Swing Sideways

by Nanci Turner Steveson

  TWENTY-NINE

  Until that night in July, I’d always been able to count on the sound of rain pinging against the roof to put me into a sound sleep. Long into the night I stared at nothing, and at everything. The whirr of the fan, blending with the tinny sound of rain, reminded me of the metal box full of letters from Piper. Mom’s words kept running through my head.

  “We thought the truth might frighten you.”

  What other truths might California and I not know?

  The next morning California was waiting for me in the paddock, pacing the fence in the rain, a blue slicker flying behind her in the wind.

  “Hurry—I have the box.” She grabbed the sleeve of my raincoat and dragged me inside. “It’s in the carriage. We’ll hide in there, but you read.”

  The wheels squeaked when I stepped inside, and the seats stank of mildew. California climbed in behind me and pulled the tarp closed, her face feverish. She handed me the box and a flashlight, then tucked her hands between her knees and waited, like a little kid trying to be brave before getting a shot.

  I pulled out the first envelope. The postmark said Bradford, Pennsylvania, September fifth. Inside was a single sheet of notebook paper.

  Dear Jody,

  You will never have to see me again. You were right. It was my fault.

  Margaret

  California shifted uneasily. “Go on.”

  The second letter was from Bowling Green, Ohio, sent on September twenty-first. The handwriting was easier to read than the first, but the words were every bit as melancholy.

  Dear Jody,

  I suppose Kit was already buried. She was the best mother ever. I wish I could have been there to say good-bye. I wish I could take everything back. I’m so sorry.

  Margaret

  I ran my finger across her signature. Only two letters in, a few short lines, and already her grief choked me. California clenched her hands together, squeezing first one thumb, then the other.

  “Are you okay? Should I keep going?”

  She leaned back and closed her eyes. “Yup.”

  It took twenty minutes to read the letters written during the first year Piper was gone. I spoke slowly, treading carefully through her past. She’d got as far as Wyoming. With every word, the muscles inside my belly tugged. We were searching for something, but now it was more than just where we might find the ponies. Now we were trying to find out why she still wouldn’t come back. If we knew that, we could fix it. Then maybe the farm would feel magical to her again, like California said.

  I started on the next packet. The postmark was odd. I checked the dates against the letters I’d already read, and the most recent.

  “Unless some are missing, she didn’t write to him for two years.”

  Eugene, Oregon

  May 10

  Dear Jody,

  I’m sorry to tell you I lost Hero. It was so horrible, I still can’t think about it without crying. Someone thought he was a wolf and shot him so he wouldn’t go after their horses.

  How are Peaches and Cream? My heart aches whenever I think about them.

  We both looked up at the mention of the ponies. This was the first time she’d written about them in any of the letters. I read quickly through the rest of that bundle. In each letter Piper pleaded with her father to send news of Peaches and Cream. And every letter ended with the heartbreaking words, “I am sorry for what happened, and hope someday you will love me again.”

  She’d been gone almost four years before she said anything about getting replies from Mr. McMurtry. By that time she’d changed her name.

  Eugene, Oregon

  June 15

  Dear Jody,

  All three of your letters arrived at the same time. Thank you, I am so happy tonight.

  And thank you for leaving hay for the ponies. Maybe you can dry the corn and leave it, too? Remember how we used to play hide-and-seek in the corn field when I was little? I still remember Kit laughing so hard it made the stalks shake. Do you remember? Or do you try not to think about us? I remember always. I remember driving back from town, coming around the curve in the road, and seeing our cornfields, so green and lush. I loved our corn. I miss that too.

  Love,

  Piper

  “Piper loved the corn!”

  California put her finger to her lips. “Not so loud. Grandfather could be nearby.”

  “That’s why he always kept it all perfect,” I whispered. “He was still hoping she’d come home. It was like a sign he still loved her.”

  She smiled and leaned against the seat again. “She loved the corn. She loved this farm. She loves Grandfather. And me. Keep reading.”

  There was one bundle left. Six letters, the dates spread far apart over many years. The fourth letter held a possible gold nugget. Long after Piper ran away, she still pined for those ponies—and she told her father where to find them.

  Eugene, Oregon

  August 1

  Dear Jody,

  Thank you for writing again. I’m still hoping you’ll send me a picture of Peaches and Cream. I know they only come up to the farm in winter, but if you look down where I used to take them in between shows, I bet they’ll be there, eating all that lush grass. It will be a hike, but if you could do this for me, I will not ask anything more. Please, please take a picture. Thank you.

  I love you,

  Piper

  California wiped her eyes. “I knew they were important to her. I just knew it.”

  “Where would she have taken them? Someplace with more grass than the farm?”

  “Or different grass. It has to be somewhere they could go on their own now, not somewhere she’d have driven them in the trailer. How many more letters are there?”

  “Two.” I fished around inside the box and shone the flashlight on the postmarks. “From February and March, two thousand and two.”

  “Right before I was born,” she whispered.

  Eugene, Oregon

  February 14

  Dear Jody,

  Today is the anniversary of the day you and Kit brought me into this world. As my own due date approaches, I find myself thinking about her, realizing what it will mean to have a daughter.

