Heart and Home

by Jennifer Melzer

  I noticed his eyes first. Stark blue and bright as winter, I was convinced that they were just the kind of eyes a person would never forget once they’d looked into them, and yet for the life of me I couldn’t remember the face they belonged to. Standing just around five feet and eight inches myself, it was rare for me to find a guy I had to look up to, but this one must have been well over six and a half feet, I measured as I took a step back. Usually guys that height were bulky, but not him. He was lean and muscular, and the stubble that shadowed his jaw line suggested a hint of ruggedness.

  “Hello,” the word felt like jelly in my mouth, wobbly and unsolid.

  “Hi, Janice,” he nodded. Great, he knew who I was, which meant I should have known him too. An uncertain smile darkened the dimples in his cheeks, “Sorry to drop by on you all like this. You’re probably beyond fed up with visitors today, so I promise I’ll be out of your hair just as soon as I deliver this,” he extended a warm dish and explained, “on behalf of my mother.”

  I reached out for the casserole. Warmth spread into my cold hands and I drew it into the crook of my arm. “Thank you.”

  “I uh…” he moved awkwardly, as though he’d come to the door knowing what he wanted to say, but was now reevaluating those words. “We were real shocked when we got the news about your mama.”

  My head nodded involuntarily, and I swallowed to try and ground myself again. “Yeah, it came as a bit of a surprise to me too.” It was no use, the head-nodding spurred a disconnection inside me, and while I tried to maintain my present frame of mind, it was all I could do to keep from reaching for the door frame to steady myself.

  “Are you all right? You look a little pale,” he noted.

  “Yeah.” Still nodding, I blanched at the realization that I probably looked like some insane bobble-head doll. “Tired,” I noted.

  “I bet,” his frown deepened into lines of concern. “Well, you know, I’m sure you’ve heard this about a hundred times already today, but if you need anything,” he paused and then added for extra emphasis, “anything at all, you know, don’t be afraid to call.”

  “Thank you,” I leaned my shoulder into the door frame.

  “You’re welcome.”

  He hiked down the porch steps and walked toward a white, Ford pick-up truck with the exhaust puffing at the edge of the sidewalk. Halfway down the walk he stuffed his hands into his pockets and lifted his shoulders around his ears to ward off the bite of the wind. That wind jangled through the chimes that decked the front porch before it cut through me. Shuddering against the chills, I didn’t move from that place even after he slipped into the driver’s side of the pick-up truck. I lingered, warmed by the casserole in my arms, and watched the taillights disappear into the evening.

  “Who was that now?” Dad’s voice startled me back to myself, and I stepped back inside. I closed the door and started toward the kitchen.

  “I have no idea.” I held the casserole dish out to him. “Whoever it was brought this for his mom.”

  Dad took the foil wrapped casserole and lifted it to breath in the aroma. “Lottie Kepner,” he said. “Broccoli casserole. She must have sent Troy over.”

  “Troy Kepner?”

  Sonesville’s own native son. I should have known. He was a bigger celebrity than I was, having gone off to Penn State University on a full football scholarship the year before I graduated high school. It was only then that I vaguely remembered something my mother had mentioned during one of our phone chats about him coming back after his father died to take over their family farm.

  “The one and only.” Dad turned toward the refrigerator with the casserole dish.

  Troy had been a year ahead of me in school, so we hadn’t socialized often. There were a few childhood instances I recalled. Most of them involved him chasing the girls around church picnics and threatening to give them cooties, or teasing the cheerleaders after Pop Warner football practice. I’d lost interest in cheering by the time I got to fifth grade, but Troy Kepner followed football into high school, where he became an all-star quarterback. His junior year he took George Meyers High School to the state finals for the first time in more than three decades. The town was abuzz all year, and then the summer before he was a senior the college recruiters made it perfectly clear just how valuable he was.

  “So he never finished school?” I wondered.

