by Glen Krisch
Clara swallowed a mouthful of food. “I’m sorry?”
“Ansel Adams. He’s the photographer of all these prints. Nan introduced me to his work shortly after we began our courtship. That was all the way back in 1959.”
Even though she tried, she couldn’t help saying, “Whoa.”
“I know, I know, I’m almost as old as the subjects in those photos.” He pointed to the wall with his fork. “When I first saw his work, I knew my own life’s aspirations had a purpose. Adams captured the essence of nature, its spirit. He put us—humanity—in context with the greater world. He wanted his work to not only expose people to the wonders of the natural world, he also wanted us to understand our role and our obligation to protect it.”
“I can’t stop looking at the depth of these photos.”
“I met Nan at a café in Chicago. She was looking at a book of prints. When I walked by her table, I noticed one photo in particular—the one on the wall with the clouded mountaintop—and I hovered over her shoulder much too long for politeness. She thought I was being rude, that I was ogling her.” Poppa laughed and started to cough, hard enough to shorten his breath and bring a rosy splash to his pallid cheeks. He regained control and then continued, “And when she looked up to confront me, I didn’t immediately notice her. I was still taken by the Adams print. And then she cleared her throat, and I looked at her. And that’s when I fell in love with her. That very instant.”
Clara wrinkled her nose at the mushy talk.
“If you live as long as me, you’ll be lucky to experience a single instance that will literally weaken your legs. When you become light-headed, and dizzy … dizzy with the notion your life has not only changed instantly, but for the better.”
Poppa made falling in love sound not only possible, but something she might actually look forward to. Although she didn’t like it. Falling in love sounded like a loss of control, like completely ceding your life over to someone else.
“Did she … did Nan feel the same way?”
Poppa chuckled. “Not one bit! It took weeks before she let me pay for her coffee. But on the day she did, something changed. After she let me buy her coffee, she agreed to have dinner with me that night. The rest is history.”
Clara bunched her brows “I think you have it wrong.”
Poppa sat up higher in his bed. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t believe she didn’t like you right away. I think she might’ve fallen in love with you the day you met.”
“Why … why do you think so?” he asked, puzzled.
“You saw her regularly, right? And she probably sat in the same chair, ordered the same coffee?”
“Well, yes.”
“If she didn’t like you, she wouldn’t have continued her pattern. If you were a pest, she would have gone to the café down the street. She would’ve stayed home and brewed her own.”
Poppa nodded as she spoke and long after she finished, parsing her explanation. The fatigue lifted from his eyes, and he smiled. He no longer looked tired, or sick.
“You, Miss Clarabelle, are far too wise for your years.”
“So you think it’s true?” she asked, forking the last of her breakfast into her mouth.
“I think you just rewrote the history of my life.” Poppa set his plate on his side table and held his arms wide. He waved her to him with both hands. “And for the better.”
Clara released a relieved breath.
She got up, set her empty plate on the rocker and practically leapt into his arms, not realizing how much she needed his hug. His hair smelled dry and unwashed, but she didn’t mind.
“Can you do me a favor?” he whispered into her ear.
“Of course,” she said.
She pulled away as he wiped wetness from the corner of his eye.
He opened the drawer in his side table and removed a small leather-bound book. He placed the book on his lap and ran his fingers over the smooth brown surface.
“What is it?” she asked.
He opened the slim volume and turned a few pages: handwritten paragraphs, sketches of plants and animals, charts of data.
“This is a book of memories.” He flipped through until he found what he was searching for. Carefully, almost reverently, he creased the page near the spine, first one way, then the other. He leveraged the paper until it tore, then he tore along the crease until he freed the page.
Clara leaned in close to get a better look.
“Is that … is that a map?”
“It is indeed.”
“What does it show?”
“Like I said, a memory.” He traced a finger over the paper. It looked like the crude drawing detailed a path through foliage. “I would like to give you an adventure.”
“A … what?” She was totally thrown by the change of subject. They had been talking about nature photos, then the nature of love, and now he wanted to send her on an adventure?
“An adventure. Oh, it’s nothing too harrowing for someone young and able-bodied.”
Her apprehension eased, but barely.
“There’s a clearing not too far into the woods, just west of the house. It’s a low flat plane without a tree to obscure the sky, and the only thing growing there, for the most part, is a little purple flower. There’s a whole field. I want you to pick a bundle and bring them back to me.”
“What kind of flower are they?” she asked, already eager to find a thick botanical book in Poppa’s library.
“I don’t really know, but they were Nan’s favorite. Sometimes it’s better not knowing the names of things.”
“Really?” Clara couldn’t imagine not wanting to learn the name and history behind Nan’s favorite flower.
“Sure, the name doesn’t particularly matter. What matters is that they were Nan’s favorite, and every time I see them, I smile. I’d like for you to bring me some so I can have them at my bedside. It would make it feel like she’s in the room with me.”
“I …” She hesitated, not wanting to disappoint him, but knowing she wasn’t the right person to ask to fulfill this task. “I don’t think Mom would want me to.”
