by Vicki Lane
The snow from the previous day was dry and squeaked beneath their boots as they followed the path at the top of the pasture. Delirious with the pleasure of human company, the three dogs romped like puppies, snapping at the fresh snow and making wild forays up the slope in order to hurtle down at one another.
A perfect winter day—bright sun, blue sky, clean snow. And ahead, the dark loom of the woods and the shadowy path lined with elegantly drooping hemlocks, the new snowfall a delicate lacy frosting on the graceful branches.
Elizabeth leaned down to brush the snow from the rustic bench at the edge of the woods. “We can sit here and keep an eye out for Laurel and Rosemary. It’s too cold to stay out long but think how good the fire’ll feel when we get back.”
They sat in silence for a time, watching Molly and Ursa disappear deeper into the woods. James, whose stubby short legs meant that his undercarriage and tender bits were in almost constant contact with the snow, began to shiver and to eye Elizabeth meaningfully.
“Okay, poor James, come here.” Leaning down, she scooped up the little dog, unzipped her jacket, and tucked him inside. “He’s just not built for snow; when it’s really deep, I have a hard time getting him to leave the porch at all. I thought a sweater might be just the thing and got him one—but when I put it on him, he just fell on his side and refused to get up.”
Phillip’s perfunctory smile told her that his mind was elsewhere, and she leaned into him. “What’s the matter? Do you want to go back?”
“No, this is great…beautiful.” He hesitated, then enveloped her gloved hand in his. “It’s just…I was wondering about all the stuff you do for Christmas. I mean, I know Sam’s accident was right around this time—I guess I was wondering how…” He shook his head as if unable to find the words he wanted.
Elizabeth looked back at her house. Even from this distance she could see the greenery with its red bow hanging from the brass knocker on the blue front door. The same as every year. And the tree will be the same and the cranberry-popcorn chain the same and the Christmas Eve dinner the same. And the ritual of opening presents, that will be the same too. A yearly renewal.
But Phillip was waiting, his question hanging unfinished in the frosty air.
“Christmas was always a big deal for us. Not in the amount of money spent—we usually made most of our gifts—but big in the time we took to get ready and in how much we all enjoyed the various traditions we’d developed. And while Sam’s accident would have been terrible whenever it happened, having it right before Christmas was devastating.”
Phillip started to speak but she plowed ahead. “The decorations were up, everything was as it had always been, and in an instant it was like a particularly obscene joke. Suddenly, I hated Christmas—I would have made a bonfire out of the tree and every single one of the decorations if I’d had the energy.”
She closed her eyes, remembering the black bitterness that had assailed her, the crippling anger and inexpressible sorrow. And the hurt in the faces of Rosemary and Laurel and the Christmas Day spent in mute grief while the tree was dimmed and dropping its dry needles on the brightly wrapped, unopened packages beneath.
“It was the girls who insisted that we mustn’t lose the joy we’d always felt in the holiday season, the girls who wouldn’t let me quit putting up a big tree, putting out the same decorations. And they were right. Eventually I was glad that Christmas hadn’t been taken from us along with Sam.”
“But it’s not a religious thing for you…not a Christian thing.”
Elizabeth pointed up the slope behind them. “See where the sun is now? It’s so far south that it’s barely clearing this ridge behind us. And in another hour, it’ll be behind the mountain. For us, Christmas is a light in a dark season—the time when the days finally begin to get longer again. And a time to be together and celebrate the past and maybe brace ourselves for the future.”
Her face crinkled as she said, “I don’t mean to sound all New Age—pagan or Wiccan or whatever—but people have been celebrating the solstice and the return of the sun—that’s s-u-n—for a lot longer than two thousand years. It was the Christians who grabbed the holiday—according to what I’ve read, Bible scholars are pretty sure that the historical Jesus was born in the spring. But celebrating the birth of a child is a good symbol too.”
Inside her jacket, James was squirming restlessly. “Okay, James says enough lecturing.” She unzipped the jacket and the little dog wriggled free, slipped to the ground, and began to bark ecstatically.
