by Ann Cummins
She looks at her father in surprise, her face coloring. She gets up and walks to the screen door, looking out.
"That pillow?" Woody says. "Do you know where Delia got the pattern for that? From Taylor Newman. You remember how he used to organize the nuts and bolts in the warehouse?"
"Taylor?" Sam says. "Oh, yeah. The warehouseman. Right, Ry? He was a fanatic. He counted every damn nut."
Woody laughs, wheezing. "He used to..." He stops speaking, his lips sucking in air, fishlike.
"He used to arrange the nuts and bolts and nails according to color," Delia calls. "Woody took a picture."
"What a weirdo," Sam says. "That's right. I remember. He didn't organize according to size or anything that made sense. He organized by different shades of gray. Remember, Ry? Old Taylor didn't want anybody messing with things out there. He took that job so damn seriously. If you wanted a bolt, you had to ask him and he'd get it for you. We didn't lose money on Taylor. I guess the mill may have had its problems, but thanks to crazy old Taylor, it was solvent."
"That's right," Woody says, laughing, wheezing.
Ryland says nothing. He holds the plastic tube against his nose.
Sam gets up and starts circling the room, looking at the beaded artwork on the walls. The room is full of beaded pillows and wall hangings. Some of the pictures are Bible quotes. The one over the sofa where Woody sits has a sky blue background with black lettering: AND THE GREATEST OF THESE IS LOVE. CORINTHIANS 13.
"Boy, these are pretty," Sam says. He stops in front of an intricate weaving of what looks like intertwined yellow stalks against a paler yellow background, orange streaks defining shadows, and again his hands itch to work. "Is this yucca? Looks like yucca. I didn't know Navajos did beadwork like this."
"We do. It's a Plains art, though," Delia says. "You know, Delmar might know when Alice is coming back."
"Delmar? I thought he was in jail."
"He's out."
"He is? Where is he?"
"Working. Where's he working, Becky?"
"Up on Whitaker Mesa," the girl says quietly.
"You ready, Sam?" Ryland stands and walks over to Woody, stretching out his hand. "You take good care, Woodrow. We'll be seeing you, okay?"
"How long's he been out?" Sam says.
"Since February."
"Since February."
The wheels of Ryland's cart squeak as he pulls it over the wood floor.
"Nobody told me," Sam says.
The girl shrugs and seems almost to smile. He decides not to ask her how to get to Whitaker Mesa.
Driving home, Ryland slumps against the passenger's-side door, his face granite, hands shaking.
"You cold?" Sam says.
"Nope."
"I could turn the heater on. Except it doesn't work."
"No problem."
He decides to take the highway home, which is faster. Ryland's breath sounds sort of like a death rattle.
"How do you like that?" Sam says. "My son's been out of jail for six months and nobody told me."
Ryland says nothing. His eyes are half closed.
"I see what you mean, Ry."
"What?"
"The hostility back there."
"Damned if you do, damned if you don't."
"Eh, kids. Don't worry about it. Woody was a smoker, wasn't he?"
"Was he?"
"I think he was."
"I don't remember it."
"I'm pretty sure. Nights we'd go out, have a smoke. Yeah. Everybody makes their own choices, Ry. I don't see how people can blame you or the industry for the choices they made."
"That's what I'm saying." He pushes the tube into his nose, looks bleary-eyed at Sam.
"Don't worry about it."
Ryland leans his head back against the window and closes his eyes.
Alice could've at least written to say his son was out of jail.
"Where is Whitaker Mesa?"
Ryland says it's north of town
He hasn't seen his kid in seventeen years. He's seen pictures, that's all. Well, he'll go see him. They're in the same state now. Same town.
Sam smoothes his hand over his trousers, which are so threadbare he can see skin above the knee.
"You know, Ry," he says.
"Yeah?"
He wonders if she even gave the kid the money he sent. "Nothing. Just thinking." He sent regularly, every month, whatever he could. Hell, he sent more to the kid than he kept for himself. He just wonders if she gave it to him.
"Ry. How much you figure you have to make a year before you owe taxes?"
"No idea. Why?"
"Just wondering."
