Until Tomorrow

by Abbie Williams

  “Dad was trying to hide it, for our sakes,” Marshall said. “But I can tell. This is such a nightmare. Ruthie, that’s been our land for generations. Mom is buried out in the back pasture beneath her favorite tree, for Christ’s sake.” I knew this, and hugged him closer to me. We’d visited her grave on the anniversary of her death, just two days after Marshall’s birthday, to leave flowers and “show” her my engagement ring, which had, after all, belonged to Faye’s mother. He concluded, “Dad, all of us, would die before anyone takes our land. And there is no doubt in my mind that it is legally our land, no matter what that son of a bitch Yancy says otherwise. But it may be that there’s no way to avoid going to court.”

  “Aunt Jilly said back in August that there’s something from the past we have to understand,” I said. “I know she’s right, Marsh. It has to do with Cole Spicer and with the Yancys, with your family, Grantley and his wife…oh God…”

  “That night, out by the old homestead…” he began, tucking his chin against my shoulder from behind. He told me again, “That night, I felt them, too, Ruthie. That sunset light coming through the darkness. It was right there. As if the past is happening right now, around us…except that we can’t exactly perceive it…”

  “It reminds me of something,” I whispered, clinging to him as though the sensation of vanishing was overtaking me again. It was not – but the memory of it hollowed out my gut. “Time must not exist the way we think of it, the way we’ve been raised to perceive it. I remember once Aunt Jilly was talking about what Aunt Minnie, my great-aunt Minnie, had told her, about time existing not as a single line, but instead as a web of infinite lines, crisscrossing and tangling together…”

  “Why can certain people sense it and not others?” he asked.

  “I wish I knew,” I said. “Why can some people sense the future, like Aunt Jilly, and my great-aunt Minnie?”

  “And we can sense the past,” he said. “I’ve been remembering things, stuff I haven’t thought of since I was a kid. I remember Garth and Case and me playing out by that big rock on the Spicers’ property – and how I’d get the sense that I’d been there before, way before…like I could remember things about it that had nothing to do with anything that had happened in my life to that point.”

  “In another life?” I asked, tracing over the bones of his forearms, enclosing his wrists in my fingers.

  “No – that’s the strangest thing, angel. I would swear to you that it was me, the me I am now, I mean, my own memories. God, I sound insane, even to myself.”

  “But it isn’t insane,” I whispered. “I know it’s not.”

  “Talk about something that wouldn’t hold up in court,” he whispered against the side of my neck, teasing just a little, to my relief. I hated the thought of everyone so fearful tonight, surely lying awake just now, like us; at Marshall’s lighter tone, my shoulders relaxed a little more. He was so warm and solid behind me, strong and reassuring, and I snuggled my shoulder blades more firmly against his chest hair.

  “I’m going to think about June, and our wedding,” I whispered, with determination. “I just decided that I’d like it to be held on the back deck at your dad’s house. Because it will still be ours, I swear.”

  Marshall softly kissed my ear, my jaw, tilting me gently to kiss my lips. He whispered, “Just the thought of that makes everything right in the world. We’ll have a hell of a party right after, how’s that sound, my sweet darlin’ angel-woman?”

  “Perfect,” I whispered, opening my lips to the sweetness and heat of his kisses, shifting to curl more completely around him.

  Just before dawn I dreamed of a place I felt certain I had been before, though I had no actual memory of it – only a feeling. Sunset, rich with tones of auburn, dusted my hair, my body. The path was littered with twigs and dry leaves, and hurt my bare feet, but I knew I had to hurry, and lifted my hem to my knees to do so. I had to get there before…

  Before…

  Before he was gone.

  A frantic need engulfed me and then I ran, towards the setting sun, towards him.

  Dear God, let me get there…

  Hurry, Ruthie, there isn’t time…

  There isn’t –

  Time…

  Chapter Eighteen

  January, 2014

  My twenty-third birthday was a day away, but I hardly had time to think about it, spending every free moment working with Tish as we helped Al to gather evidence for the hearing that had been scheduled on our behalf, for mid-February. Just three days after Valentine’s, on a rainy Monday, Clark and Case, as the primary landowners in this dispute, were scheduled to appear for a hearing at Rosebud’s county seat in Forsyth, an hour’s drive from Jalesville. There at the courthouse, a judge would determine whether the Yancys had enough evidence to go forward in court.

