by Polly Becks
“Thank you,” Lucy said appreciatively. “I am sick of this rain, but nowhere near as sick of it as my students are.”
“I don’t blame them,” Glen agreed. “They have few enough hours of daylight in the spring as it is. The snow is finally gone, and now they can’t even play outside. It pretty much sucks.”
Lucy laughed in spite of herself at his final word, which was something she was far more likely to say outside of school than she thought he was.
“Normally I would offer to drive, but it seems to me that if you need to get to the Town Hall for the hearing, you might want to leave directly from Pita Gourmet,” he said as they made their way in the strafing rain across the parking lot. “If we drive separately, you’ll have your car there when we’re done and can get a space near the Town Hall.”
“Thanks,” Lucy said again. She was beginning to feel badly about her earlier attitude, especially in the face of Mr. Daniel’s thoughtfulness.
He held the umbrella over her while she got the car door open and into the front seat. As soon as she had started it, he peered out from beneath the umbrella himself.
“Do you know where the restaurant is?”
“Oh, yes.”
“All right, then I’ll meet you there.”
Lucy nodded, closed her door, and watched him dash off across the parking lot. She reached up to the rearview mirror, where the rosary that had been her mother’s and grandmother’s hung, and caressed the crucifix, murmuring a quick prayer, as was her tradition.
Then she put her car in gear and headed over to the near side of Lake Obergrande.
THE LEBANESE RESTAURANT was one she normally avoided. It was owned by a family that, while not directly unpleasant, had not made customer service a priority, at least in the times she had been there, though the food was excellent. But when she and Glen Daniels entered, the faces of the grumpy grandfather manning the ovens and the sullen, middle-aged blond waitress behind the cash register both lit up in delight.
“Bonsoir,” Glen greeted them.
“Bonsoir,” they replied in unison, smiling, or approximating it.
“Bone swa?” Lucy added in her best French accent, and failing.
The two restaurant staff stared at her in an ugly way.
“I’d be happy to order for you if you tell me what you’d like,” Glen said as they were led to the nicest of the small restaurant’s tables. “You get vastly better service if you order in French. Unless, of course, you can order in French yourself. Or Lebanese.”
“Not a prayer,” Lucy admitted as he pulled out her chair for her. “Except for Spanish, which I can carry off pretty well, I only know enough other foreign languages to teach my students the days of the week, the numbers from one to ten, ‘hello,’ ‘goodbye,’ ‘please’ and ‘thank you.’ That’s about it.”
“That’s more than sufficient for kindergarten, I would guess,” Glen said, taking his own seat. “Your students are lucky to have you.”
“Thank you,” said Lucy once again. “Which ones are you planning to ‘snag’ tomorrow?”
Glen opened his menu. “Hmmm. Let’s see; Grace Fuller, Sarah Windsor, Corinne Byrnes, Sloane Wallace. Oh—and Elisa Santiago—she has a lovely singing voice when she can be coaxed into using it.”
“None of the boys?”
“Not this year, no. I’ve worked with a few of them in class to learn a Mother’s Day rap, which is hilarious, so they will have their moments in the spotlight. The young gentlemen in this class need some time to mature a little before we can teach them harmony and solos like the girls. But that’s OK—they get to sing all the other songs, and their moms will be really proud.”
“Good. Is one of them Garrett Burlingame?”
“Yes, why?”
Lucy sighed. “I just hope his mom remembers to come this year.”
Glen exhaled deeply. “Oh, right. I remember what happened with Devin. I hope so, too.”
The waitress approached, looking sourly at Lucy, then turned to Glen, her face morphing into a more pleasant expression.
“Ready to order, sir?” she asked in accented English.