On the road below, the familiar farm pickup was crawling up the hill. Laurel was at the wheel, her sister Rosemary beside her. In the back were odd pieces of luggage and several large garbage bags filled with shapes that suggested an assortment of boxes.
Elizabeth grinned and stood. “Let the revels begin!”
As they crunched through the snow on their way back to the house, Elizabeth peered at Phillip. “What about you—what about your family traditions? You told me your kids always had Christmas dinner with their mom and her husband; are you ever included? I know lots of divorced couples still celebrate the big holidays together because of the kids…”
He made no reply and Elizabeth groaned inwardly. Uhoh, be careful here. You may have overstepped a boundary. To her dismay, she found that she was prattling on. “I mean…I guess I’ve always assumed your divorce was pretty amicable…”
Phillip walked on in silence for another few beats. And then, as if commenting on some rather uninteresting fact, he spoke. “Sandy does invite me every year to come to Christmas dinner, but considering that I first met old Don, my soon-to-be replacement, when I came home unexpected one day, walked into our bedroom, and saw his hairy ass going up and down on top of my bed, on top of my wife—well, it’s hard to keep that picture out of my mind. I believe it’d ruin my appetite for Christmas turkey, which Sandy always overcooked anyway. So, no, we haven’t had any of those ‘Kumbaya’ extended family gatherings.”
This is nice. Phillip looked around the crowded table. To his left sat Rosemary, dark-haired, dark-eyed, usually the quiet one but tonight deep in conversation with Amanda on the dehumanizing aspects of a fashion model’s career. Laurel, whose mop of red curls vibrated with energy as she spoke, was giving an account of her latest artistic endeavor to Ben across the table from her. Ben appeared to be listening intently but his eyes kept wandering to the beautiful blonde on his left. All of them together and the girls chattering like monkeys. Amanda fits right in with this family—she’s usually so quiet, but tonight she’s outtalking Laurel.
Opposite him at the other end of the table, Elizabeth seemed to radiate contentment as she listened to the cheerful banter of the young people—like a mother hen with all her chicks accounted for, he thought, raising his glass of merlot to her when their eyes happened to meet.
Yards and yards of cranberry-and-popcorn chain—one cranberry, three popcorn, one cranberry, three popcorn—had been accomplished and hung in graceful scallops around the tree, a lavish red satin bow carefully tied at the upper point of each swag. The myriad eclectic ornaments had been unpacked, admired, explained, that’s one I made in second grade…I remember how I glued a bunch of sequins in my hair accidentally on purpose, and dispersed among the tree’s branches. Six dozen scarlet-and-white-striped candy canes had been hooked in place. They have to all face the same way, Ben! Rosemary had cautioned.
Ethereal music from Elizabeth’s much-loved Windham Hill recording, A Winter’s Solstice, played in the background as they devoured beef burgundy made the day before. There were boiled new potatoes, flecked with parsley, French bread for sopping up the rich gravy, and Laurel’s special Painter’s Salad: glass plates with a bed of baby lettuce topped by an artful abstract arrangement of orange slices, purple onion slivers, red bell pepper circles, blue cheese, and toasted almonds.
When at last even Ben declared that he could eat no more, he and Amanda began to clear the plates.
“Stay put, Aunt E. We’ll mak
e the coffee.”
Phillip leaned back in his chair and sipped at his wine. Nice kids, all of them. And they treat me like a person too—not some ancient geezer. I like that.
Laurel turned her deep blue eyes on him. Lizabeth’s eyes. “I’ll bet you know what’s going on down at the river. You’re still big buddies with Sheriff Blaine, right? When Rosie and I passed by there this afternoon, there was yellow tape and official-looking vehicles everywhere. I thought maybe someone had drowned, but then we realized that something was going on around that old silo.”
“As a matter of fact, I was there yesterday.” Everyone looked at him, eager to be told more. What the hell, it’s not like it’s some big secret. Might as well give them the straight skinny. “They’ve found human remains at the bottom of the silo. They’re excavating deeper to see if there might be more.”
