by Belva Plain
Yesterday they were children, today they are adolescents, and tomorrow they will be their independent selves. Speaking of younger adolescents, he thought, surely his Laura was a textbook example! Thirteen now, and feeling very grown up, she often made droll remarks that brought a chuckle to Jim. And sometimes, as was only to be expected, she tried his patience.
“What are you thinking?” asked Kate.
So light were her steps, he had not heard her coming behind him. “Thinking about the kids. Sit down. I miss you when you're not next to me. What have you been doing?”
“Preparing seed for next spring and jotting down some ideas for a catalog. It's high time for us to advertise, Jim. We need publicity. We need to settle on a name. Foothills Farm—how does that sound? It just popped into my head a few minutes ago. I've been thinking that we should go someplace for real advice. Maybe to Atlanta, or who knows, even New York. What do you think?”
“About the name? Not bad. Foothills Farm. But as to going to get advice, it won't be me who does it, Kate. I'll talk to anybody on the telephone as long as needed, but I won't be seen.”
“You're still so sure about that?”
“You know I am, and that's final. What's Laura doing?”
“The last I saw, she was on the telephone, as usual.”
He laughed. “What on earth can she talk about with those girls, whom she sees in school five days a week?”
“Darling, you were never a thirteen-year-old girl, so you wouldn't understand.”
“Oh, there you are,” said Laura, banging the screen door. “I've been looking all over for you, Mom.”
“I was at my desk in the cottage up till five minutes ago. What's on your mind?”
“Well, I'm really upset. Everybody's going someplace during Christmas vacation, and we're not.”
“Everybody is?”
“Well, not everybody. But Susan is going to visit her cousins in Denver, and they'll go skiing. Beth is going to Florida, where they have palm trees, and you can swim in the ocean. Gerry and Jane Parks are going to New York, and we're not going anywhere. We never do.”
“I have an idea,” Jim said slowly, while Laura's blue eyes, those alert blue eyes so disconcertingly like Lillian's, were turned up toward him. “Why don't the three of you pick a place and take a few days off during winter vacation? I'd like to take time off myself, but there's so much to do here that I don't see how I can. I'd love to have you all do it, though. I really would.”
“You always say that, Daddy. You have to go, too. You're always too busy. Everybody's father goes. Why can't you? You have to.”
“I told you I really have too much to do here. This is a very big, busy place.”
“Other fathers have busy places. Susan's father is a lawyer, and he's very busy.”
“Well, that's not quite the same, Laura.”
“Lawyers are very busy. You don't know anything about them. How would you know without being one yourself?”
You might almost, if you wanted to, find this amusing. She was so in earnest, and so logical in her arguments.
At this point, Kate intervened. “I'll tell you what, Laura. We'll take a short trip for starters. You and I will go to Atlanta. I have some errands there, and you need a winter jacket. We'll have a good time.”
“It's not the same as all of us going someplace. Why can't Daddy go to Atlanta with us?”
“Because,” Kate said, firmly now, “because he can't. He knows what he can and can't do. You mustn't bother him like this.”
Funny how she listens to Kate every single time, Jim thought, and only most of the time to me; she knows she can wrap me around her little finger, but she also knows when she can't.
“Can I go to the drugstore for a cone? Jennie called and asked whether I'd like to. She's driving some kids to the village. Can—I mean, may I go?”
“Of course. Have a double. Go ahead,” Jim said.
As soon as Laura was out of hearing, Kate asked the question he expected her to ask. “Can you really not go to Atlanta with us, Jim? Whom will you meet in a crowd so far from where you used to live? You hear how much it would mean to Laura.”
“Maybe I'm being unreasonable, I don't know. Anyway, it's getting too dark to read. I'm going inside.”
“I haven't told you,” Kate began when they settled in their usual chairs, “but Laura looked up Philadelphia on the map. She wants to see the house where you lived when she was born. I'm only telling you this now because she's going to ask you about it.”
“Oh my God, I wish she would drop the whole subject once and for all.”
“An odd thing happened, too. Rick heard her, and you know he's so grown up and hardly ever quarrels with her anymore, but he got really angry. He yelled at her: ‘Will you shut up and stop bothering your father about that? Stop complaining, I'm sick of listening to it.' I suppose you are, too, Jim, but she's only a child, a very dear one, too.”
“Yes,” he murmured.
“I wish you could be less fearful. I wish for your own sake. It's not that we have to take trips, of course not. I don't give a hoot what other people do, and anyway, Laura's only pointing out a very few. Most people in town can't afford to go places every time there's a school vacation. No, it's your fear that makes me sad. It's eleven years now since you came here, and you see that nothing's happened, even when they had those photos on the milk cartons again last June. You haven't committed a murder. There's a limit to the money they'll spend on your kind of case.”
“Don't be impatient with me, Kate.”
“Darling, I'm not.”
“It's because of her and you that I'm so terribly afraid every time there's talk of leaving this place even for a day. I never thought of myself as being especially cowardly, so it's strange that I can't get rid of the fear.”
