Fourteen
Late October! Geneva’s favorite month, when the autumn trees flamed with a delicious and rowdy self-exhibitionism against the blue heavens. In turn, the sky tried its best to upstage the trees. This was the first day she felt up to a ride, and despite the admonitions from Wayne, Joe, Rachel, and nearly everyone else, she was determined to get away by herself at least one last time before the chill wind blew away the gold in the trees and blew in the leaden winter sky.
She rode carefully, not in any hurry, and favoring the still-tender wound down the back of her thigh. She knew she could not go far, but she did not have far to go. Jacob’s Mountain was only two miles away, and she would not even break into a trot. She had plenty of time for travel, for thought, for space to begin to heal her wounds.
Her mother had nursed her during her convalescence; even now Geneva felt guilty as she thought of how she was supposed to have been helping Rachel with her babies, but had instead become a big baby herself. She was not only not doing her job, but also taking her mother’s time so she could not be with Rachel’s family, either. But no one had complained, and Geneva had to admit it had felt good to be in the bosom of her parents again: indulged, pampered, petted. She had not told her mother or her father about Howard Knight, nor had she mentioned him to Rachel again after the night he came to her room and told her he could not love her. Yet, she didn’t give up hope, not until later.
She shook herself and drew her thoughts away, toward the blue sky and the rocky outcropping that marked the final ascent to Jacob’s Mountain. What she hoped to find there she did not know, but she knew she wanted to feel loved, completely, unconditionally loved, and she had heard that Love lived there. Of course, her mother and her father loved her, and her sister did, too, and maybe Howard Graves, maybe… and maybe Jimmy Lee, and well, yes, maybe John. She took a moment to add them up. She wondered if there were any other of the men in her past who had once professed to love her whom she could still count in the litany. But no matter how many, still, it was not enough. On this bright day, and all the days that stretched behind her, for as long as she could remember, she had wanted more. She wanted to know what it felt like to be overwhelmed with Love that would never end.
She rode resolutely, aware that there would be no one on top of Jacob’s Mountain to meet her, to sweep her up in his arms and begin the beginning of a storybook romance. Maybe a miracle would happen. Maybe Someone would come. Maybe she would find Something. Maybe her spirit would quicken with the glory of this day, and she would face the rest of her life imbued with greater joy and purpose. Maybe. She had only hope left. Idly, she caressed a memory and nursed the most pitiful of fantasies that she could undo the past. Silly girl. Don’t think about it. Think about something more hopeful, more pleasant.
She was lying in the porch swing, and she felt a disarming sense of déjà vu as she felt the shadow pass over her and pause. She had the sense of being in that place before, and the sun had come in at just the same angle, turning him into a ghost of sparkling light. She could barely see his face, but she could tell it was John by the width of his shoulders and the certain way he cocked his head to the side and the way the curls of his hair seemed to go translucent in the light. For a moment, she had forgotten all as she sighed and stretched and tried to ease her leg off the pillow so he could sit beside her on the porch swing.
“No, don’t bother. Stay comfortable. I’ll just sit here on the floor,” he said, settling down with his back against the wall at her head.
She felt a little groggy. “I guess I dozed off.”
“You deserve the rest. Feeling better?”
He had asked her that before. When? This was an almost perfect replay in the cool afternoon, with the halo of light around his head. How long before had it been that she had seen him just like that and had walked across the flower-laden meadow with him and wished that he would love her? But there was a difference. There was joy before, and laughter. Now there was a desolate yearning in her breast that made her wince when she stared at his bright, light-infused face.
She did not answer, but looked out at the piercing sky and the trees that were deepening into fall. September! She had not seen Howard for two weeks. She wanted to die, she had been telling herself. What use was it to have her senses if they only reminded her of her loss?
He put his hand on the swing and pushed it lightly, and when she closed her eyes and felt the coolness in the motion, he began: “I wanted to come see you at your mother’s house, but Rachel told me you weren’t up for visitors. I thought I’d give you a chance to recover a little more before I brought on the brass bands.”
