The sadness of that moment in my mother’s life descended on me like a dark blanket. To be so young, so full of hope only to have it slip through her fingers, washed away by someone she had a right to trust. Freckles appeared out of the brush. Sensing my mood, he nuzzled my shoulder.
“Kathy seemed to draw the worst sort of man like cows draw flies. Never did settle much into any one thing. Never pursued any schooling or learned a skill. She was out of the house pretty young. Got married to that Clark fellow, that I know, but it didn’t last long. Then there was her romance with the bottle. She eventually gave that up, which was good. But of course, it was her heart that finally gave out. Seems like it just wore away in more ways than one.”
I sat for a while pulling burs out of Freckles’s thick speckled fur until my vision blurred and tears spilled onto the dog’s back. Anger I had felt for so many years began to unravel. I watched the drama of my mother’s life as from a distance and realized that perspective did not change the story so much as it changed the viewer.
“If I had …” I swallowed hard and wiped tears on my flannel sleeve. “If I had stayed with her, maybe things would have turned out differently for her.” I felt helpless in the face of the disaster that had slowly spun itself out over my mother’s lifetime.
Martin regarded me for a moment. “I think you had put in your time. For someone as young as you were, you spent a lot of energy just trying to hold things together for the both of you. It was enough. It was plenty. And in the long run, it wouldn’t have made any difference. You can’t fix someone who hasn’t decided they want it.”
I watched the glittering ripples in the water for a while, then picked up my pole and wandered downstream, not so much to fish as to plumb the depths of my own thoughts.
At noon, we sat on the bank and unloaded food from the cooler that Ann had packed. We spread out our lunch on a flat rock, closely observed by a curious chipmunk.
We ate tuna sandwiches in silence for a while. My mind wandered to Derek. I had the growing feeling I wanted a relationship that would last, something special. I wanted to make a difference in someone else’s life. Derek was stable in his work and he was glamorous in many ways. He made doors open as if by magic; opportunities laid themselves in his path and it was fun to be part of that. When I was with him, it was easy not to think about tomorrow, not to think about who I could be. But I had a nagging discontent when I was with him. It was as if there was an emptiness that opened up at my feet.
And why did I keep thinking about Michael? I hardly knew him, but there was something that drew me to him. I thought I must be going crazy.
Angela and James seemed to have it all figured out. Even though they were fairly young, they were a perfect match. They worked well together when a task was at hand. They had a joyous approach to life, a shared vision for the future. But still, life was often perilous. Could they last?
As we ate thick oatmeal cookies, Martin told me stories about fishing trips with Jack, lakes he’d been to and the fishing tricks he’d learned from his brother Robert before he died.
When he paused to slice an apple with his old jackknife, I asked hesitantly, “Uncle Martin, what do you think about Angela and James? You think they’ll make it? Do you think their marriage will last?” And if they can make it, I thought, could I?
“They’ll be fine. It always takes work. They’re good kids. They’ll figure it out.”
“You and Ann have been married twenty-nine years, right?”
He nodded.
“That’s a long time.”
“It is, but it sure goes by fast.” He swatted a fly away from his pop can.
I bit my lip thoughtfully, then ventured. “You ever … did you ever think you and she might not make it?” What does it take, I wondered, to create something substantial, something enduring? Could I find that somewhere in myself? Would I find it in Derek?
Martin drew his hand across his mouth, tipped his hat back a little, then smiled at me briefly from under dark, bushy eyebrows. “Well, there are those times you wonder. There was one time, she and I were squabbling. Money was tight, one of the kids was sick. Got to the point that I took off in that beat up old Ford I had. Had no intentions whatsoever of coming back. Drove around for a couple of hours. Then I decided there really was no place else I would rather be. Nothing else I would rather be doing.”
“What happened?”
“Came back home. She never said anything. Neither did I. I took out the garbage. She made us dinner. Just sort of took up with our normal routine. We both knew we’d been stupid. Sometimes, you just put your hand back in and start rowing again.”
We watched the chipmunk scamper up and gather the crumbs we had tossed out for it.
“Twenty-nine years. The truth is,” and here he paused, “there is no one else I would rather spend an hour with than your aunt, Ann. I count on her more than anyone or anything else. She is my greatest friend.”
“I want that.” I said, then my throat tightened. “But I feel doomed somehow. My mom couldn’t do it. How can I?”
“Well, you do choose it. In fact, you choose it every day in one way or another. One day at a time.”
I dropped my head into my hands. “I don’t know. For a long time I have just felt that it is out of my reach.”
“Well, maybe you just need to take a step closer so you don’t have to reach so far.” He patted my shoulder, then rose and brushed the weeds off of his jeans. “Let’s check downstream a little. There is this one hole. I’ve been trying to catch a big brown there. Let’s see if he is at home.”
We spent the afternoon wading carefully in the cold water across slick stones, casting our lines again and again. From time to time, I would catch the quick movement of a tail or fin, and the gleam of sunlight sifting through the waves onto shiny scales.