Highway 550 between Fruitland and Farmington is a solid string of businesses, convenience stores, gas stations, diners. They pass a cop, lights on his car pulsing, with two young Indian men, legs spread, hands behind their heads. The cop frisking one.
"Would be something, getting a Social Security check every month that you don't have to do anything for."
"Like Rosy says, you earned it."
"The thing is, I don't know if it's a good idea for the government to look too close at me."
Ryland frowns at him. "Why not?"
Sam doesn't answer.
"Sam? When's the last time you filed a tax return?"
Sam takes a sip from his flask, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "I guess that would be when Lily and I got divorced."
"Sam, Sam." Ryland shakes his head. "Same old same old, huh?"
"I guess."
"Remember how you tried to talk me into firing you, rigging a way to pay you under the table? You were always scheming how to stay under the table. Well, you probably don't owe much. You might have to pay a penalty for not filing, but I doubt you owe any taxes. What do you make? Ten grand a year?"
"Not even."
"I bet you're under the minimum. Like Rosy said, it's not the government's money. You paid in all those years at the mill."
"That I did. You saw to it."
"That I did."
"How do you suppose somebody goes about applying for Social Security?"
"It's simple. You just need your birth certificate or your army discharge papers. Something to show you're legit."
"Something to show I'm legit." Sam takes a sip from his flask. "I must have one of those somewhere, huh," he says. "A birth certificate. I wonder where."
Ryland smiles tiredly. "Sam, you're just the same."
28
ON MONDAY MORNING, twelve days before Maggie's wedding, Lily drives down to the Strater Hotel on Main in Durango to meet Fred for an early breakfast. They've been having a little disagreement about their vacation this November, not over where or when but specifically over how long they should go for and how much they should see. Fred has already begun to wrap up his business, and they've decided on a date. They'll have their first excursion outside the USA on November 15. Two weeks, no more. Touring can be taxing on a relationship, especially a new one—on this they both agree. So they want to go slow.
If Fred had his way, they'd be carted around on a dais, never touching ground, whisked in and out of Belize, Guatemala, Mexico, sampling but not, to Lily's mind, really experiencing these exotic places. Lily thinks they ought to choose a specific locale and really explore. Initially she thought she'd like a walking tour of some sort, but recently she has stumbled on kayaking tours, and they've captured her imagination. She wants to "paddle in hushed delight into one of the secret coves or spellbinding volcanic outcroppings of Baja's Sea of Cortez," just like the brochure says.
In truth, though, she has a secret agenda. If she can get Fred to agree to an active vacation, one that requires physical exertion, she plans to put them both on a fitness regime for the next two months to get in shape for the trip. She needs it, too. This is not just about Fred's weight. She has no upper body strength. Her arms are like noodles. She'd like to develop some muscle where she's never had any.
And so she goes to breakfast armed with broch
ures. From the sidewalk outside, she sees Fred in the window, reading a newspaper, and her heart skips ahead a little. Every time she sees him these days, she is surprised at how very glad she is to see him. Her gladness doesn't abate a bit when he tells her she's loony.
"Kayaking, Lily? What are you thinking?"
"I'm thinking, Fred," and she takes a breath, "that a hands-on vacation, one where we're forced to interact in all ways, physically, emotionally, all ways, would be so much more invigorating than one where we listen to a tour guide and ride around on a bus."
Fred, wide-eyed, stares at her, amazed but smiling. "Kayaking." He shakes his head. The waitress refills his coffee cup, pours some for Lily, and takes their orders. Lily is surprised that Fred doesn't order eggs Benedict as he usually does. Even though they've been going out for less than two months, she has begun to feel really comfortable with him. She feels as if they have "usuals." If they went on The Dating Game she would say with confidence "eggs Benedict" when asked what he likes best for breakfast, just as he could say, with confidence, "granola and low-fat yogurt" for her. But today he surprises her and orders granola himself. She wonders if he's dieting. He actually said something yesterday about wanting to drop a few pounds. She says nothing, though. She read somewhere that calling attention to a dieter's food choices can stymie the best intentions.
"Have you ever kayaked before?" he says.
"No. But that's the point. They say their trips are designed as perfect introductions to the sport. Plus, Fred, it's amazingly inexpensive. We could go for fifteen days, camping most nights, and they provide the food. Twelve hundred dollars each, and that includes airfare."