  “Nah,” Dad opened the refrigerator and began to shift the different casseroles around to make more room. “Damn shame too. He could have played pro if he’d finished.”

  “Huh.”

  I never paid attention to football in high school, or the people who played it. I only vaguely remembered a dark-haired cheerleader who attached herself to Troy through most of high school. Sondra or Sonya something or other. She’d even taken the liberty of staking her claim on Troy in the girl’s locker room in thick, black marker. I wondered if her claim still held. It wasn’t unusual for Sonesville high school sweethearts to graduate and then marry. Surely after he came back she dug her claws into him again.

  Mom tried to keep me up to date on all that, but most of it went in one ear and out the other. In fact, I hadn’t even paid attention while I’d lived there, as most of the guys I dated at the time were from neighboring rival towns and none of them had been into sports.

  “It’s a real shame what happened to that boy,” Dad took out a container of chili and set it on the counter, replacing it with the casserole. “No one here to care for Lottie or the farm, he didn’t have much choice in his future.”

  “Yeah,” I laughed. “Like Lottie ever needed anyone to care for her.”

  An image of Lottie Kepner flashed through my memory. She had been diagnosed with Multiple Sclerosis long before I’d ever met her, and despite the debilitation of her illness, she was probably one of the feistiest and fiercest women in the entire town. Every Sunday she walked into church with her head held high, not a trace of pain on her face despite the cane that supported her every step. Usually Troy would walk behind her, his gold curls freshly washed but completely unruly. Like Dad, Aaron Kepner barely ever came to church, but that didn’t stop Lottie.

  “She did have that accident,” Dad said. “She hasn’t been the same since then, and Troy certainly doesn’t let her too far out of his sight these days.”

  He brought two clean bowls to the table with spoons and then placed a dish of chili in the microwave. While he set to the task in silence, I thought about Troy and Lottie Kepner. As cruel as it sounded, at least I had the luxury of a father who could take care of himself once I went back to the city. A part of me cringed inwardly when I thought about what my mother would think of that attitude. It was a horrible thought, and I was a horrible daughter, but I couldn’t begin to imagine being tied to that town again, especially not after tasting the freedom of the world outside.

  Dad reached into the microwave and started to pull out the dish he’d been reheating the chili in when he let out a yelp and a curse that startled me from my seat. “Jesus H. Christ!” he added, withdrawing his hand to shake it furiously on the way to the sink.

  “What’d you do?”

  “I burned myself, what’s it look like?” He snapped.

  I turned on the cold water and drew his hand under the rushing stream. It was immediately pink, and a blister would probably form, but overall it looked fine. “You gotta be careful with pottery in the microwave, Dad.”

  “Pottery in the microwave,” he muttered as he pulled back his hand and reached for a paper towel. “They should put instructions on that stuff.”

  “They probably do,” I turned off the water and grabbed two potholders from the drawer. “Mom probably has a whole drawer full of care instructions around here somewhere.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he grumbled.

  “Just sit down, and I’ll take care of this,” I said. I finished stirring the chili and popped it back into the microwave. I couldn’t help but wonder, as I watched him sit down at the table and rub an ice-cube over hi
s burn, if I hadn’t spoken too soon about him being able to take care of himself.

  Chapter Three

  Dad looked expectantly toward me as he reached for the door handle. He’d been quiet all day, his eyes only glossing over with the threat of tears, but he hadn’t shed a single one. It was just the kind of man he was. Part of me was sure that once we were home and he was alone he would let it all out, but not in front of all those people. Not when he had to be strong for me.

  “Go on ahead, Dad,” I brought my clutch purse into my lap and opened it. “I’ll be right there. I just want to check my make-up.”

  “All right, hun,” he nodded and offered a slow smile before opening the door and stepping out into the windy afternoon.