I had time in the quiet to think, to realize I had been defaulting, postponing, and it was beginning to hurt my heart. A voice inside me told me it was time to start choosing a direction instead of merely treading water. In the panes of the crystal stream, I saw Derek’s cavalier smile, Michael’s serene gaze. Was it fair to compare them? The waves shimmered; their faces disappeared.
Toward evening, we came back across the brushy bank and headed for the truck, our basket lined with several trout. The sun slanted through the quaking aspen, the tall grasses colored amber by the glow. We pulled off our waders and slung them into the back of the truck. Freckles had to be coaxed away from a gopher hole. With reluctance, he hopped onto the truck bed.
On the ride home, it was more than I could do to stay awake, and the next thing I knew, we were pulling into the driveway. My uncle ruffled Freckles’s fur, then opened the tailgate. We gathered our things and I followed him toward the door.
“Hello the house!” he hollered as we clamored up the porch steps. Ann came to the door wiping her hands on her apron. She pushed the door open and held it for us as we straggled up with our gear.
“Hello, you two,” she said. “Did you get that brown, Martin?”
“No, he skunked me again. I think he’s smarter than me. We caught tomorrow’s breakfast though. Trout and biscuits. Food of the gods. A little honey butter on the side. Home-canned peaches. That’s livin’!”
Chapter 17
dc
Before I left the ranch that evening, my uncle encouraged me again to call Aunt May to see what she knew about my real father. I called her number several times the next day to make a time to visit with her in person, but she never answered her phone. Finally, I called Ann to see if it was possible that May was out of town. Ann said May had taken a rare trip to visit her son’s home in Phoenix. She would be back in a couple weeks.
I realized I could call May and ask for information about my mother and father, but I wanted to sit across from her and look into her face, reading between the lines, if necessary, when she answered my questions. I decided I would see her when she got home. I wondered if I was putting it off, if there was a part
of me that was holding back, afraid of what I might learn.
A
That afternoon, I picked up Bobbie and left for Seeley Lake to go to the dinner at Michael’s cabin Jack had invited us to. We drove through north Missoula, curving beneath the tan velveteen of Mount Sentinel where the big white M stood as a symbol for the University of Montana. We drove alongside the turbulent Blackfoot River until the road skirted Salmon Lake, then continued through the town of Seeley Lake. With a few false turns, we wound down gravel lanes among thick trees, following Jack’s instructions till we reached Michael’s cabin.
We brought our contributions for the potluck and knocked at the door of the neat little log home. Michael answered, wearing a black apron that said, “Many have eaten here. Few have died.” He wiped his hands on a checkered towel. I could just see Emma behind him, but she slipped noiselessly away as we stepped through the door.
“Michael, you remember Bobbie? From the wedding?” I asked.
“Sure. Hi. Glad you could come.”
“Oh, it smells heavenly in here,” Bobbie said as we came into the kitchen. “I haven’t had Italian in forever.” She looked at his dark hair. “Are you Italian?”
“Irish. But I once knew an Italian.”
We smiled.
“Here, let me take your dish,” he said.
Just then there was a knock at the door and I saw the figure of a man and a woman through the window. Emma reappeared at the other end of the kitchen.
“Hi!” the woman chirped when Michael opened the door. Her long silver earrings swung beneath her bleached-blonde hair. “We brought the dessert. Watch out—it’s fresh and hot from the oven.”
She handed Michael the cake pan wrapped in a thick towel.
“This is Jenna and Bobbie,” Michael said. “Peter,” he said indicating the slim man with thinning hair, “and Dana.”
Dana caught sight of Emma peeking around the bar in the background. “Oh, you are so cute!” she squealed.
Emma evaporated into the other room. Dana laughed.
“Peter is another architect with our firm,” Michael explained to me. “Come on in. Can I get you something to drink? Coats go here.”
As soon as Dana found out that Bobbie was a beautician, they were deep in conversation about permanents and hair color.
Another knock at the door and Michael ushered in a young man with a thick muscular neck, his Raider’s cap backwards on his head. With him were two young women, their dark brown hair sparkled with drops from a fine rain. Introductions were made and coats were stowed in the closet.
Emma crept softly into the room and stood behind a divan, staring wide-eyed at the adults standing about the bar as they ate hors d’oeuvres. I waited until I caught Emma’s attention, then winked. No reaction. I looked away, looked back, and then smiled at her. I hid my face behind my scarf and then peeked around it at her. Still no reaction.
“What are you doing?” whispered Bobbie.
“It’s the ‘face game.’ I figured this out when Jordan was really little. I was working in Colorado and when I came home to visit, I’d want to run up and hug her, but she’d have forgotten who I was while I was gone. She’d just get scared and cry.” I gave Emma a smile and a wink. “So, I figured out if I played the ‘face game’ for a while, she’d get used to me faster. It’s a trust-building thing.” I leaned behind a tall lamp, then peeked out again and grinned. Emma finally smiled behind her chubby hand.