“I’ll live, I guess,” she said, answering his first question.
The event loomed up again in her mind, even now.
“I know I was stupid.”
“I wouldn’t call it stupid. I’d say you were pretty brave. Depends on how you look at it.”
“It was stupid. I never think about consequences. I never think beyond what I’m thinking at any given moment.”
“That doesn’t make you stupid. It makes you you. I’d say it’s just part of your charm. If everybody was cautious and thought through the consequences, life would be pretty dull.”
She smiled as genuinely as she could. “Thanks. But what do you know? You were stupid, too. Galloping right toward that boar.”
He was not put off. “Again, depends on how you look at it. I thought it through for about a twentieth of a millisecond. Live in a world without Geneva or not. That was a no-brainer.”
“Exactly what you had. No brain. So what have you been up to?”
“Waiting for you to get back. Doing some thinking. Pretty hard with no brain, but that’s never stopped me before.”
She did not want to hear what he had been thinking about. She felt certain his thoughts had involved her, and she was too tired to be involved in anything. And she did not want to see his eyes. If she saw that awful yearning again, no matter how fleetingly, she feared she would be too reminded of her loss. She closed her eyes against him.
He was silent a long time, but at length, he said, “Remember when I went to New Orleans?”
She had forgotten. Not a month before, she had wished he would ask her to go with him. Now she was afraid he would ask her. She nodded without looking at him.
“Well, while I was there, I was asked to help with a project in Ethiopia. I told you about my breeding program—more milk from cows who get very little water?”
“Yes. I remember.”
“Well, there’s a group wants to try it out. The drought has been going on for years, and everyone is starving. They can’t keep livestock alive long enough to breed, hardly. These people think we might be able to improve living conditions if we can introduce these cows there. I’d go down for a few months and get them started, then go back a couple of times a year to help refine the processes.”
“I see.”
“Anyway, I thought I’d go.” He had paused, with feeling. “It’s a really good project. I guess I think I could make a difference.”
Something touched her memory then, and she remembered how good he was. “You make a difference everywhere you go.”
After a silence, he said, “I’ll take that as a compliment. And maybe a bit of hope.”
She did not look at him, but she spoke to him softly. “You’re a decent person, John. More than decent, and I wish you every happiness. Go, and God be with you. Make a difference.” It was hard to keep back the tears, although she did not know why she wanted to cry. She also could feel his distress, but she did not know how to comfort him. She needed too much comforting herself.
“If I go, will you be here when I come back?”
“I wish I could know the answer to that. Right now I don’t feel much like going anywhere.”
“I know. Otherwise I might have asked you to go with me.” He faced her silence. “Of course, that’s a stupid idea. There aren’t too many fun things to do in the Ethiopian count
ryside, except wish for rain and see all the misery.”
“Yeah. It’s nicer here.”
“Or maybe in DC?” He said it so softly she barely heard him.
She smiled. He still thought Howard Graves was his rival. What would he say if he knew of her feelings for a hillbilly miner who sang about tears and stars falling from the edge of the world? “I doubt it. I’ve decided I’m not built for the city.”
When he had absorbed this, he moved to his feet. “Good. I have to leave tomorrow.” He touched her face until she looked at him. “I want you to know this was a hard decision. I mean, I have no claim on you, but I wish I did, and I only want to know that I won’t be sorry for having gone, now, of all times. Can I write to you? I won’t have access to a phone very often.”
He was a good man. She never wanted to hurt him. “I may not write back much.”
Shrugging, he replied, “I read A Tale of Two Cities four times. I bet your letters will be even more compelling. One or two a day will be plenty. And just get well. When I come back, I want to see the old Geneva we all know and love so well.” With that, he touched her face again and kissed her lips lightly, then he was gone into that dazzling sun. The meadow and the light seemed to swallow him as he strode away. Feeling the tears squeezing out between her lids, she let herself become lost in a moment of total self pity.