He had to admit it was kind of satisfying to have all of them paying close attention to his every word. Who says an old guy can’t get any respect! He described for them the arrival of the SBI team and Dr. Alvarez, the blonde young woman who had turned out to be a well-respected forensics specialist.
Laurel was avid for details. “What could she tell from the remains—was it just bones or was there—”
“Yech, Laur, I’m still digesting my dinner! Could we skip all the disgusting parts?”
Ben was setting cream and sugar and an assortment of mugs on the table. Behind him, Amanda carried a cobalt-blue plate arranged with concentric circles of dried apricots, half-dipped in dark chocolate. Her face had gone pale and Phillip suspected that Ben’s objection to gruesome forensic details was on her behalf. Rosemary too seemed less than eager to pursue the story; she excused herself quietly to let the dogs out. Elizabeth followed her daughter and the dogs out to the porch, saying she’d be right back.
But when Ben and Amanda had returned to the kitchen to get the coffee and the herbal tea Amanda preferred, Laurel whispered urgently, “Was it male or female? Old or young?”
Phillip lowered his voice. “Dr. Alvarez said she couldn’t tell till she got the remains to the lab. Some of the bones”—he lowered his voice still more—“had been gnawed. And a few were missing.”
Laurel, as enthralled as her mother had been, nodded slowly. “So they don’t know anything about who it was.”
“Nope, no idea.” And then, vaguely aware that he was showing off a bit, he added the sole piece of information the forensics expert had let drop. “Dr. Alvarez did point out something that could be useful in identification somewhere down the road. The right leg had sustained a double fracture maybe a year before time of death.”
From the kitchen came the sound of shattering glass followed by Ben’s quick “No worries! Just one of the cheap wineglasses.”
Lost in speculation, Laurel paid no attention to the sound but pointed a finger at him. “You know who they ought to talk to about those bones? That guy who lives in that old brick building by the railroad track at the bridge. He pretty much watches everything that goes on in that area. And he’s been there forever—I bet he’d know something.”
Like mother, like daughter. Phillip had to restrain himself from saying it aloud. Instead, he assumed an air of deep interest. “What’s this fellow’s name?”
“I have no idea. Everyone just calls him the Troll.”
The Drovers’ Road V
The Wrestling Match
The Professor turned away from the noisome bucket in the corner of the cell, carefully doing up his trouser buttons.
So the damsel Luellen tempted you with her white skin and golden hair and her father’s wealth. And you pledged to marry her in December, meanwhile anticipating your union and enjoying her favors. Forgive my impatience, but what of this fiery-eyed Belle Caulwell you spoke of so feelingly? I collect that she was the wife of the innkeeper Gudger—why then was she known as Caulwell? Were they, indeed, wed? Or was it, perhaps, a less formal union?
They was wed, all right. Lydy pulled the thin blanket around his shoulders and settled himself more comfortably on the plank bed. Belle had her a piece of paper that the preacher and some others had put their names to, sayin that she was Ol’ Luce’s rightful wife. She just wouldn’t go by the name of Gudger—said hit was an ugly-soundin name, like walkin in the mud.
An unconventional woman…and one with strong opinions, I see. And when she eventually returned home, it was to find you ensconced in the bosom of her family…
Naw, I was gone when Belle come back.
The Professor’s eyebrows lifted but he remained silent. Lydy took the dipper gourd from the water bucket, sipped, wiped his lips, and resumed his tale.
It happened this-a-way. Back in August, afore the drives started, they was a train of wagons headed for Warm Springs that stopped at the stand for a night. The wagon boss, a feller named Baylis Martin, was a particular friend of Ol’ Luce and after supper they got to drinkin together. Whilst they was puttin down the applejack, they got to talkin about wrasslin matches they had seen and the money they had won bettin on them. And then Baylis went to braggin on this one driver of hisn, sayin as how ain’t nare one yet ever bested Red Will.
Ol’ Luce tips his chair back against the porch wall and says real easy-like, I got a gold half-eagle says young Lydy there can whup yore man.
