Coming Home (Jackson Falls Series)

by Breton, Laurie

  The guy was taking his own sweet time with the gas. Rob picked up a six-pack of Heineken and a bag of Fritos. To kill time, he began idly scanning the notices tacked on the bulletin board near the cash register. He saw it almost immediately, hand-scrawled on a yellowed three-by-five index card. Cabin for rent. See Al for details.

  The old guy came back in and rang up the sale, the stench of unleaded gasoline clinging to his yellow slicker. Rob handed him a fifty. As he was making change, Rob asked, “You wouldn’t happen to be Al, would you?”

  The codger slammed shut the cash drawer. “Depends on what you want,” he said.

  Rob handed him the fly-specked card. “This,” he said.

  The guy eyed him up and down, taking in the faded jeans, the army jacket, the riotous blond curls that fell past his shoulders. “The rent’s two-fifty a week,” he said.

  Rob nodded. “That sounds reasonable.”

  The bushy white brows drew closer together. “That’s two-hundred and fifty dollars,” he clarified.

  “Money’s not a problem.”

  “No partying, no drugs—”

  “All I’m looking for is a quiet place where I can rest, play my guitar, commune with nature.”

  The guy looked at him as though he’d just landed from another planet. And maybe he had. This place was a far cry from L.A. “How long you planning to stay?” Al asked.

  He shrugged. “Until I get the urge to move on.”

  “I have to have the first week’s money up front. Cash.”

  He opened his wallet again and began counting out bills as the old guy watched, bug-eyed. “There’s a month’s rent, in advance.” He looked up and grinned. “When can I move in?”

  He didn’t have to stay. He kept reminding himself of that as the Jeep navigated the rutted road up the mountainside. Al had given him a door key and vague directions, and he’d bought enough supplies to get him through the first week. His last glimpse of Al had been in his rearview mirror as he pulled out onto the blacktop road. The crusty old gent had stood beside the gas pumps, cap in hand, scratching his head. He’s wondering where the money came from, Rob thought. He’ll probably run right down to the local post office to see if they have my picture on the wall.

  The Jeep crashed over one last bump and the road ended abruptly in a clearing next to a small cabin. Ahead of him, the lake shimmered and sparkled in the afternoon sun. He stopped the Jeep and got out, and the profundity of the silence overwhelmed him. There were no horns honking, no sirens wailing, no human sounds at all. It was so quiet, he could hear the crunching of his own footsteps.

  The place smelled musty and unused. There was a single room, simply furnished with a table and chairs, a built-in bunk, a small refrigerator, a wood stove. He shoved open several windows, and the pine-scented mountain air rushed in, chasing away the stuffiness.

  He went back outside and let Igor out of his carrying case. The svelte Siamese slunk, belly to the ground, then dashed for the open cabin door. Igor, too, was a city boy.

  It took just a few minutes to unload all his gear. He fiddled with the small generator in the lean-to behind the cabin for a while before he got it going. The refrigerator had the same musty scent as the cabin, but it was clean and it worked, and he stowed away his groceries while Igor sat ignoring him elaborately, tail wrapped around his front legs, wearing his haughtiest Siamese look.

  “You’re nobody,” he told Igor, “until you’ve been ignored by a cat.” Igor’s ears twitched. Rob closed the refrigerator. “Come on, mouse breath. Let’s go see what kind of mess we’ve got ourselves into.”

  Igor trotted along behind him like a faithful dog, down the hill to the water. The weathered dock creaked when he walked on it, but it didn’t cave in. From this vantage point, he could see the entire lake, and as far as he could tell, there were no other humans within miles. He saw no cabins, no telltale plumes of smoke rising. No motor boats, no water skiers, no kids splashing around wearing orange life preservers. “Looks like it’s just you and me and Mother Nature,” he told Igor.

  He built a fire in the wood stove and fried hot dogs in the skillet he’d found hanging on the wall. Belly full, he sat barefoot on the dock with Igor and watched the sun set.