Again, she shook the painful thoughts away and muttered a strong reprimand to herself. This was not making her any happier. Think about the trees and the late flowers. Look, there’s a turk’s cap still blooming, and there, she could see clumps of wild ginger. Just breathe and don’t think about anything. Just look and be glad to be alive. Something good will happen.
She half reclined in the same swing, her left leg propped up on a pillow, her right dangling on the floor and idly pushing so that she swung gently. She might have been comfortable, except for the cats lounging on her stomach and up under her chin. She pushed them away several times, but Petrarch especially would not take no for an answer.
Damn cats. She stepped out of her reverie to wonder where the kittens were. She had not seen them since she had moved back to Rachel’s house after her convalescence. Carefully, she avoided a low hanging branch in front of her face. The saddle creaked under her, and a bird sang among the flaming maple trees. For some reason, the singing pierced her heart with the sharpest of hurts.
That day, the day he came to say good-bye for good, the radio was tuned to a country station, and Crystal Gayle sang about heartbreak, and she let the words tumble her around until she felt dizzy with the hurt and the longing.
She moved slightly in the saddle and half closed her eyes, seeing herself in a cabin high in the mountains before the dying fire and gazing into the deep, liquid eyes of Howard Knight.
She remembered his scent and the way he touched her. She remembered how the passion had leapt up between them like a living thing and how he had lifted her to the black and silver sky and she had flung her arms wide to embrace freedom and ecstasy.
She had held and caressed the memory so often that it had been worn to a smooth, gleaming patina.
The music flooded her with bittersweet yearning until a glint of sunlight on a vehicle turning into the drive caught her eye, and she watched with a pounding heart as Howard’s old truck made its way toward her in slow motion. She heard the crunch of the gravel and the coursing of her blood. She held her breath and ran her fingers through her hair.
Yes, it was Howard. And Jimmy Lee was with him. Both of them got out of the truck, but Howard hung back while Jimmy Lee, with the aid of a crutch, made his way slowly toward her.
He was wearing a clean, starched white shirt, crisp black pants, and shining new shoes. Obviously, he had just gotten a haircut. His pink, bare ears and his face shone with scrubbing.
She winced when she remembered the plaster cast, then again at the memory of his paleness the morning she had bent over him and felt his body for injuries. Don’t think about it. See how still the afternoon is, how bright the sky.
Jimmy Lee looked at her, but Howard kept his eyes downcast. Geneva’s mouth went dry, and she swallowed, wishing her insides would stop lurching.
Lamentations jumped out of the back of the truck and tucked his head under Jimmy Lee’s free hand as the pale, thin man hobbled toward her. No one said anything for a moment, but Petrarch and Evangeline suddenly jumped up, backs raised, fur leaning backward up their necks.
Remembering, she almost smiled at the image of Lamentations growling and looking over his shoulder, his eyes rolling and showing their whites, and how Jimmy Lee had pleaded,
“Oh, hell, Lamentations! Please don’t start now!” But Lamentations growled louder, and when the cats jumped up and scattered in every direction, he cut loose on his poor stump of a tail. Jimmy Lee looked like he wanted to cry. Glancing miserably between Geneva and his dog, he made futile little clutching motions, trying to stop Lamentations’ fit. Finally, he gave the dog a light backhand slap, which stopped the canine in his tracks. Lamentations dropped to the ground, panting.
Then Jimmy Lee grinned, looking almost dapper, and addressed her, “Hidy, Miss Geneva. How ye feelin’? We come ta see ye,” he said, rather formally, as if the previous scene had not taken place, but his hands clutched one another, seeming to gain courage from one another. With an effort at dignity, he labored his way up the steps.
But Howard stood still in the driveway.
“Hello,” she smiled, feeling the hope surge through her. “Come on up. I’ll get us some lemonade.” Struggling to her feet, she pleaded. “Howard, come on up.”
He shook his head, looking at the ground and letting his shoulders sag. “No, ma’am. I gotta git. Uh… Jimmy Lee, he’s come ta court ye.”