Done, says Baylis, and hit was settled betwixt them to hold the match right then and there, as the wagons had to be on their way at first light. In no time atall, the drivers had cleared a spot in front of the house, making sure there weren’t no rocks, and drivin in four postes. They wropped a stout rope all around them postes to make a ring and by the time me and the other feller had stripped to the waist, ever one at the stand was circled round that ring.
The sun had slipped behind the mountains just a little while since but they was still light a-plenty for wrasslin. I didn’t figure hit to take too long, for I had always been accounted a good catch-as-catch-can wrassler back on Bear Tree, where I had learned enough tricks to let me beat fellers bigger ’n me. I knowed those tricks and what’s more, I had bulked up considerable with all the good food that Luellen had been feedin me the past few months.
Red Will was a short, heavyset man with a long red beard. He ducked under the rope and stood in the center of the ring, still gnawin on a beef rib from supper. He looked over at me as I come into the ring, tossed the bone away, and grinned wide. I still remember how there was a little piece of gristle caught on his left eyetooth and how his two front teeth was bad chipped.
He come at me in a bull’s rush afore the word had been given, but his hands bein greasy, I slipped out of his grip and took him down with a leg around his knee. I was hoping to pin him quick and so end it, but he pushed free and got me in a choke hold. The crowd was whoopin and hollerin and Ol’ Luce was lookin fearful for his five-dollar gold piece.
Red Will’s elbow was squeezin my neck tighter and tighter. I knowed that I could break loose but I also knowed I couldn’t last out a long match with such a big feller. I would have to make a move right quick or be beat.
In wrasslin, round here most anything goes short of eye-gougin and ear-bitin. What I done to break free and put the big feller on his back was said by some to be an old Injun trick and by others to be unfair. I had learnt it from an ol’ boy I used to go huntin with now and again.
Hit was a surprise to that red-bearded feller when he found hisself flyin over my head. He hit the ground like a big oak fallin and I was about to fling myself on him when I seen his left leg was twisted under him in a way that weren’t natural. He let out a great howl and the referee stepped in and motioned me back.
Goddammit, Luce, Baylis hollers. That leg’s broke. Who’s gone drive Red Will’s hitch? I ain’t got nare extry man with me.
I could see that Ol’ Luce was of two minds about the whole thing. He pocketed the gold piece that Baylis had slapped angry-like in his hand but he passed the jug to his friend and patted him on the back.
Now Bay, don’t take on so. You leave
your man here. Lydy’ll go in his place. Come winter, him and my gal is goin to wed but hit might be as well was he to see a little of the world afore he settles down.
He turned to me and said, Son, you stay with Baylis as long as he needs you. Just see you’re back here in December.
And so I come to take to the Drovers’ Road.
Chapter 16
Talk to the Troll
Monday, December 18
Oh, hell! Not again!”
At the other end of the bridge, warning lights were flashing and barrier gates were beginning their creaking descent. Resigning herself to a lengthy wait, Elizabeth slowed the jeep to a crawl. A wailing whistle announced the arrival of three locomotives at the head of the seemingly endless 7:40 a.m. freight train.
No other vehicles were on the bridge and she pulled close to the tracks to watch the many-colored freight cars roll by. The proliferation of graffiti tags, that’s what they’re called, was astonishing. The sophistication of some of them! Elizabeth marveled. But however can they paint those intricate designs on the run? Her inner eye summoned up a lone teenager, pierced, tattooed, and clad in the regulation baggy jeans and hooded sweatshirt, wielding a can of spray paint with each hand, all the while casting nervous glances over his shoulder.
As the train flashed by—boxcars, tankers, flatcars, coal cars—carrying the cryptic tags far and wide, Elizabeth thought of dogs, lifting their legs on automobile tires in what she presumed was canine certainty that now their territory would be extended to wherever the marked tire rolled.
An imposing blue-and-white tag caught her eye. THE MOST DETERMINED, it read, and the skinny teen of her imagining raised both cans in a victory salute as he completed his work and darted into the shadows, just ahead of two husky, sweating security guards who lumbered after him, waving futile truncheons.