“Oui, merci,” Glen replied. He proceeded to order mezza, an array of little colorful dishes similar to tapas, with flat bread to dip in hummus and baba ghanouj, white cheeses, sliced melon, artichokes, yogurt with cucumbers and garlic, grilled meats and fried fish, marinated skewers of chicken, stuffed grape leaves and Kalamata olives, kibbeh and tabbouleh salads in French for them both, per Lucy’s request. Then he asked the waitress, Lucy thought, about the availability of baklava and a special type of flaky pie he had mentioned on their way into the restaurant.
The waitress replied in French, then took their menus and left the dining room.
“What did she say?” Lucy asked.
“They have plenty of baklava, but the pie is gone, except for a piece she was saving for her father.”
“Oh well.”
“No, she says he can do without it, he’s apparently ‘too fat to fit into his belt,’ whatever that means. We can split it.”
Lucy laughed. “All right.”
“And they always bring a roasted onion at the end of the meal. I haven’t figured that out yet,” Glen said, opening his napkin.
The rest of the dinner went off without a hitch. Glen Daniels had a low-key sense of humor that had her giggling in a way she found almost embarrassing, though harmless, throughout the meal, which was over far too soon.
The waitress brought out a small, bald, roasted onion which she set near Lucy, then gave Glen a magnificently plated piece of pie on a ribbon of chocolate with a single fork. She placed it before him, and looked pointedly at Lucy before she left the table, causing them both to laugh out loud once she was gone.
“Nah sveetz fah youh,” Glen said in an intentionally bad accent as he pushed the pie plate in front of her, chuckling. “Voman getz zee onion—zat’s it—no chocolate fah youh.”
Lucy almost choked, laughing.
“I’M GLAD I hung on to my fork,” she whispered to him as they left the restaurant later. “That pie was phenomenal. Thanks for sharing. I’m not sure the waitress would forgive you if she knew you let me have some.”
Glen just smiled.
The rain had stopped, at least momentarily, as they made their way to the street parking at the bottom of Tree Hill, the town park in which Obergrande, the enormous historic Northern Red Oak tree stood, spreading its vast limbs protectively above the little village.
“I hope your meeting goes well,” Glen Daniels said as he approached his car. “You should have plenty of time to make it to the Town Hall, even if you walk.”
“Why aren’t you attending the hearing?” Lucy asked curiously. “I thought everyone in town was itching to be there tonight.”
“Maybe, but I don’t live in town,” Glen replied. “I come over from Schroon Lake.”
“Ah. Well, the rain has paused. I think I’ll climb the hill and say goodnight to Obergrande. I’m very fond of that tree. It’s a tradition I’ve tried to observe since I moved here.”
“Well, if you don’t mind, I’ll go with you, then,” said Glen. “I have the same tradition.”
“Really?” Lucy commented as they started up the hill in the fading light. Dusk was setting in below the heavy gray clouds, making the sky even darker than it normally would be.
“Yes.” Glen lapsed into silence until they had reached the summit of the hill where the magnificent tree stood.
“Did you know this tree is registered as a national landmark?” he asked.
“Really?”
“Yes; it’s certified to be over four hundred years old. There are documents formalizing treaties signed beneath it between the Iroquois Nation and the French, British, and Dutch settlers that were living around here at the time. This tree was a meeting place, a place of negotiation and the signing of peace treaties, a place of judgment. A very historic place.”
Lucy nodded. “It was also a place where lov
ers traditionally met. I’ve heard a lot of weddings were and are performed here—I see them all the time in the summer. Every class that graduates from the high school gets its picture taken around and beneath the tree, and a lot of families take photos of their kids in its branches, or used to. I’d be nervous to do that—the first limb is pretty far off the ground.”
Glen nodded in agreement. “This whole place was a very important region in the French and Indian War, I hear. Lots of interesting stories from that time.”
“Why do you know about the French and Indian War? You’re a kids’ music teacher.”
“Probably the same way you, a kindergarten teacher, know about music.”
“Well, you’re wrong there. I have a solid tin ear.”
“I doubt that. Let’s test it out. Close your eyes.”
“Why?” Lucy asked suspiciously.