At this, Jimmy Lee’s face flamed and he gave a short, embarrassed laugh. “Well, don’t spill the beans all over the place, Chap!” Rubbing his chin nervously, he added apologetically, “I jist come on to pay my respects. I ain’t seen ye since… since ye saved my life… fer the third time. And I jist…” The sentence trailed off lamely.
“Jimmy Lee cain’t drive with that leg,” offered Howard. “I jist run him on over to sit with ye a little. I’ll be back direckly. Hour or so.” He looked so miserable, Geneva longed to rush down the steps and throw her arms around him, but she stood frozen, willing him to come to her. Jimmy Lee made his way to the porch swing to perch on the edge; the foot encased in plaster rested awkwardly on the floor. Lamentations tried to scramble up beside him, but he pushed the dog back down.
“Naw. Yew set down right here. Yew cain’t take up the lady’s seat.” Lamentations sat, his whole body pressed closely against Jimmy Lee’s good leg, his miserable stump thumping against the floor. Quivering slightly, he tried to press himself closer, casting his mournful eyes up into the face of his master.
“Howard, please stay awhile. I… never got a chance to thank you for what you did for me. You saved my life.”
“Naw. John done that.”
“Hell, Chap, yew shot the hog!” interjected Jimmy Lee. “Right between the eyes at a hunnert feet!” He turned excitedly to her. “They tole me all about it. Right between the eyes! From a runnin’ horse!” He was as proud as if he had made the shot himself.
“Don’t matter. Fergit it,” said Howard evenly. He shifted his weight and glanced at Geneva before he let his eyes rove over the horizon.
“It does matter, Howard,” she said pointedly, “and I can’t forget it. Any of it. Won’t you stay?” She blinked back tears and pleaded with her eyes, but he would not look at her. At last, he moved forward a step, then thrust his hand into his jacket pocket. “I fergot. Ye left this. I figured I’d git it back to ye,” and stepping forward, he laid his closed fist on the porch rail and opened it carefully, palm down. Then he backed off and walked briskly to his truck. “I’ll be back direckly, Jimmy Lee. Ya’ll have a nice visit.” Springing into the wreck of a vehicle, he turned in the drive and drove away without looking at her again.
Fairhope gave a little shudder and flipped his tail across his back, bringing Geneva back to the bright October day and to the rhythm of the briskly stepping Morgan. She reached inside her shirt and held the lavaliere suspended on a chain around her neck, remembering again how she had made her way to the porch rail. Walking was still painful then, but she had felt nothing except a dull ache in her soul as she reached for the offering Howard had laid there.
When she picked up the heavy object, she knew she had never seen it, yet she recognized it immediately: It was a comet, made of solid gold, his gold, no doubt (or perhaps hers, the gold she had snatched out of the foaming water on that day of delirium), and layered over with various shades of red, yellow, and orange enamel. About the length of her little finger, the small globe with its multi-hued tail seemed to streak across the palm of her hand even as she held it. She held it aloft by the gold chain and looked at it closely. Engraved along the side was her Cherokee name, the one he had given her.
“One Who Strikes Fire in the Soul.” As she beheld this thing of beauty, she heard his voice in the moment of her misery and her shame, “A man can love a shooting star, but that don’t mean he can take it to his heart and make it a part of him.” And as she listened again for his voice, she searched for a moment of hope in this magnificent gift, but all she could find was his anguish and her own rejection. This was his purging, his goodbye. This was the moment he could lay One Who Strikes Fire in the Soul to rest and begin to mourn her loss. Before long, the healing would smooth over his hurts, and he would be free of her forever.
Or, could it be an offering of love? Could he be asking her to accept his gift as a token of what she meant to him? What did she mean to him? Something he could not hold to his heart, something he could never make his own. She tried to find hope in the moment, but it had vanished as hastily as he had driven away. Perhaps, if he had been wearing the object… but he had not worn it. It had held no warmth from his body. He had kept it casually in his outer jacket pocket, as if he claimed no ownership. She knew then, even as he drove away that already he was feeling the first tremulous freedom, the beginnings of catharsis. She was something from which he needed to flee to save himself.
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