  In my sleep I hear Kit’s footsteps coming to my room when I had bad dreams. I see her face when she planted tulips by the porch, and hear the way she laughed when the wind made them dance. I think about her leaving inspirational notes for me by the jasmine, knowing I would find them when in a poetry mood. I hope I am as good a mother as she was to me.

  Harvard built a beautiful cradle for my little girl. At night I sit and rock it back and forth, practicing for when she will lie inside it. Euberthia made lovely clothes for her, everything pure white. I cannot wait to hold her in my arms.

  I love you,

  Piper

  California hugged her knees to her chest. “I need her.”

  THIRTY

  Rain beat hard against the roof. I waited silently, listening to the weathervane spin in the wind, smelling mildew and old leather and a hint of horse inside the dank carriage.

  “There’s one more?”

  The last envelopes lay in my lap. “It can wait.”

  “No. Now. Read it now so we can get on with finding the ponies. They’ll bring her home. I’m more sure now than ever.”

  I shone the flashlight and pulled out the last letter.

  “Look!”

  Inside the folded paper was a color photograph of a petite girl with straight, dark hair, walking away from the photographer. She was moving out of some woods, toward a clearing beside water, leading two ponies. On her right was a dark chestnut with a blond tail. On the left a pale, cream-colored palomino. Ahead of them, barely visible, was the tail and back end of a large, furry dog.

  California snatched the picture from me and peered at it, close up. “I bet that’s Piper and the ponies, and that’s got to be the dog, Hero.”

  “This must be where she took them in between shows, like a vacation spo
t. Do you know where it is?”

  “No. Maybe it tells us in that last letter. Read it.”

  I unfolded the weary page. “This one was read more than the others. See how worn the paper and the creases are?”

  “Get on with it, Nancy Drew,” she said.

  I sat up straight, prepared to speak with more authority, more enthusiasm. This was it. Finally, we were going to get some real answers. But the very first line sucked the life right out of both of us.

  Eugene, Oregon

  March 16

  Dear Jody,

  I am shocked and saddened by your letter. This baby, my child, will be your granddaughter. Why does it matter who her father is? Why does it matter if I am not married?

  I stopped. “California, I can’t—”

  “Keep reading,” she mumbled, her head bowed.

  I took a breath and read to the end.

  You are ashamed of me, and still blame me for what happened. I was right not to come home. Now I want nothing more than for you to know my child, and for her to know you as I did. But you’ve made your own feelings painfully clear. If you change your mind and want to know her, if you feel you can love her, use this post office box. If we don’t hear from you after one year, I will cancel it.

  Piper

  I flipped the flashlight off, trying desperately to think of something to say that could change the horrible, terrible message in that letter. The rain slowed to a steady hum. I listened to California breathing, and waited.

  Her voice was really tiny. “Grandfather didn’t want her to have me. Isn’t that how it sounded to you?”

  “It sounds more like he didn’t approve of Piper not being married. That’s not the same thing as not wanting you.”

  She shook her head, her skin as pale as pearls. Lifeless. “He didn’t want me. He knew where we were all along. He could have come all this time. I’m the reason they’re estranged, Annie. It’s because of me.” She shivered and rubbed her arms. “This is a horrible day. I hate this day.”

  “I know what you think, but I’ve watched your grandfather. He loves you. I promise.”

  I could barely hear her. “This is all wrong. I should stop interfering. Now I understand why she won’t come.”

  I put the letter into the envelope and balanced it on her knee. She flicked it to the floor and dropped the photo beside it.

  “Piper wants to come home,” I said. “You know she does by the way she always talked about this farm. We’re going to find those ponies. They’ll be by the lake, just like in the picture. And everything will be the same as before, only you’ll be here with them.”

  California had stopped listening. It was impossible to convince her of anything. When I left a while later, she was standing in the middle of the orchard staring toward the woods, her shoulders back, her mouth set into a straight line. Field’s head was pressed against her side, his eyes closed against the last of the drizzle.

  “We’ll find them,” I called over the wind.

  She shrugged. “The dumbest part of the whole thing with Grandfather is that I already kind of love him.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  At lunch on Wednesday Mom and Dad had this annoying discussion about stripping the old 1950s rose wallpaper from the downstairs bathroom. The redecorating project was almost complete. The sofa was back in its new hunter-green-and-peach fabric, and the chairs had been returned to their original spots. The living room felt normal again, which was comforting and odd at the same time, since nothing else in my life felt anywhere close to normal.

  “I’m so happy they were able to rush the sofa for us,” Mom said. “I think your mother would have approved of the new fabric.” She lifted a piece of spinach from her salad and smiled.

  Dad smiled back at her. “She’d be very impressed with your taste.”

  Mom’s cheeks flushed pink. She looked at me like she’d forgotten I was in the room.

  “Oh, what do you think, Annie? Do you like the new colors?”

  Colors? She wanted to know if I liked the new colors of a couch when I had so many important questions running through my mind? Serious questions, like Where are those ponies? Does Mr. McMurtry love California? How do you know if someone is going to die from cancer? How can we get Piper home? And why does my heart sink every time I think about egg salad and train fumes?