“Humor me for a moment,” said Glen, amused.
Lucy exhaled sharply, then closed her eyes nervously.
“Listen for the sound of the river rushing by, the water wheel, the sawmill—it’s closed now, with dusk coming, so you can’t hear the machinery, but if you listen closely, you can hear the creaking of the wood. Listen for the bells, which are about to toll the hour, and then play the hymn All Through the Night. It’s a shame there are no kids out, but you can listen for the patter of the rain instead.” He fell silent, and Lucy could hear the sounds he had just described.
“You’re right,” she said. “I can hear it.”
“Now open your eyes,” said Glen Daniels, “and take another look at your town.”
Lucy did so, and took in an unexpected breath as she did.
The Adirondack mountains rose up on both sides of the river valley, their purple and green peaks wreathed in heavy fog that also frosted both the Hudson River and Lake Obergrande to the east. In the heavy pall of rain, Lucy took in the sight gratefully, so much more lush and beautiful than the mid-West dustbowl where she had grown up.
Even swollen with rain, the air atop the hill was sweet and clean, with the lights of the little village shops and restaurants just beginning to glow. Such a pretty place, she thought, looking at the quaint buildings that lined the streets around Tree Hill, each corner lighted by a traditional street lantern atop an historic pole. I’m so glad I live here.
Making the need for strong advocacy at the Town Board meeting tonight even more crucial.
“It’s amazing how much a place in the world is made more beautiful by its natural music. I love listening to the music of this place.” Glen’s voice broke the silence, but it wasn’t a disruption as far as Lucy was concerned. It blended in with the sounds from all around that she could hear beneath Obergrande’s vast branches, the new leaves sprouting on the vast network of twigs amid countless empty nests left over from years before, nests that would soon have new occupants and a cacophony of new birdsong.
“Me too,” she said aloud, resting her hand on the massive trunk, running her fingers through the deep rivers in the bark. “It’s like the tree is singing.”
“Not just the tree—the whole place,” Glen said, pulling his jacket a little closer around him as the rain began to drizzle again. “The symphony of this area is amazing—the percussion is the rattle of the wheels and the machinery of the mills, the splashing of the water of the river running through them as it grows stronger, swelling into the massive force that is the Hudson.”
He inclined an ear to the western side of the village, where the churches stood.
“The melody of the song is the carillon in the tower of Our Mother of Sorrows, singing to the evening sky. Our Lady of Lourdes, the church in Schroon Lake, has a carillon, too—I’m told it’s a French-Canadian tradition. The descant—”
“The which?”
“The descant—the musical term for the high part floating over all that rich sound—is the laughter and noise of the children playing in the park when it hasn’t been raining forever. And the bass is the never-ending rumble of Route 87, the Northway, in the distance, that brings me to this place each day, that takes me home at night. The tree is the conductor of the symphony. Can you hear the music? Close your eyes again, and listen.”
Curious now, Lucy obeyed.
“You’re right,” she said after a moment, opening her eyes again. “I can hear it—and it’s beautiful. I never thought of it that way before. Thank you for taking the time to show me.”
Glen smiled slightly. “Speaking of time, we both better get going. I have a lot of stuff to take care of tonight, and you have a meeting to catch.”
“Yes. Well, thank you for dinner.”
He bowed slightly. “It was my pleasure. Thank you, Lucy. Here—you hold on to the umbrella. You can give it back to me at school tomorrow.”
He turned toward the street parking where he had left his car.
Only to stop when Lucy caught his sleeve.
“Glen?”
He turned around again. “Yes?”
She let her hand encircle his wrist, pulling him gently back under the umbrella, then stood on her toes and, to his surprise and hers, kissed him on the cheek.
“Thank you again. See you tomorrow.”
Glen exhaled, smiling more broadly. “Will do. Good night.”
“Good night.”
He waited beneath the tree while she made her way down the opposite side of the hill, heading into the brightly lit Town Hall, which was already bustling with townsfolk streaming in.