  “We have to assume since they’re working with Turnbull Associates, that they’ll have evidence in spades,” Tish said. We were alone in the law office, Al in court across the town square. Outside, snow fell. I was used to hip-high drifts, as I’d spent my teenage years in northern Minnesota, though here the snow was often what locals called ‘dry,’ consisting of small, pellet-like flakes. I hated letting Marshall out of my arms in the mornings, but most especially when he had to drive through the snow and over to Billings for school, as he did three days a week.

  It was his final semester; he would receive his bachelor’s degree in May. He’d already put in an application with the local Fish, Wildlife, and Parks department. Both he and I were quietly excited about this, though it wasn’t easy to concentrate on anything past the date of the hearing, including our wedding. Looking out the window at the bright white world of January, I felt the way I used to at Shore Leave, studying the frozen surface of Flickertail Lake and longing for the sweet yellow-green of spring, the renewal that it always promised. I prayed that this spring would be no different.

  “Ruthie, you and Marsh head over around six,” Tish said, drawing me back to the present. She had planned dinner for the four of us, to celebrate my birthday. She added, “Case is going home early to make that spinach lasagna you like.”

  I had pulled up a chair to her desk and now leaned forward so that I could cup my palms against her round belly, as I’d always loved to do to Camille, Mom and Aunt Jilly during their pregnancies; the firm warmth of my sister caused tears to fill my eyes. I didn’t let them fall, just smoothed my hands in wide circular motions. Tish said softly, “You look tired, Ruthie. Are you sleeping enough? I know everyone’s so worried…it sucks…”

  “I’m fine,” I assured her. I didn’t always get enough sleep, but it was because Marshall and I stayed up late, making love and talking, then usually making love again, hoarding our precious night hours, when we were alone together. I said, “It’s hard to feel too much like celebrating though, when we’re all so worried.”

  “I know,” she acknowledged. “But it’s your birthday. That’s special no matter what.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “Marshall is excited, too.”

  “He loves you to pieces,” Tish said softly. “He looks at you in a way that Liam never could. In a way that Liam just didn’t understand, you know what I mean?”

  “I do,” I said softly. “I know it’s wrong to say when there are so many things we’re worried about, but I’m so happy, Tish. I finally feel whole. What if…” I stumbled to a halt, not wanting to think about my next words, but Tish knew anyway.

  “What if you’d never come out here?” she asked quietly. She told me, “I feel the same way. Oh God, if I had stayed in Chicago…” She pressed her hands to her belly, whispering, “I would never have known. I would never have understood what it meant to love a man this way, to be loved like this…”

  “It was meant to be,” I said. “You and Case have been searching for each other for a long time, just like Camille and Mathias.”

  “You and Marshall, too,” she said.

  “Yes, but…” I struggled to articulate
what I wanted to say. I looked deeply into Tish’s eyes and said, “Both of us have the strangest feeling, Tish, that…it wasn’t just past versions of ourselves…that we were actually there…”

  “But that’s not…” Tish started to say, just as the baby released a volley of kicks, effectively changing the subject. Tish’s hands moved to the spot at once. She said tenderly, “Hi, little girl. Hi, baby.”

  “Does she have a name yet?” I asked, thrilling at the feeling of a baby pressing back against her mother’s stomach. I giggled a little, as she seemed to push with both feet. Or maybe elbows.

  “Not yet,” Tish said. “I was secretly thinking Melinda Jo, after our mothers, but is that too close to Millie Jo? I don’t want it to be confusing…or Camille to be mad…”

  “I think she has her hands too full with five children to be mad,” I said. I’d heard all about baby James from my adoring oldest sister, and from my nieces and nephews. I did miss them tremendously, and my little half-brother Matthew, Mom and Blythe’s son; I hadn’t seen any of them since summer and felt a small splash of homesickness hit my heart. I said, “We’ll have to go visit them all soon.”