  Evening came quickly, the darkness seeming to crowd in upon him without warning. The night sounds were different from those of day, and he wondered what the hell he was doing in this godforsaken place.

  A good night’s sleep changed his outlook. He couldn’t remember when he’d slept so soundly. He and Igor breakfasted on a MacKenzie Special, made with eggs and cheese and leftover hotdogs. Then he got out his razor and prepared to shave.

  The sight that greeted him when he peered into the cracked mirror above the sink was enough to stop him in his tracks. His eyes were bloodshot, his complexion pasty and sickly. He looked like he’d either gotten drunk last night or should have. Grimacing at his reflection, he held up the disposable razor, looked at it for a moment, then tossed it into the trash. If he was going to live like a hermit, he might as well look like one.

  He spent most of that first day lying on the dock, absorbing the sun’s warmth. By nightfall, the hated freckles had begun to pop out in a light sprinkling across the bridge of his nose and on his shoulder blades. He’d grown to accept the inevitability of the freckles (his mother said it was just the Irish coming out in him), but he’d never, ever come to like them. He comforted himself by remembering how much luckier he was than his sisters, with their milky-white complexions that turned as red as their hair the minute the sun hit them. The hair on his head was blond, but his body hair was several shades darker, and he knew from experience that the freckles would soon give way to a rich, mahogany tan.

  By his third day of solitude, he’d begun to realize that he truly was the only human around. In three days, he hadn’t seen a single sign of humanity, not even a plane flying overhead. For the first time in his life, he was absolutely alone. He stripped and swam in the frigid depths of the lake, then lay naked in the sun, its gentle touch nudging him in places he’d never before exposed.

  On Saturday he headed for the store, sporting a week’s growth of reddish beard and feeling better than he had in years. He’d slept soundly each night and spent the days alternating between exploring the area and sunning himself on the dock.

  While Al’s distrustful eyes followed him around the store, he stocked up on groceries, then bought a rod and reel. He’d never been fishing in his life, and he had no idea what to buy for tackle, so he bought one of everything. He picked out a half-dozen mysteries from the paperback book rack, bought batteries for his Walkman, then carried his loot out to the Jeep.

  He spent the second week reading Robert B. Parker and learning how to fish. He was as excited as a kid when he caught his first bass. It was nearly a foot long, and it lay on the wooden dock, flipping and spattering him with lake water when he tried to remove the hook from its mouth.

  That night, he and Igor had fish for supper, and for the first time Igor seemed to approve of this place he’d been dragged off to. He sat contentedly next to Rob on the steps, washing his paws and his face, before curling up in a ball and purring a final benediction.

  That evening, Rob sat on the crumbling dock and played his guitar. The Gibson was the first thing he’d bought when the money started rolling in. After years of picking away at third-hand, second-rate guitars, the Gibson was his reward for the virtue of patience. The sweet vibrato echoed out across the silent lake and he felt its thrum through his fingertips and all the way into his soul. He began working on the tune that had been circling around in his head for the better part of a week. Strummed a chord, picked a few notes, frowned and changed pitch slightly. Satisfied, he continued on, gaining momentum as the music began to pour forth from his fingertips, his instrument, his soul.

  And there on that dock, a million miles from the bustle of Los Angeles, Rob MacKenzie slowly began his journey home.

  ***

  Three days after Ro
b left L.A., Danny spent the afternoon sitting on his deck, staring out over the Pacific, smoking cigarettes and sipping bourbon. That night, in spite of the booze circulating through his system, the nightmares poked insidious fingers into his sleep. The images were blurry and confused, visions of Vietnam stirred into the pot along with images of Katie, his Katydid, lying in that tiny white coffin.

  He woke up crying, spent the rest of the night battling his demons at the piano. With the first light of day, bleary-eyed and exhausted, he tossed the booze bottles—both full and empty—into the trash. And then he packed an overnight bag, locked up the house, and climbed into the car.