“Cowardly? That's the last thing anyone could accuse you of. So let's drop the subject. Read your book.”
Such is the miracle of books that on a quiet evening in a familiar room, you are not there at all; you are in Tibet, or perhaps at the South Pole, struggling on an icebound ship. Then the clock chimes, a door slams, and you are back in the room.
“Who's that?” Jim asked.
“Just Rick.”
“Where's Laura?”
“She came in half an hour ago.”
“Then let's lock up. It's been a long day.”
When he passed Laura's room, he almost always remembered not to look in. That dreadful photograph on her desk was in the line of vision. Obviously, she could see it all the while she was doing her homework. He wondered what her thoughts might be. As for him, that young woman with the luxurious dark hair and perfect teeth always seemed to be grinning. He wished that something would happen to the picture, that the dogs would chew it up, or that somebody would steal it.
Oh, thank all that's holy for the gift of Kate, for her strength, her honesty, her laughter, her soft skin, her lips, and her open arms. So he went in to where she waited and firmly closed their door.
Chapter 18
The desk stood between the two windows, which overlooked in the middle distance the stable and the barns, while behind them rose the hills. Upon the desk lay a solid geometry textbook, a photograph in a narrow mahogany frame, and a thick red leather diary.
Laura flipped through the pages. Now, at fifteen, she was amused at her ten-year-old self, and even slightly embarrassed by her present self. She was thinking that there was something so adolescent about pouring out all this emotion onto paper. Probably she ought to give up the diary altogether.
On the other hand, was it not also an adult thing to be doing? Think of all the famous people who had kept diaries, people one read about in the history books. Perhaps they, too, felt more comfortable writing down things they wouldn't want to talk about.
There are times, she thought, when on a perfectly ordinary day like this one, a good day, when I look down as usual and can watch Mom giving the dogs a bath in the tin tub, or I see Rick—he likes t
o be called Richard now that he's in college—coming back from the fields with Dad, times when I feel a quick, sharp sadness. It doesn't happen to me very often, but it happens. I suppose they've told me all they can and they must be sick of my questions: Who was the other half of me?
I've been seeing this picture for so long that I can see it in the dark. I think I look somewhat like her, but not really. Her teeth show more than mine do when I smile. I certainly don't look like Dad. What do I know about her? Not much, mostly that she liked to paint, although she wasn't an artist. She would have liked to be an artist. She was very smart, Dad says. He says he's sorry he doesn't have a whole lot to tell me because it must be hard for me to get so few answers. The fact is that they weren't together very long. He met her, married her right away, then I was born the same year, and two years later, she died. That makes only three years, or a little more. What a terribly sad story.
But still I think, if you lived with a person even for only a month, you would know more than Dad knows. Not everything, but something not so vague. He only tells things about how she was a good dancer and played tennis and could speak fairly good French. What I want to know is: What was she like?
Mom says that when people you care about die, it hurts you to talk about them. You don't want to be reminded. But I don't think that's true. Rick—Richard—talks about Uncle Clarence pretty often. He and Mom even tell funny stories about things that happened, and they both laugh. Yet I know they loved him. And I remember when Coco, our springer spaniel, got sick and died, how for a long time nobody wanted to think of her. But lately when I speak of her, I remember how sweet she was, how happy she was in our house, and then I'm not so sad anymore. So is it possible that Dad didn't love my mother, and that's why he doesn't tell me things? My friend Emily's father and mother got divorced, and I'm very sure that if either of them should die, the other one wouldn't be sad at all, and wouldn't want to answer questions.
Or maybe it's the other way around. It's possible that Dad loved Rebecca more than he loves Mom. It's easy to see that he loves Mom, but you can't measure love in pounds and ounces, so maybe if he did love Rebecca more, he doesn't want to hurt Mom's feelings by mentioning her. But then, he really could tell me in private if he wanted to.
Once when I was about eleven and didn't know any better, I asked Mom an awful question: Did Dad love Rebecca more than he loves you? But I don't think I hurt her feelings very much because I remember she only told me very quietly that you can love two people in the same way. So maybe that's true. I'll never know because he surely won't ever tell me that.
He won't tell me anything about my ancestors, either. People around here are always talking about their ancestors. Julia Scofield has a great-great—I don't know how many greats—grandfather who fought at Gettysburg. Richard says the Bensons have lived on this property for two hundred years, since the time of George Washington.
Dad says he really has told me a lot. He's told me about his mother and the farm, and how he learned about his father's death on D Day in 1944. But I want to hear about the other half of myself. He keeps saying that he would tell me more if he could, that they lived in Europe and there's no way he can find out anything. It's almost as if I've been adopted. That I could understand, but this is different. Sometimes, although I know it doesn't make any sense, I feel a little angry. Not angry at Dad because I guess he can't help it, but just because it seems sort of unfair.
Even though I hardly ever mention all this to Richard, I think he understands it better than anybody else does. I think he knows that I have these moods. I don't know what makes me so sure, but I am. In some ways, he reminds me of Dad, sort of calm and serious, but he's much handsomer than Dad. Of course, he's a lot younger, nearer my age, so he can understand me better. I really miss him so much now that he's away at the university. Sometimes I think this is the beginning of love. Maybe I already am in love with him.