  “Shit, that’s my phone,” Tish said, as it made noise from the direction of the counter. “Will you grab it for me?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Robbie,” my sister noted as I passed her the phone. “I’ll let it go to voicemail. I’m just not in the mood to hear about what he hasn’t found out.”

  ***

  That evening there was a blizzard watch posted, but just like back in Minnesota, it didn’t deter most people’s plans. Marshall had put snow tires on both of our vehicles back in November; fortunately, I didn’t have far to travel on any given day. He drove us through the snow to Case and Tish’s house; there, the barn was glowing with warm light, suggesting that the two of them were probably inside.

  “Hi, guys, we’re out here!” Tish called as we climbed out of the truck, sticking her head out the wide double doors, propped open a couple of feet.

  Marshall and I, both bundled in our puffy winter outer gear, held mittens as we navigated the snow-blown path to the barn, built last summer for Case and Tish with such great care; I knew Marshall too was thinking of those weeks, working so damn hard on something that now might be lost to Derrick Yancy in the end anyway.

  Tish explained, “Carrot just had a litter out here, so we’re making sure they’re all warm.”

  Carrot was one of their cats, and Case was kneeling beside a wooden crate in a plaid wool coat and a dark hat with earflaps. He turned to greet us, inviting, “Come see, you guys. They’re so little their eyes aren’t even open yet.”

  Marshall and I dropped to our knees, while Case reached for Tish, angling his right thigh for her to sit upon. She wrapped her arms around his neck and snuggled close, kissing his forehead. She said, “I’m still trying to wrap my brain around the fact that this will be me, in just a few months…”

  “Probably not so many kittens at once, though,” Marshall teased her. He was wearing his black cowboy hat, which he favored even in the cold, the red wool scarf he’d had since he was a teenager (Faye had knitted it for him), and his black down jacket. His nose and cheeks were red with the cold, his jaws and chin a little raw from a fresh shave, his dark wavy hair wild along the back of his neck. He looked so handsome and he was so dear to me; I felt a smile overtake my face.

  “And not in a crate,” I added.

  “And probably you won’t lick them clean,” Marshall said. “Or it, I mean, not them.”

  “Her, you mean,” Tish chastised, slapping Marshall’s shoulder.

  “Baby, you can lick me clean anytime,” Case said, grinning at his wife, all of us ganging up on Tish now.

  “You’ll all be lucky if I call you when she’s born,” Tish said.

  “I better be the first person you call, as soon as you go into labor,” I said.

  Inside the trailer it was warm and cozy. Tish had decorated with streamers and there was a cake from Trudy’s Diner on the counter, a big gooey chocolate one. Tish had added Happy Birthday Ruthann across the top with pink frosting. I had to laugh at her efforts; she wasn’t incredibly gifted in this regard.

  “It’s beautiful,” I said, teasing her with my tone. At Shore Leave, Aunt Ellen had always been the cake expert; it was tough to live up to her example.

  Tish rolled her eyes, putting garlic bread into a basket lined with a napkin. She said, “Hey, it’s chocolate, so I don’t want to hear any shit.”

  “You throw back a couple of shots first?” Marshall asked, coming behind me to examine the wobbly writing on the cake.

  Dinner was delicious (Case was a great cook) and the mood festive. Maybe it was the weeks of increasing tension that simply needed release, but we all laughed and joked as though we hadn’t a care in the world, sipping wine, mineral water for Tish, and talking about springtime, and baby names, and planning a visit to Landon. Tish and I told stories about fishing and swimming, specifically skinny-dipping, learning to drive the motor boat, and sneaking out on hot, humid summer nights to meet our friends.

  “Who was your first kiss, Ruthanna-banana?” Tish demanded. “I can’t believe I don’t remember. It wasn’t Liam…”

  “No, it was Hal Worden, in ninth grade,” I said, shaking my head at the memory. I explained to the guys, “His sisters were my good friends…”

  “He’s a triplet,” Tish explained helpfully.