“Clever,” Bobbie said.
“Dinner will be ready pretty soon,” Michael announced. “Have a seat in the living room.”
The back door opened with a bang, and Jack came in with Elizabeth behind him carrying a big bowl of salad.
“Did we miss the food?” Jack said as Elizabeth put the salad on the counter and peeked in the oven. “Hi everybody,” he said to the room in general.
Elizabeth gave me a hug. “How are you doing? Everything work out OK in Vegas?” she asked quietly.
“It was … pretty interesting,” I said. “I’ll tell you more later. Where are the kids?”
“Left them at Ann’s. Jordan was excited to spend the night with Grandma.”
Michael refused assistance in the kitchen, so we moved into the living room. I sat in a rough-hewn wooden chair and soon found Emma standing by my side, rocking back and forth with her doll. Wordlessly, she held the doll out toward me.
“What is your doll’s name?” I asked.
“Maybelle,” Emma said.
“She’s very pretty,” I said. “Such a pretty pink dress.”
Emma continued to swing the doll gently from side to side in front of her.
“I have a turtle,” she said. “He eats bugs. But I don’t eat bugs.”
I made a face. “Eew! That would be yucky!” I said.
Emma giggled and ran into the kitchen.
As the others about talked the upcoming University of Montana Grizzly football game, I watched Michael in the kitchen checking the lasagna. Emma had come in behind him and was asking him something. He picked her up and sat her on a bar stool. I couldn’t hear what he was saying, but he bent low and looked into his daughter’s eyes as he spoke. He found her a cookie and handed it to her. She sat on the stool, swinging her feet, watching him work until he wiped her mouth with his apron, kissed her forehead, and set her on the floor.
“Well, we’re pretty close everyone. Let’s get our plates ready.”
As everyone headed for the kitchen Michael said, “Time for bed, Emmy Lou. You have already had your dinner, so it’s off to bed for you.”
“Daddy, will you read to me?”
“Not tonight, honey. But you can sit up for a while and look at the pictures.”
“Please, Daddy?”
“I’ll read her a book,” I volunteered.
Michael looked reluctant. “What about your dinner?”
“It won’t take long,” I said.
He hesitated, stroking his chin.
“I can read you know,” I teased.
“Well …”
Emma ran off and came back with a book as the others went into the dining room. I could hear Elizabeth say, “Jack, you could at least wait for everyone else,” and Jack’s muffled reply.
“Frog and Toad. One of my favorites,” I said, looking at the cover.
I sat in a green overstuffed chair in the corner by the fireplace and pulled Emma up on my lap. She was soft and warm in her flannel pajamas; her hair was downy and she smelled faintly of cookies.
“You have to do the voices,” Emma coached. “Daddy always does.”
“Oh, of course.”
As I read, Emma paid rapt attention, but insisted on turning the pages herself.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Michael watching as he picked up empty glasses from the coffee table.
“Read it again,” Emma insisted.
After the second read through, Michael intervened. “That’s enough for tonight, Emma. Off to bed with you. Thanks,” he said to me with a shy smile. “Emma, can you tell Jenna good night?”
“Night,” she said, clutching her book, rubbing one pajama-footed toe against the back of the other leg.
As they walked away, Emma turned and said. “You can come to my birthday party.”
I smiled. “We’ll see. I’d like that.”
At dinner, between mouthfuls of lasagna, Jack said, “Hey, Barry, you inviting us to go with you snowmobiling up Lolo Pass again this year?”
“Sure. I’ve got the sleds out already tuning them up.”
Kim, one of the girls who came with Barry, shivered and said how she dreaded the coming of winter.
“I must admit,” I said, “it was pretty nice living among the palm trees last winter in California.”
“Oh, look who’s going soft on us,” Jack teased.
After dinner, when the others began a dice game, Michael stood and touched my sleeve.
“Come on. I want to show you something.” He picked up his sweatshirt and lef
t the room.
I followed him down the hall, curious.
He looked at my sweater. “Here, you’ll need something warmer.” He handed me one of his jackets, a rough woolen red plaid that smelled faintly of cologne.
Beside the door, I noticed a beautiful, thick walking stick carved with fine markings.
“What is this?” I asked, holding it up to the light. The stick was about four feet tall, carved from a dark burled oak. In the knob at the top was an acorn and four oak leaves polished to a satiny sheen. A deep green stone was embedded at the base of each pair of leaves.
“It was my grandfather’s,” Michael said. “It’s a Celtic walking stick. I was out hiking today.” He took it from me and ran his finger over the complex, twisting pattern spiraling down the handle, etched into the deep brown wood. “This is a Celtic knot,” he said indicating the top. “My grandfather was born in Ireland.” He hefted the stick in his hand, eyeing it appreciatively.
He put the stick under his arm, pulled a backpack out of the closet, then led the way out into the crisp night air. Outside, he tossed the stick into the back seat of his Explorer, then turned to guide me up a narrow path.
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