His face sagged, as if his cheek bones had retreated into his skull. His eyes dulled, the gleam draining away.
Clara’s fingers absently toyed with the edge of her blouse. She didn’t want to go on an adventure. She was the least likely person to intentionally pursue an activity that would be considered an adventure. But seeing the longing in Poppa’s eyes, and seeing him perk up at the mention of Nan and his memories of her, she couldn’t bear to deny his simple wish.
“Okay. I’ll do it.”
“Outstanding!” Poppa punched the air in his excitement
Clara couldn’t help feeling his energy.
CHAPTER 13
The morning fog had lifted but had yet to burn away; it remained condensed and low in the sky like a lumbering gray curtain. Krista had changed into a light windbreaker, lime green board shorts, and slipped on some strappy sandals before heading down to the lakeside.
Heidi appeared well on her way to full strength after the leg cramp. She and Trevor laughed hysterically as they kept a beach ball away from Robby, kicking it back and forth. Robby didn’t seem too angered; evidently, he found the whole situation just as fun as the others. As they played, they approached the water’s edge, not quite venturing into the depths, even though they all wore swimwear. The sun would have to come out to heat the lake for a good while before even this adventurous trio could be tempted to swim.
Jack sat in a low-slung canvas beach chair, his bare feet submerged in the water. The other adults remained at the summer house; her brother was supposed to keep an eye on the children, but his gaze never strayed from the gentle waves spurred by the still cool breeze.
“Hey, how’s it going, little brother?” Krista said for no other reason than she didn�
�t want to startle him.
He looked up at her, gave her a grunt. His bloodshot eyes made her wince. “They always have to screech like banshees, huh?” he said, his voice as rough as sandpaper.
“Yeah, afraid so.”
Krista had seen Jack hungover before, but something else troubled him.
She glanced at the children. Robby had managed to steal the beach ball, and Trev and Heidi were in hot pursuit as he sprinted across the sand.
Jack picked up a flat stone, dipped his arm to the side and spun the stone off his index finger. The stone seemed to come to life, hopping frantically across the dark water. He grinned, and then his lips curled into a grimace when the stone sunk for good. He stared out at the anchored dock, wind-milling his surgically repaired shoulder counter clockwise.
Krista heard an audible pop, and then some of the pain left his face.
“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong, or am I going to have to dunk you in the lake like when we were kids?” Krista kneeled in the sand next to him.
He didn’t even react to her presence, so she looked out at the water, watched as the tiny ripples disappeared.
He sucked on his lower lip, shook his head, but didn’t say anything. He raked his fingers through the wet sand until he found another flat stone. He raised his hand above his head to loosen the joint and pain again creased his face. The stone dropped from his fingers. His balky shoulder wouldn’t even allow him to skip stones; that simple pastime was the essence of Jack. When they were kids, he’d skip them across the lake for hours. He now looked aged, no longer like the youngest sibling, perhaps even the oldest. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes had deepened; she could picture him frail and old, as old as Poppa and just as feeble.
Finally, he said, “Something happened at work. Something bad.”
“Something bad happened in Rock Creek?” she said, trying to make light of the situation. “What, a serial cow-tipper on the loose?”
His expression didn’t waver.
“It was nothing to do with anyone but me. About a year ago, shortly after Nan died, I hit a rough patch. I started drinking heavy. Well, heavier than normal. I got sloppy. Waking up drunk. Needing to chase away the hangover with a shot and a beer. All before work.”
“Jesus, Jack,” she scoffed. “You can’t do that.”
“You don’t think I know that? A few weeks ago, the chief smelled it on me and called me out. I tried to brush it off as the stink from a late night. He was sympathetic, but wanted me to take a breathalyzer …” He turned back to the water. “I refused.”
The sky grumbled as a storm neared. The sun dipped behind a bank of clouds; it now appeared near to dusk, even though it was just past lunchtime.
She shifted in the sand to face him, but he wouldn’t look at her.
“You did what? ”
“He caught me. I knew it. He knew it. I told him I couldn’t do it. So I left. Just like that, I walked out.”
Krista shook her head in disgust. “You’ve always had it easy growing up.” She seethed. “You know that? Everything came easy for you. Looks, charm, sports. One by one, you’re pissing those away. What are you going to do now?”
“I … I don’t know. I got a sixty-day severance. It’ll run out soon enough.”
“Before you refused the breathalyzer, you could’ve called Neal.” She couldn’t look at him anymore. She stood and brushed the sand from her knees. “I don’t get it, Jack. You’re smart. You knew what would happen. Why would you do something so … so stupid?”
“I know, I fucked up.” He fought back tears. “Let’s just say … I saw something I didn’t want to see, that no one should have to see.”
He looked over his shoulder at the summer house.
She felt like a heel. Jack, no matter his outward bravado, was a sensitive soul. He was a patrolman, sure, but the job was more than handing out speeding tickets. Gruesome car crashes happened all the time, and patrolmen were often first on the scene.
“Jack …”
Something in her voice made him finally return her gaze.
“I’m here for you,” she said. “There are other jobs, other professions.”
