettier than usual,” he said when he picked her up at her parents’ house. “Not that you aren’t always pretty.”

  Laura had chosen to wear blue Bermuda shorts and a bright floral-patterned tank top that accentuated her lithe figure and exposed just enough cleavage to be enticing.

  “Flatterer. But I like it.” She settled into the seat beside him. “So what is it we are going to see and do?”

  “Everything there is to see. Some friends of my father kept a pair of pulling horses and we always watched them. That’s later this afternoon.”

  “Pulling horses?”

  “Work horses, the kind they used to use for logging. Some loggers still have them and use them in the woods to keep them in shape for the fairs while they do their real work with tractors. It’s an expensive hobby.”

  “Like the Budweiser Clydesdales?”

  “Not that fancy, just big gentle beasts.” He glanced at her. “Then there are ox pulls and 4-H shows, and sometimes cowboy roping competitions, and square dance demonstrations . . .”

  She laughed. “I’m looking forward to all this.”

  “And lots of things to eat you really can’t get anywhere else. At least they don’t taste the same. The only place for a hot dog is the fair.” He almost added or a ball game, but caught himself.

  ~ ~ ~

  Although they were early, the fairgrounds were filling up. Adults in brightly colored shirts and children with balloons crowded the spaces between the exhibitors’ tents, trying their luck at the many games of chance, and lining up for thrill rides in the midway. Rich stopped at the edge of a graveled roadway and drew in a deep lungful of the heavily food-scented but already-dusty air.

  He smiled, happy to be there with her. “One reason I come here is for the fried dough. With lots of butter and powdered sugar.”

  “And lots of cholesterol, but it sounds heavenly. I don’t remember ever having any.”

  “One day at the fair never hurt anyone.” He glanced at her. “And add a Bloomin’ Onion, a hotdog with all the works, a big helping of fries, some fresh squeezed lemonade, a raspberry Sno-cone . . .”

  “Stop.” She was laughing at him. “One calorie at a time.”

  He reached for her hand. “Okay, but we start with the fried dough.”

  Sitting at a picnic table with a plate-sized bubbling slab of lightly browned fried bread, Rich said, “This was my father’s favorite. Only he put maple syrup on his. I like the butter and sugar.”

  Laura nibbled at a corner. “It’s good, but it’s too hot to eat.”

  “That’s part of it.” He pulled an events schedule from his pocket and studied the map of the grounds. “The horse pull is over that way”—he waved toward their right—“and we have all day to get there.”

  “Let me see the program.”

  He handed her the card and concentrated on his dough while watching her obliquely, admiring the gentle curve of her cheek and the way her hair curled at the back of her neck. He was filled with his growing love for her.

  She looked up. “A 4-H steer pull?”

  “Great fun. The kids aren’t much taller than their calves. Better show sometimes than the adults with their oxen.”

  She took a generous bite of her hot bread. “Explain a little. 4-H? Steers? Oxen? Pulling?”

  “Gladly.” He stood up and picked up his plate. “Let’s walk that way.”

  They joined the line o
f fair-goers along the rows of booths of souvenirs. “Steers are baby oxen. Oxen are castrated bulls. 4-H is an organization for farm kids mostly. Pulling? That’s a strength and training competition. Both for the calves and their drivers. You have to start their training about as soon as they’re born. You’ll see that with the oxen.” He stopped, gazing along the line of brightly decorated booths. “You need a hat. Everybody needs a hat.”

  She laughed, but chose a wide brimmed red cowboy style trimmed with white embroidery, while he picked a plainer blue one.

  He grinned at her. “You look fantastic.”

  She posed, looking at him through lowered lashes. “Like some movie star?”

  “Better.”

  When their paper plates were in a trash can, he took her hand and held her close beside him, keeping their walk to a stroll. “Dad always bought me something silly, something frivolous, like those little toy dogs you see on the ends of those canes. I never could get one to work right. Dad said this was the place for that even when he frowned on it in other places.”

  “Do you still have any of those things?”

  “A couple. Put away in a safe place.” Rich wondered for a moment if his room was still as he had left it, all his treasured mementos still there. He could not go back and ask for them.

  She stopped walking and surveyed the lines of people of all ages with children and a few dogs. Beyond them were the tents filled with exhibitors and farther still the top of the Ferris Wheel and, in the other direction, the racetrack. “It looks like a sort of organized chaos.”

  “It is. Shall we see some of it?”

  “That’s why we’re here, isn’t it?”

  They stepped into the line of walkers and let the crowd carry them along. They strolled through the cow barns, admired sheep and goats and fancy bantam chickens and oohed over cute miniature rabbits. They exclaimed over vegetables turned into fantastic creatures, watched a dog show for a while, then a square dance demonstration, and appreciated patriotic exhibits by several Granges.

  Rich bought Sno-cones. He always had raspberry but Laura decided on the blueberry. They walked through a long tent filled with a wide variety of tractors and hay balers and bought popcorn and fresh squeezed lemonade. They were entranced by the deftness of sheep dogs in a herding demonstration, appreciated the work of 4-H girls patiently showing their baby steers, and then intrigued by older girls on cow ponies shooting out balloons while riding through a complicated maze of poles.

  “That’s as much a test for a horse as a rider,” Rich said. “That horse has to know exactly what it’s doing since the rider is concerned with marksmanship.”

  “Amazing. I’ve never seen anything like that.”

  “Fairs are amazing.” He smiled into her wide eyes. “And so are you.”

  She laughed. “I haven’t had so much fun since I was a little girl.”