Fred shakes his head. "Nope. You might get me in a kayak, but you're not getting me to sleep on the ground. You and me, Lily, will be sleeping in beds. Big beds." He nods once. Lily puts her elbows on the table, props her chin on her fists, sticks out her lower lip, then laughs.
"Okay. No camping trips, but..."
"Yeah, yeah, we're going to do it your way, I've been thinking about it, it's a good idea, interacting, physical, emotional, whatever it was you said. You decide. I just insist that we eat in restaurants and sleep in beds, private beds with private baths." She smiles at him. He winks, stirs the yogurt and granola, spoons a mouthful, and chews.
Really, it amazes her how well they get along. As she drives home, she thinks about how much fun it is to disagree with Fred, because it's not like a disagreement at all, just a friendly spat, almost like he's only pretending to disagree. He is the only man she's ever met who seems completely comfortable with himself.
She has a lot to do. She's got to find the perfect tour, one that will combine day hikes, perhaps some boating, and dancing at night. He told her not to look at the cost—whatever it is, it'll be fine. He is so generous. She's buying the plane tickets, he's taking care of everything else.
As she turns onto Crestview Drive, she decides not to do this over the phone but to make an appointment with the travel agent. It's time to make some preliminary reservations, and she'd rather do that in person. She notices but doesn't really pay attention to the old truck parked in front of her house, a truck that on second glance seems familiar.
She pulls into her drive, hits the remote to open the garage door, and stops breathing. Sam is sitting on her porch.
"You look good, Lily," Sam says.
He sits across from her at the breakfast bar, turning his coffee cup around in its saucer. "So do you, Sam," she says. In fact, he looks precisely the same as he had the last time she saw him, and yet utterly different. His face is completely unlined, though his eyes seem more deeply set, eye sockets protruding, eyebrows thin and white, and his hair is snow white where it used to be white-blond. It's jagged, as if he cuts it himself. And he shakes occasionally. It's almost undetectable, like a very subtle tremor shuddering through his body.
"Nice place," Sam says. He looks around, taking in the sunny kitchen with its oak center island, the stainless steel grate hanging from the ceiling on which she has hung all of her copper pots and pans, the Spanish tiled floor, all of it.
"Thanks." Lily massages the warm coffee cup. Her fingers are freezing.
Sam shakes his head, his lips pulling into a thin smile. He says, "Good for you, Lily. You're doing good."
And his eyes are suddenly kind and warm, a look she used to wait for and hardly ever saw. He looks out the window into her backyard. She has a quarter acre of Kentucky blue grass backed by a thicket of ponderosa pine. "Nice yard."
"It's a jungle," she says. "We've been getting bears this summer, coming down from the mountains. A couple of weeks ago I saw the cutest little cub with its mom. They're getting used to people because people are invading the high country. But they're—"
"How'd you do this, Lily?"
"Do what?"
"This is a big house. You got a job? You didn't used to work."
"Oh." She shrugs. "Some lucky investments. That's all. My half of your pension got me started."
He gazes at her with an expression that almost looks like admiration. "Good—for—you." He nods after each word. "You know what, Lily, we were all wrong, weren't we? You're so much better without me."
She gets up and walks to the stove, where the coffee is on a warmer. "Well, we were young. You want something to eat, Sam?"
"Yes, we were. No thanks."
"Seems like a lifetime ago. How about you, Sam? Everything okay?" She takes the coffee to the table, pouring some into his cup, then hers. He's scratching his hand, up and down, up and down, like he used to when his eczema bloomed occasionally, a warning sign, always a warning sign that he was about to disappear, that she could expect to sleep alone for a while. Tics. She studies him. Every one of his little tics used to send her on an emotional journey that left her achy and weak. All the tics are still there. The scratching that would terrify her, the sudden kindness that would melt her, the shabbiness that would make her want to mother him. But she watches them from a distance. He seems like a dear toy that she has put away.
"Yeah, not bad. Everything seems so long ago. I was downtown this morning. Went over to the old neighborhood. You know where Little Santa Rita used to be? Now it's a park."
"Santa Rita Park."