  When I didn’t answer, Dad asked, “You okay, Pumpkin?”

  “No, yes, I mean, I have a question.” I opened the Story Notebook and pulled out the photograph of Piper and the ponies. “Do you recognize that place?”

  Dad put on his new glasses and took the picture from me. “That looks like Margaret from the back. Is it her?”

  “I don’t know for sure.”

  “That could be her ponies, and I think I see a bit of their dog, too. Can’t remember his name, but he was always with Margaret.”

  “Hero.”

  “That’s right, Hero.”

  “Do you know where it was taken?”

  He handed it back. “Sorry, Pumpkin, I don’t.”

  There had to be another clue, another way to figure out where that specific spot was without hiking the entire perimeter of the lake. If we took that on, we’d have to do it in little sections every day. It could take a week, maybe more, to explore the whole thing. California was losing steam, and after the way she’d reacted to that last letter, facing a challenge that big could give her just the excuse she needed to quit.

  I studied the image again, top to bottom, and there was the clue, almost out of sight in the back right corner: a blur of draping, green leaves sweeping the edge of the water. No trunk showing, but as far as I knew, there was only one kind of tree that could be that tall, with branches long enough to fall all the way to the ground. I showed it to Dad again.

  “Is that a weeping willow in the background?”

  He readjusted his glasses, then looked over the top of them and smiled. “Why, lookie there. I believe that is—good catch, Pumpkin.”

  “Are there any weeping willows around our lake?”

  Mom shook her head. “Not that I’ve ever seen, no.”

  But Dad was grinning. “Well, actually, there is. But you wouldn’t see it unless you knew where to look, and you can’t get a sailboat close enough because of the lily pads.”

  I was about to shoot out of my chair. “Where?”

  “Remember the day we went sailing, and I told you about the place my friends and I used to camp when I was a kid? You got all embarrassed at the idea we might have had girls there with us.”

  Mom perked right up. “Where is this place?”

  “At the south end of the lake, where it curves back into Lily Pad Land. We used to hike around from the boathouse. If I’m not mistaken, that could be the same willow that grew by the water.”

  “Would Piper have taken her ponies there?”

  “That piece of land belongs to the McMurtrys. Most of their property is a narrow strip that runs right along the lake. That’s why there are so few houses on the west and south sides.”

  Bingo!

  I slipped the picture into the notebook and turned to Mom. “Are you going into town this afternoon? I need to go to the library.”

  “Your hair is going to turn blue if you keep driving like that.” Mom’s chin hovered inches from the steering wheel, and she gripped it white-knuckle tight. Windshield wipers swooshed back and forth on high.

  “I’m happy to take you to the library, but why did you have to go today in this rain? I’ve offered to take you to town any number of times this summer.”

  “I didn’t need to go until today. Besides, Dad could have driven me.”

  “Not with that ankle and this downpour. So much rain this summer.”

  “At least it’s made everything really green.”

  I leaned my shoulder against the window and watched droplets run down the glass. My internet research didn’t give me the kind of maps I needed. The library had detailed local maps, which I hoped would show the most
direct route from the farm to the lake. Mom parked the car and handed me an umbrella.

  “I don’t need that. I won’t dissolve.”

  “Your decision. Meet me in the coffee shop.”

  “Coffee shop?”

  She pointed three doors down. “I need something sweet to drink.”

  My outing to the library had turned into afternoon tea with Mom—but she’d actually said “your decision” like she meant it. I could give her the coffee shop for that. Twenty minutes later, with a copy of a map tucked between the pages of a book on veterinary colleges, I dodged under a stream of water pouring from over the door and found Mom inside at a booth near the front.

  “I got you a hot chocolate.” She pointed to a thick, white mug. “I know it’s summer, but you always loved it.”

  I slid into the seat and hid the book and map beside me. “Thanks.” With the mug in my hands, I studied waves of swirling chocolate, trying to avoid eye contact with her. Now that we were sitting across a table from each other, just the two of us, I realized we hadn’t spent any time alone all summer.

  “I’ve missed you, Annie.”

  I tilted the cup and made more ripples.

  “I want you to know I’m happy for you, about your friendship with Margaret’s daughter.”

  She scooped whipped cream off her latte; I studied the watercolor napkins. She played with the silk flowers on the table; I glanced up. She was smiling at me, but not in a claustrophobic way, in a nice way, like she might smile at a friend.

  “You’re different,” I said.

  “I’ve been taking lessons.”

  “Huh?”

  “You’re not the only one taking on new challenges this summer. I’ve been going into the city every week to see Dr. Clementi. He’s helping me work through a lot of things I should have dealt with years ago. I’m sorry—” The shop bell jingled. Mom looked past me to the door. “Oh!”

  I should have known by the startled look on her face not to turn around, but I did, anyway. Mr. McMurtry stood at the counter, no more than ten feet from us, water pooling around the bottom of his big, black boots.

  “Two pounds special blend, ground extra fine,” he said. The salesgirl shuffled to the back. Before I could turn away, he saw us.