  I just needed a moment to myself. After the church service, all those eyes on us, hands reaching out to reassure me and faceless voices promising they were there if I needed anything at all while I was in town. They would catch up with me again at the wake, they promised one by one, but the overwhelming attempts at familiarity left me feeling burned out and a little anti-social. I forgot how tightly knit the community was—all the better to backstab you, or so it always seemed.

  I recognized her right away. Amber Williams. She sidled up to me near the end holding a toddler in her arms, her eyes glistening with unshed (and more than likely phony) tears.

  “It’s just such a shock that she’s gone.” Amber seemed even more broken up than I was, and my internal bull crap meter sent alarm signals quaking through me. “We’re all going to miss her so much.”

  I nodded, not sure what she wanted me to say. It was a shock, I would miss her, but those were just the obvious things, the surface comfort everyone at funerals thought you wanted to hear. On the other hand, I wasn’t sure what I wanted to hear, maybe silence would have been better than her false concern. Or even better, I’d be happy to hear someone genuinely promise that despite the shock and the obvious fact that she would be missed, the pain and emptiness that hollowed me from the inside out would one day go away. Without my mother, I would be whole again.

  I watched my father walk toward the burial plot. It had already been dug in preparation for the hillside ceremony, and just under the cacophony of voices I could hear the crisp flaps of the rain canopy slapping against the wind. At least it wasn’t raining, though the wind and clouds were typical autumn weather. The local meteorologist promised rain, but so far not a single drop had fallen, and from time to time a silver glow of sunlight pierced through the clouds to light up the valley below the cemetery.

  Autumn painted every treetop bright in yellows and oranges, the occasional flare of red leaping out like flame. My mother chose her burial plot well, but somehow I wasn’t so sure that it mattered now that she was gone. Had she chosen the view with us in mind, knowing we would climb the hill and look out over the valley below with her in our hearts? The town below was like a painting, and I smiled when I realized just how much she would have appreciated the view.

  Sonesville proud, born and raised, my mother’s parents moved to the area in the late forties to start a family. My father’s ancestors, the McCarty’s, were among the founding members of the town. Generation after generation, many of them spread out into the surrounding towns like Muncy, Hughesville and Montgomery, but it was rare for a McCarty to go much further, much less leave the county.

  Maybe in the end that was what drove me screaming mad into the nearest city, glad to shake the dust from my boots. Mom said she understood my need for freedom, some birds just couldn’t be caged, but somehow I think the greatest part of her wanted to cage me anyway, just to keep me close. She even told me once that she, too, longed for adventure, and then she’d met my father. He’d been all the adventure she’d ever needed, and after that she didn’t want to be anywhere he wasn’t.

  I looked out at my father again. He paused for a moment to talk to a younger woman I didn’t recognize from the long throng of clubs that infiltrated our lives over the last few days. I was surprised by the tenderness in that young woman’s hand on my father’s arm. She nodded, the strings of her blonde hair following the motion, and then she stepped away from him again. For a moment he stood there alone, looking out over the view and I wondered what he was thinking.

  My parents were both in their late twenties when I was born, and the harsh reality of a factory worker’s existence was definitely beginning to slow him down. I certainly couldn’t see the adventurer in him that Mom saw, and even worse was the fact that the longer I looked at him, the harder it was to imagine how he would get on without her. She’d always taken care of everything, made sure his clothes were clean, his breakfast, lunch and dinner prepared. It was all very old fashioned, I realized once I moved away from home. She was the stereotypical housewife: devoted to her family, the PTA and every club and church function she could squeeze into her busy schedule.

  Again, I thought of the endless revolving door of people who consumed our lives since she’d passed away. She touched the lives of everyone she’d ever met, and it was no wonder so many people came to pay their respects. I remembered feeling embarrassed as a child by the lengths she went to please others, but she always told me “That’s small town life, Jan. The people here help each other out. They’re really there for each other.”

  “In each other’s business is more like it,” I muttered.

  I could still see her shaking her head, a bemused grin curving her lips. “Not everyone is a gossip. Most people outgrow that behavior once they’re out of high school.”