He smiled cynically. “Sure, and I’ve already pissed away two. I’m sure I’m lucky enough to find a third.”
A thunderclap rumbled through the woods. The gray clouds opened, all at once, and sheets of rain fell, the droplets fat and cold, splattering against their skin in thick splotches.
The kids broke into laughter as they rushed for the path leading back to the house.
“You know …” Jack said. “I hate the look in your eyes. The disappointment. That’s the last thing I wanted.”
She wanted to hug him. She wanted to slug him. All she could do was glare, but he again wouldn’t even deign to look in her direction.
“I know I made a mistake … many mistakes.” His eyes drifted from the raindrops dancing on the lake to the disappearing speck of his son’s shirt as he scampered up the trail. “But I’ll do whatever it takes … for Trev. For my family.”
Krista patted his shoulder. “You’re shivering. Let’s go. We’ll make some hot chocolate.”
Jack nodded, looking down at his feet. “Okay …”
“You’re going to figure things out. I know you will. You always bounce back. You thought you’d be a Major League Baseball player. That didn’t happen, so you moved on. You thought you’d be a cop. That didn’t happen, either. You’ll find what’s right for you. For Trev.”
Jack squeezed his shoulder as they cut across the sand to the path.
Lightning crashed, and a peal of thunder a second later. Krista practically jumped at the sound. A gust of wind sent the beach ball the kids had been playing with toward the water; Krista felt an odd compulsion to chase after it, to make sure it was secure during the storm, and broke away from Jack, hoping to catch the ball before it touched the water.
“What the heck are you doing?” Jack called out, his voice nearly lost in the storm.
Lightning flashed across the sky.
Krista snagged the ball, inches before it reached the water’s edge. She stared out at Little Whisper. For a disconcerting moment, the surface appeared to be a mat of human skin, raindrops stippling the surface like goosebumps.
“Are you coming, or what?” Jack said.
He looked pathetic with his clothes now clinging to him, his wavy hair like a wet mop.
“Go on ahead,” she said. “I’ll be right there.”
“Suit yourself.” He pulled his shirt over his head to block the rain and ran away, cutting across the sparse dune grass jutting from a narrow peninsula at the edge of the woods.
Krista turned back toward the water, letting the rain soak through her clothes, letting its chill invade her core. She closed her eyes and listened to the vibration of the storm dancing on the lake. After a minute or more, a crash of thunder forced her eyes open. She was alone, the sky the color of charcoal and day-old bruises.
The pelting rain erased all evidence of footprints; even her own had been wiped clean. A new-formed trail of child-sized prints wended through the sand near the shore and suddenly came to a halt, inches from her own feet, the tiny toe impressions pointed toward her. She searched the beach for an explanation but was left wanting.
A warm glow filtered through the trees on the sloping hill; by now, Jack would be inside the house, supervising the kids getting dry and warm.
The remaining footprints indeed led right to her very spot, but the fresh prints continued down the beach, no more than seconds old. She sucked in a ragged breath. Through the storm’s gray gloom, she followed their path, picking up speed, not wanting to lose them to the sheeting rainfall.
“Please …” she muttered. “Please, wait …”
The trail curled toward the shore, then skirted higher, as if to avoid the wav
es churned by the sudden turn in weather.
A voice came to her on the breeze, along with a light laughter of sheer joy—a child’s voice, a girl’s voice, she was nearly certain—but dispersed like a fragment of dream losing coherence upon waking.
In a panic, she ran as fast as her sandals would allow. She focused on the prints as they neared the single-lane blacktop road, which carved through the flat plane of forested valley.
The trail suddenly disappeared, and the finely articulated prints ended with a lone depression of a right forefoot, as if the person had taken one last stride and had stepped off the face of the earth.
CHAPTER 14
After her breakfast with Poppa, Clara returned to her bedroom to get dressed. The sky threatened rain, so she pulled on her hooded poncho just in case. She checked the mirror on the back of the door and straightened the wisps of hair coming free from her ponytail. The twin beds they’d pushed together reflected back at her in the mirror. Her own bed had been made minutes after her waking. Heidi’s looked more like debris left behind by some natural disaster. In some ways, she envied her cousin for her ability to relax, to not feel compelled to keep her surroundings tidy, or using the proper words for their proper usages.
Clara wore sneakers her mother had insisted on purchasing for her before this trip. They were uncomfortable and stiff, but she supposed they would suit the purpose of tromping through the woods. Her red vinyl poncho was her own selection. The fact that it reminded her of Little Red Riding Hood barely steered her decision-making process, a foolish little secret she would never admit aloud.
Before she left the room, she went back to her bed and flattened a wrinkle in the blanket. She fluffed the pillow, replacing it perfectly center on the bed. Heidi’s bed drew her attention like a car wreck on the highway. She picked up the scattered pajamas on the floor, where her cousin had left them when getting dressed for a day at the beach. The urge to fold them was nearly overwhelming, but she resisted. After placing the pajamas on the unfluffed pillow, where it sat askew and nearly falling off the bed, she headed for the door without looking back.