Once I put my arms around him and made him kiss me on the lips, the first time I ever kissed anybody that way, and I haven't done it with anybody else since. I remember he put my arms down and looked sort of scared.
“We mustn't,” he said. “You're only fifteen.”
Maybe he meant that when I'm older, we can do it. I hope so. We're not brother and sister, so we could get married if we wanted to, and the more I think of it, the more I want to. He will be a wonderful husband, very loving.
He wants to take care of the environment, polluted rivers, deforestation, and stuff like that. He just joined the Sierra Club. I'm sure he'll live on this farm all his life. It's his inheritance. Dad teases him, calling him Daniel Boone. You can see that Dad loves him.
Richard says that Dad was a big help to him when Uncle Clarence died. Dad is very, very helpful to a lot of people in town. A lot of people come to him for advice because he is very smart. At first I did not realize that he helped me get my volunteer job at the hospital. Probably I would have gotten it anyway, but I got it faster because he is on the Board, whatever that means. I really like the job. It's quite important. I wear a pink uniform, which is professional-looking when I take the book cart around to the patients' rooms, or when I read to little kids on the children's floor.
Sometimes I think I might like to be a doctor. I get A's in science, so maybe I would be one of those people who find out about cancer, that killed poor Uncle Clarence and my mother. Dad says it's possible. He told me that I have a very keen mind, and that's why he bought the microscope for me, so I can see things deep inside. It's interesting how an ant or a leaf looks so different under the microscope. Yes, I really think I might be a doctor if I work very hard. Dad says it's amazing what you can do if you try.
Chapter 19
This is my last week at home. Next week, I'll be in the Midwest on the other side of the Mississippi, and I'll be gone for four years. I don't quite know how I feel. I'm excited, curious, and a little sad. Some of everything, I guess, filled as I am with random thoughts.
Dad really didn't want me to go anywhere in the Midwest. Actually, he would be happiest if I had chosen someplace in the South, near home, or if not that, at least some beautiful place like California. For some reason he didn't like the Midwest. But two of the girls from my class are going where I'm going, and that will be great.
The days are noticeably shorter now, but even so, you can tell it's summer's end by the locusts, drilling and rattling in the trees. I'll remember that. I'll remember frogs croaking in the spring. You wouldn't imagine, in the life I've led in a quiet place like this farm and this town where I've gone to school, that there would be so much to remember.
Yet when I think about it, the days here have been very full. People are all remarking how the town has grown. Dad says he can hardly believe the changes since he arrived here fewer than twenty years ago. They've built a new spur to the main highway, and the mall is only six miles beyond that. You can hardly park on Main Street, especially on weekends. There's a new movie theater, really nice, with three screens and comfortable seats. There are at least fifteen new shops, a fancy hairdresser who gave me a great cut, and a gourmet food shop. The hospital has almost doubled in size, and somebody has built a beautiful new inn to accommodate people who are visiting patients.
Richard says Dad was the mover and shaker when they built the children's wing that brought so many new doctors to the hospital. I'm proud. I heard so much mention of him when I worked in the lab last summer doing slides.
“No backwoods town anymore,” Richard said yesterday when we went in for the summer fair. It was our last day together until Thanksgiving, and we made the most of it. We had lunch in one of the new restaurants, and it was fabulous. They made us chocolate soufflés, the first time I ever had one. It was an awfully expensive place, but Richard said this was a celebration for me and my going away.
When we got home, we saddled the horses and took a long ride up to the lookout, where we tethered them and sat down in our special spot above that stupendous waterfall. There's something my
sterious about that spot. You can be having an interesting or even a hilarious conversation, and then suddenly a wistful thought interrupts it. Richard said thank goodness we live far enough away from the town so that this place will never be spoiled. The town isn't likely to spread in our direction because of the hills and all the big places like ours that people will probably never want to sell. I know Dad and Mom would never think of selling. I call Richard a hillbilly, too. He said he's glad to be one, and I agree because I love him just the way he is.
Yes, I truly, truly love him, and not as a brother. We were standing on the cliff ready to mount and ride home, when we kissed. We haven't done it more than three or four times that I can remember. There is always a feeling like a shock when we do, and I don't want to stop. I can tell he doesn't want to, either. And today, as on those other times, he let go of me.
“You're too young,” he said, which is hardly true. “They trust us, Laura.”
I know that, and I know he is right. He talks very wisely.
“Besides, you're going away, and you'll meet someone else.”
But there he is wrong. I am not going to meet anyone else. If any two people can ever be perfect together, we are those two.
PART
THREE
Tornado
1996
Chapter 20
Diary number four, bound like the earlier ones in red leather, lay on the desk, again between two windows, these overlooking the rolling grounds of the university. Above it hung a vertical row of photographs: Dad and Mom stood together on the front porch, Richard was on horseback, and Rebecca wore the only expression she had ever shown to Laura, her charming smile.