  It was a beautiful day for a drive, and once he was on the freeway, he opened up the Ferrari and let her roll. It felt wonderful, the powerful machine beneath him, the wind threading fingers through his hair. He was doing the right thing, and he wished that Casey could see him, for she would be proud of his decision, proud of what he was about to do. He’d been battling these particular demons for too long. It was time he finally laid them to rest.

  The V.A. hospital wasn’t hard to find. Danny circled the block several times before he mustered the courage to drive into the lot and park. He locked the car, squared his shoulders, and walked determinedly toward the building.

  He paused in the lobby to read the wall directory, then took a sharp left and strode to the end of the corridor and through the door marked MENTAL HEALTH SERVICES.

  The woman at the reception desk looked up at him, then did a double-take. Her mouth fell open as he pulled his discharge papers from his pocket and slapped them down on the counter in front of her.

  “Hello,” he said. “My name is Danny Fiore, and I’m here to collect on an old debt.”

  chapter twenty-two

  She rented an apartment on Hanover Street, in Boston’s North End, a cozy little two-bedroom with crooked wooden floors and one wall of ancient brick. From the window that looked out over the street below, she could watch Coca-Cola trucks unloading, and tourists in white shorts with Japanese cameras around their necks, and a never-ending stream of traffic, night and day. She turned the spare bedroom into a workroom, with a day bed and a rolltop desk and a small upright piano that was carted up the stairs by two grunting, muscle-bound deliverymen. She covered the floors with colorful scatter rugs and the windows with venetian blinds, filled the sunny open spaces with a jungle of green plants, stocked the refrigerator with yogurt and fruit and Diet Coke.

  And she took up running.

  It was a way of relieving her frustrations, a way of temporarily escaping her problems, for while she was running it was impossible to think of anything except the white-hot agony of pushing her body to the point of collapse. Running was a monster, a fire-breathing dragon, an enemy she met with obsessive fury. Gradually, as she built up her endurance, it evolved into a challenge as each day she pushed herself just a little farther. Until one day, she realized she was no longer running to escape her problems or to prove something to herself, but for the simple, sheer exhilaration of running itself. Daily, no matter what the weather, she ran up one side of the Esplanade to the Harvard Bridge and back down the other side. Afterward, she bought the morning paper and a cup of steaming coffee from the grocer downstairs and then stood beneath a scalding shower, face up to the spray as the water sluiced off tender, aching muscles.

  There were times when the loneliness overwhelmed her. Nights were the hardest, because she’d been sleeping beside Danny for twelve years, and even during their most difficult times, he’d still been there beside her, a comforting warmth to curl up to. At home, his scent had lingered on the bedding. But her new pillows smelled like K-Mart, the new pillowcases like laundry soap. And she lay awake, night after night, cursing Danny to hell, and herself right along with him, because she would have traded her soul to have him lying there beside her.

  Yet there was another side of her that relished the freedom of having to answer to nobody but herself. At times, she looked around her little apartment in amazement at the realization that everything in it was hers and she possessed sole responsibility for her own life. For twelve years, Danny had been the center of her universe. Now she took small, fearful steps into the unknown in an attempt to cultivate the acquaintance of the woman whose green eyes gazed back at her from the mirror each morning. For twelve years, she’d thought she knew who that woman was. Had been absolutely certain of her identity. Now, she was forced to rediscover who she really was, to relearn her own tastes, her own interests, her own dreams.

  On the morning of her thirtieth birthday, she awoke engulfed in a deep blue sorrow that played a striking countermelody to the liquid brilliance of the spring morning outside her window. It was so uncharacteristic, this paralyzing sadness, that for a moment she wondered if she’d contracted some exotic flu bug. She’d never allowed melancholy feelings to control her, had always refused to take the time for them. But this was like a heavy blanket of despair, so thick she had difficulty getting out of bed.

  Age had never held meaning for her before. A birthday was simply a birthday, a cause for celebration, the actual number meaningless. But thirty was loaded with meaning, ripe with recognition of her own mortality. At thirty, she’d lost some symbolic youth, had stepped over a threshold into an alien territory from which she could never return. At thirty, she should have had it all. Instead, her life was a shambles. And she was forced to face the truth that her chances for attaining that elusive happiness were growing slimmer with each year that passed.