"It's a different town," he says. "Where the mill was? They've put some kind of shopping center or something right where the tailings pile used to be. Remember that?" He laughs. "Remember me planting grass up there after we closed the mill?"
"And now Ryland's sick."
"Hell, we're all sick one way or another. Maybe not you, though, Lily. You've weathered well."
"So what are you doing in this part of the country, Sam?"
He tells her he came to watch Maggie get married. Which she didn't want to hear. That she didn't expect. Sam at the wedding. Meeting Fred. She has already played the wedding out in her head, introducing him to Rosy, to Ryland—but not to Sam.
Scratching. "Lily," he says, his voice hitching up a notch. "Lily, I was wondering, do you have any of my old records? Birth certificate? Army discharge papers? Things like that. Because I don't. I don't know where they are."
"I think so. I might. They might be in storage. I don't think I threw anything away."
He nods, his shoulders moving with his head. "I'd like to get them." He stands up.
"Okay. Well, I'll go out there and look. They're in a storage unit. I'm pretty busy today, but—" She starts to say she'll go tomorrow but thinks again. She doesn't want to see him tomorrow. It's very, very odd, because for years she imagined running into him, fantasized about him rounding a corner somewhere, rehearsed the encounter again and again. She'd gone into therapy. The therapist said that she and Sam never had closure, and that was a problem. It's time, she decides, for closure with Sam. "I'll go out today, Sam. I know right where to look. I can meet you this afternoon. At the park?"
"Okay. When?"
"Two o'clock. No, four." She has to call her lawyer. She hopes he's not on the golf course. "Sam? Well,
this is a little awkward, but—" She doesn't know how to begin about the divorce papers, but now she's certain, absolutely, that it's time to get that business taken care of. Last week she ran her hypothetical situation by her lawyer, and he'd told her that a person would have to draw up new papers because the papers have to be filed within a certain period of time. She wonders how long it will take.
She begins haltingly to tell Sam about the little snafu with their divorce papers, and how she'll need his John Hancock again, and hopefully she can get everything together for him to sign by this afternoon. He listens, standing in the kitchen doorway, head down, staring at the floor. "So four o'clock?" she says.
He says nothing.
"Sam?"
"Lily?" His voice is a hoarse whisper. "What are you saying?" He looks at her now, eyes earnest and questioning.
"It's just a technicality, Sam."
He blinks several times, shaking his head, his mouth trembling, and suddenly he's laughing, holding himself, falling against the door frame, almost losing his balance, almost falling down, his eyes tearing. He sputters, "Lily, Lily, Lily," reeling around and staggering, knocking over a dining room chair in his rush to get out of the house and out the front door. Lily hurries after him. From the porch she calls, "Four o'clock, then." He waves his hand over his head, a two-fingered salute.
He's not there when she gets to the park a little before four. Nobody's in the park, which is not surprising, since it's the hottest part of the day. She sits in her car, the air conditioning running, watching the road for his truck. Her lawyer said he couldn't have the papers ready until early next week, a big disappointment. But at least Sam will be in the area for a while. She won't make him drive back up here. She'll make an appointment with him somewhere in Farmington and take the papers to him. She's got everything else he wanted, every scrap of paper she could find in storage that had anything to do with him. It's all sitting next to her in a box.
All day she's been rushing around, getting ready for this meeting, and now he's making her wait, just like old times. Was there ever a time when Sam waited for her? Never. She opens the car door, steps out onto the hot pavement, walks to the nearest picnic table. She's nervous, couldn't eat lunch. She's been on high energy all day, finds it hard to sit still. She leans against the picnic table, shading her eyes, watching the road, wishing she'd brought a hat. She looks at her watch every few minutes, wondering how long he'll make her wait and wondering just how angry he is, because certainly he is angry, which can't be helped. He's doing this deliberately, of that she's certain. Punishing her. She has waited days for him, lifetimes for him; this is just another one. She tries very hard not to cry, because she doesn't want her mascara to run, and she absolutely doesn't want him to know that he can get to her, that the old tricks still work. But she waits. And waits. And he doesn't come. When she hears the whistle from the narrow-gauge blowing into the downtown train station from Silverton, she knows she's waited long enough, that he won't come.