  “It was at a sleepover at their house, and Fern dared us,” I said. “I didn’t really want to kiss him, but it was a dare.” I giggled, remembering, “I didn’t even spit out my gum first. And then he stuck his tongue in my mouth and I almost bit it. Isn’t that awful, that was my first reaction…”

  Marshall said, “That’s not as bad as your braces clinking and grinding together.”

  “So that wasn’t just Wy making things up?” I demanded, thinking of hearing that story the first time I’d ridden in Marshall’s truck, last August.

  “No, but we didn’t actually get stuck together,” Marshall said, all of us laughing. “The fire department never showed up. Let’s just say it was still really awkward.”

  Tish dug out a couple of yearbooks from Jalesville High, Case’s junior and senior years, and I dove into the one she handed me. It was dark green, gilded with silver letters that read Go, Raptors! She said gleefully, “I just found these last night.”

  Marshall protested, “Oh God…not those…”

  “No way, I want to see you,” I told him, flipping at once to the index, while Tish did the same with the other book.

  “Jesus, I think I was drunk by noon just about every day of that year,” Case said, shuddering a little as Tish found his senior picture.

  “Look at you, you’re adorable,” she said in response. “And also drunk.”

  “Ha!” I proclaimed, finding Marshall’s freshman picture in the other book. He was grinning for the camera with his usual good humor, string-bean slim and with his dark hair buzzed close to his head. He still had braces and his eyes were as full of mischief as ever. I traced my fingertip over his picture and said, “You’re so cute. And you look so naughty. Did you get in trouble all the time?”

  Marshall scooted a little closer to look, bracing his arm over the back of my chair as he shook his head and said, “After Garth, all the teachers were just plain ruined. Then they heard there were three more Rawleys coming through after me, and most of them either quit or retired.”

  I giggled, flipping to the sports section, where he had played football and run track. I recognized several of the M. RAWLEY t-shirts that were now mine.

  “Aren’t these great?” Tish said. “Oh look, here’s Becky…”

  “She looks just the same,” I observed, looking at the pages open over Tish’s lap.

  “Shit, there’s Garth with the flame guitar,” Case said, laughing and indicating another image, clearly Garth’s senior picture, in which he was posed clutching the neck of a blac
k guitar painted with brilliant red flames. It was actually pretty cool, except that instead of smiling, Garth was giving the camera his best mug-shot. To make matters worse, the background was a swirl of green neon.

  “Fuck, that was so cheesy, but he still loves that picture,” Marshall said.

  “Ruthie, I have a present for you, but I didn’t wrap it,” Tish said apologetically. “You know I’m not the best wrapper…let me grab it before we have cake…”

  I was about to tell her we could have cake first when something fell out of the back pages of the yearbook I was holding. It dropped to my feet and I bent to grab it. Everyone else was still laughing about Garth’s picture as I sat up and smoothed my fingers over the old paper, with its bottom edge torn away just beneath the signature; I saw at once that it wasn’t Una Spicer’s handwriting, instead someone else’s, the message brief and to the point.

  May 28, 1882

  Dearest Una,

  It is with great regret that I write to tell you that I have received no word from Cole. I wish I could alleviate your concern. At this moment I am riding hard to Iowa and have posted this letter at an office near the Minnesota border. Please know that I will do my best to find him. I have written Grant of my intentions in a separate letter and will look in on his parents as I pass through their territory. I know they are yet unhealed at Miles’s passing. Further, please give my regards to your marshal. I know better than anyone what he is living through. If I am able, I will help him. God willing, we will all be reunited before the end of summer.

  Regards,

  Malcolm A. Carter

  The letter drifted from my fingertips, but it was already too late.

  “Marshall,” I whispered. My lips were numb.

  All three of them turned to me at once and I felt it even more strongly than before, the force of the past, attempting to pull me away from them. Away from Marshall. His gray eyes were full of horrified understanding and he dove for me, his chair crashing to the floor behind him, cradling me against his chest and rolling us. From my vantage point in his arms, on the floor of the trailer, everything flickered and I was instantaneously alone in what seemed to be a cave, damp rock walls and the smell of earth, my back on rough ground.