  “I’m glad.” He looked around them at the dusty laughing crowd. “It’s the same as I remember it, but it’s somehow different.”

  “That’s the way with most things.”

  He squeezed her fingers. “Don’t go all philosophical on me.”

  “No. Now isn’t the time.” She stopped walking at the end of the lines of vendors’ booths. “Let’s see some more of this.”

  In early afternoon he bought lunch. “You need a hotdog with everything.”

  “Everything” proved to be a wide selection of toppings. Rich chose melted cheddar and bacon and Laura settled for almost plain, saying she was already stuffed.

  “That’s why we came, to eat our way around the fair grounds.” He was at ease for the first time in weeks, content with reliving past days, sharing his past memories. “And you haven’t had a Bloomin’ Onion.”

  She eyed the big deep-fried batter-dipped white onion with awe. “How do we eat all that?”

  “Slowly. And we’d better get to the grandstand if we want to see the end of the horse pull. That’s the best part, not all the preliminary eliminations. Unless you know the drivers, of course, and I don’t anymore.”

  They found seats at the top of the stand so Rich could lean back and rest his knee. He pointed to the line of teams along the fence on the other side of the pulling ring. “This is the heaviest class. Those horses weigh almost a ton each.”

  He rested his foot on the seat below him trying to find a comfortable position. His knee was stiffening painfully. He had walked too far, but refused to acknowledge it. “It looks like there are still three teams in competition.”

  The team hitched to the stone boat, a flat wooden sledge holding a pile of cement blocks, was gray. They were sweating and pulling frantically, jerking the sledge from side to side but gaining very little ground. The driver unhitched them and followed them to the fence where they stood wild-eyed and blowing.

  The spectators applauded and Laura expressed her sympathy for them and the driver. “They tried so hard.”

  The next team was black with bright yellow tassels on their harness. They were excited and over-eager and the hitch men required three tries to get them hooked on. The horses lunged forward and dragged the sledge across the finish line.

  “Does the crowd make the horses wild like that?” Laura asked. “All the noise?”

  “Partly, but a lot of it is training. Makes a good show. The crowd likes it.”

  The third team, a pair of chestnuts with cream-colored manes and tails, also pulled the stone boat across, but much more quietly. The grays were eliminated.

  They watched a tractor with a loader pull the sledge back to the starting line and add another cement block to the load. The black horses came back in. They pulled successfully, were unhitched, and the chestnuts came back. They, too, pulled the heavier load, but with more effort. More weight was added.

  The blacks pulled again, slowly, jerking the stone boat in increments, but crossed the line.

  “The brown ones will win,” Laura said.

  “No, the blacks have a better driver.”

  “Bet?” They clasped hands. He kept hers in his as the black team again tried to move the load. They failed.

  Laura laughed. “See? The brown ones.”

  “But they might not make it, either.”

  But they did. Laura accused him of being a poor loser.

  “I’m a very poor loser. What have you won? I don’t recall what we bet.”

  “I don’t know yet. I’ll let you know.”

  He followed her away from the grandstand, tucked her hand under his arm, and turned toward the midway. “I’m going to get you on top of the Ferris Wheel. Then we’ll see who won the bet.”

  From the top of the ride, they looked out over the fairgrounds, the barns and exhibits spread out among the old pines trees. On the racetrack, some kind of automobile event going on, and the vast parking areas were to one side. The spaces between were packed with people.

  The wheel stopped for a moment when they were at the top. Rich leaned across the safety bar between them and kissed her. “That’s for coming with me. It’s been a great day.”

  “It has.”

  There were lights and music everywhere with the undertone of many voices, but they could see it was coming to an end, the last of the three days of celebration. Animals were being loaded into trailers and booths dismantled.

  When they got off the ride Laura said seriously, “I think it’s time for us to leave.”

  “I kind of wanted to stay for the fireworks, see the end of it all.” He glanced at her. “You’re thinking about my leg, aren’t you? I’m fine.” He wasn’t. His knee throbbed painfully. I’m as good as I ever was. As good as I’ll ever be. Damn it.

  She squeezed his arm and smiled warmly at him. “You wouldn’t admit it if you were dying. I have to go to work tomorrow. I’ve had a wonderful time but you’ve
walked a little too far. Besides, I want to remember it the way it was, not being taken apart.”

  He relented, knowing she was right. It had been a very good day.

  She was quiet on the way home, but he didn’t attempt any conversation. He was tired, more than he wanted to admit.

  When he stopped in front of her home, got out of the car to walk around and open her door for her, she looked up at him and put her hand on his arm. “Seeing you there at the fair, happily reliving your childhood maybe, I think I was seeing you as you are supposed to be.”

  “And that was better?”

  “Much better. You didn’t take your bitterness with you. You can get over it.” She held out her arms and he enfolded her, kissed her firmly, lingeringly.

  “There is hope for you,” she said, pulling away a little.

  “You think so?” He closed his arms around her.

  “Absolutely.” She met his eyes again. “So much so, I’ll accept your offer. I will agree to be engaged.”

  41.

  On Tuesday morning after Labor Day, Ken Weston did not want to go into the office, but he couldn’t see any alternative. His resentment following the confrontation with his father over Wendy’s note had not abated. However, since he had been spending most of his time at High Meadow there was a pile of paperwork to catch up on. He had consulted with his foreman, Jason Wells, and agreed that the work was going slower than he had hoped. While he was home sick, a truck had broken down and required an expensive repair, and then more blasting was required than they had planned for and they had lost a day. After that there had been several days of heavy rain which had delayed work and washed out a piece of the new road costing them another two days in repairs.