  Cynical, I assured her, “Well, I won’t be here to find out if you’re right.”

  Dad moved on from his resting point and turned over his shoulder to talk to one of the pallbearers. There was a tug of nervousness in me when I realized it was Troy Kepner again. The wind disheveled his dirty blonde curls, and his profile suggested that he was still in desperate need of a shave. He moved aside just enough that I could see the wheelchair in front him, and the profile of a silver haired woman speaking rather intently to my father while reaching out to lay a hand on his forearm much the same as the young woman who stopped him moments earlier.

  Sinking back into my seat, I pulled down the visor and looked over my reflection. I was surprised at just how well my makeup stood up to several outbursts of tears I endured during the church service. I took a compact out of my purse and touched up quickly, sure to hide the dark circles under my eyes the best I could. Closing up the compact and returning it to my purse, I flipped the visor back into place, and then reached for the door-handle.

  I smoothed the length of my skirt with my hand, and braced myself against an unexpected rush of wind. The loose pieces of my tightly wrapped auburn hair whipped against the bare skin on the back of my neck and against my cheek. Several times I reached up to brush the pieces from my face as I moved quietly through the gathering crowd. I took my place beside my father and hugged my arms tight against the wind.

  I glanced over my shoulder at the long line of cars still winding through the muddy cemetery drive. My mother was definitely well-loved in Sonesville, and it looked as though everyone in town turned out to see her off on her final journey. I was surprised three days earlier when the Rotary Club suggested they hold the wake down at the local fire hall due to the sheer numbers longing to pay their respects. Before Dad or I could even lift a finger, willing bodies from all over stepped up to the task and put it all together for us with pleasure.

  Several people crowded in around Dad and me. After Troy disappeared to help the others lift the casket and carry it into place, I glanced down at Lottie Kepner curiously. I remembered Dad saying she’d had some kind of accident, but the details of it slipped my mind. Whatever it was, it aged her tremendously. Troy returned to stand behind his mother. I felt his gaze on me, but avoided eye contact, keeping my own stare centered on the trees that lined the back half of the cemetery.

  Pastor Crane took his place in front of us, waiting for the stragglers to find a place among the silent crow
d. For a long time the only sound drumming in my ears was the constant snap and flicker of the canopy against the wind, and then Pastor Crane cleared his throat. Moments later he began the recitation of departure and Dad hovered closer to me.

  My eyes stung, and I tried to tell myself it was the chill of the wind, but the truth was I never expected either of my parents to die. I knew death was inevitable, but in the daily scheme of things the last thing that entered my mind was the fragility of my parents’ lives. There would always be another day, another chance for me to say goodbye. I always imagined on her death bed she’d be able to hear me, and in perfect health she would respond and tell me just how much she loved me. She would forgive me for going and staying away so long, but none of that happened.

  I hadn’t even been given the chance to say goodbye.

  Dad lowered his arm onto my shoulder and drew me into his chest just as Pastor Crane said the words, “In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Chandra.”

  There was the squeaking sound of pulleys as they began to lower the casket into the ground and I nearly choked on the heavy ache that restricted the muscles in my throat.

  “We commit her body to the ground; earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust.”

  My father stepped forward and knelt, clutching a trembling handful of earth to toss it over her casket, but I couldn’t step close enough to even see it. The anxiety inside of me was so deep I knew if I saw that casket in the earth I’d lose control.

  Pastor Crane’s voice sounded far away, and my cold ears burned with a nervous fire. “The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make his face to shine upon her and be gracious unto her and give her peace. Amen.”

  Amen. . . Amen. . . Amen.

  It circulated through the crowd, and though I tried to form that word inside my own mouth, I wasn’t able. I hadn’t prayed since my last visit to the Sonesville Baptist Church more than eight years earlier, and the only time I’d said the word amen had been in sarcastic reply to some silly statement.