Then smiled to himself again and descended Tree Hill to his car in the returning rain.
At the primitive campsite
“IF I HAD known this might happen, I would have kept nursing her,” Anjolie said, rubbing her eyes. She put her palms against her temples and watched Bram feeding the baby with a bottle he had warmed over the last of the lantern’s fuel.
“You had to return to work,” her husband said quietly, smiling at the little girl and letting her curl her fist around his finger.
“Some women can do it and return to work,” Anjolie said, trying to block out the sound of the rain strafing the top of the tent again.
“We can try that with the next one, if you wish.”
Anjolie leaned back against the bedroll. “We are almost out of baby formula, Bram. What are we going to do?”
“Rain or no rain, tomorrow we break camp and make our way to Obergrande,” Bram said, directing his words to the baby, who was watching him with enormous eyes from behind her bottle. “They will have everything we need there—especially shelter.”
“That will be nice. I can’t wait to be warm and dry again—and inside.”
“The town has a beautiful old hotel, according to the guidebook,” Bram said as the baby finished her bottle, sipping air. “We have been frugal so far—we can probably splurge on a night or two there.”
His wife sighed wordlessly.
He thought of the second-hand canoe they had bought off a front lawn in Newcomb to the north, now upside down outside the tent to keep it from filling with rain. The man who had sold and delivered it to them looked doubtfully at their set up, but had said nothing, just wished them well.
Bram was beginning to understand the man’s expression.
“We’ll be all packed to go at first light,” he said. “With any luck, the rain will break and we will have an easy ride down the river.”
Anjolie, a champion paddler in Holland, nodded and settled down on the sleeping bag, damp with the seepage of the water and mud beneath the tent floor.
Bram set the empty bottle aside and put his daughter on his shoulder.
“Excellent work, kindje,” he whispered in her tiny ear, the Dutch word for baby. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck and sighed as he rubbed her back. “Tomorrow may be a wet day, but it will be the day you finally arrive at the place our ancestors once lived—and what may well be our new home.”
His daughter belched politely, squirmed, and then settled down again.
Rather than putting he
r in the setup behind them, Bram laid her down next to Anjolie and stretched out on the other side of her, cradling her in between them, remembering what his early camping leaders had taught him.
The largest number of people who die when camping on mountains, and in forests, do so of hypothermia, Heer Von Nostrandt, the scout master, had said. The second largest are the ones who die from falling trees.
Bram tried to close his ears to the sound of the gusting wind rustling and cracking the branches outside their tent.
But it roared in his dreams anyway.
Chapter 6
‡
5:55 PM
Obergrande Village
THE OBERGRANDE TOWN Hall parking lot was packed with cars, making Lucy glad she had left hers on the street below Tree Hill. The hall itself was ablaze with light, and even more crowded with people than its parking lot was with cars.
The mood inside the hall was tense and brawly, with many people standing in pairs or small groups, arguing already. A larger number were standing in the hallways, looking grim, or seated already in the rows of chairs inside the largest room in the hall that served as a gathering place for board meetings on the third Thursday of each month, and town court every Wednesday evening.
Lucy had been to almost every Town Board meeting for the last two-and-a-half years, starting immediately upon coming to Obergrande. This was the first time, however, she had noticed more than one uniformed security officer in attendance—she counted five before she even made it out of the main entrance.
Their presence made her suddenly nervous.
She passed Mr. Credman, her elderly next-door neighbor, who was pointing his finger in the face of a man who looked as if he were on the Town Council, judging by the badge he wore and the look of annoyance on his red, wrinkled face.
A group of three women had similarly cornered the Obergrande village major, Ray Tibedeau, who was listening patiently to their concerns, voiced rather loudly, just as another group had surrounded Bob Lundford, the Obergrande town supervisor, who was not looking as patient. His face was set in a stern mask but was as red as that of the man who was being yelled at by Mr. Credman.