  Most of the time, she tried not to dwell on thoughts of Danny, but today she allowed herself just a few minutes to wallow in self-pity, wondering if he even remembered it was her birthday. How was he coping? How was he making it through the nights, when the nightmares woke him in the wee hours and she wasn’t there to ward off the evil spirits? Was he in as much pain as she was? Did he hate sleeping alone as much as she did? Or had he even noticed she was gone?

  She exorcised her demons by running, pushing her body to its limits and beyond, breaking her own records for speed and endurance. She returned home sweaty, gasping, barely coherent, but her depression had lifted. The hallway was dark, and it took her eyes a few moments to adjust to the gloomy interior. She was halfway up the stairs before she saw the shadowy figure sitting on the top step. She reached into her pocket and closed her fist around the can of Mace she carried everywhere. And then a familiar voice said, “About time you got here. Don’t blame me if the Cherry Garcia’s already soup.”

  Her entire body responded with an exultant, resounding joy. She released the Mace, let out a bloodcurdling whoop, and took the stairs two at a time. “MacKenzie, you insufferable jackass!” she said as she threw her arms around him. “What are you doing in Boston?”

  He returned her bone-crunching hug. “It’s your birthday, Fiore. Didn’t think I’d forget, did you?”

  “Let me look at you.” She stepped back, held him at arm’s length and studied him while he watched her with a bemused smile. “You look wonderful,” she said.

  He chucked her under the chin and said, “Listen, the ice cream really is melting. I’ve been sitting here for the better part of an hour.”

  She looked at the packages strewn over the landing. “You really brought ice cream?” she said.

  “And cake. And gifts. A woman turns thirty but once, my sweet. It’s a milestone that deserves to be commemorated.”

  She took out her keys and unlocked the door to her apartment. Ruefully, she said, “I’d just as soon commemorate it by drinking hemlock.”

  “What you need,” he said, picking up the last of his packages and kicking the door shut behind him, “is an attitude adjustment. And that’s just what I’m here to provide.”

  While she watched, he unpacked a pint of Ben & Jerry’s, a homemade cake that looked like one of Mary’s specialties, two bottles of sparkling wine—one red, one white—and an assortment of packages hastily done up in Sesame Street wrapping paper. “Sorry about the paper,” he said
. “It was all Mom could dig up on such short notice.”

  “You didn’t have to do this,” she said.

  He picked up one of the bottles and perused the label. Frowning, he said, “Which do you think goes better with ice cream? Red or white?”

  “You’re a lunatic,” she said, “but I love you. Let’s go with the red.”

  Without asking for permission, he began opening cupboard doors until he found a pair of wine glasses. “And note,” he said, “that I spared no expense.” He released the cork with a loud pop. “See? No screw-on cap.” With a flourish, he poured wine into one of the glasses and handed it to her.

  “Duly noted,” she said dryly.

  He filled his own glass and held it up. “To thirty,” he said, “and whatever’s on the other side.”

  “To old age, infirmity, and senility,” she echoed darkly, and drained her glass.

  He leaned those lanky hips against the counter and rolled his wine glass between both palms. “Bad day, kiddo?” he said.

  “Try bad year.”

  Those green eyes examined her at length. At last, softly, he said, “Yeah. I know.”

  She picked up the bottle and refilled her glass. Digging a fingertip into his breastbone, she said, “I don’t want your damn pity.”

  “Pity’s definitely not on the agenda,” he said. “But a birthday party is.”

  So they drank red wine and ate Mary’s chocolate cake topped with a generous puddle of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. His gifts were eclectic, and typical of him: a coloring book denoting the joys of senility; an oversized white tee shirt that said Sexy Senior Citizen; and an exquisite pair of earrings, fashioned of jade and onyx, that must have cost him dearly. “Oh, Rob,” she protested, “they’re beautiful. But they’re too expensive. You shouldn’t have done this.”