The Coppersmith Farmhouse

by Devney Perry

  I didn’t wait for a response, not that I had planned on getting one.

  “Or if you feel like it, you can tell me more about how you landed yourself in the hospital. If you don’t, well, I’ll just be quiet. All right?”

  Again, no answer.

  “What a surprise? He’s speechless,” I deadpanned. “Really, Ben. You’ve got to learn to let me get a word in. It’s rude to do all the talking. Now if you’ll please just be quiet for a minute. All that talking is giving me a headache to go along with my hurting foot.”

  Ben was silent for a moment, then turned his head toward me, smirking. “How about we take that walk after all? I’m feeling the need to stretch my legs. Think today I could do an extra lap.”

  The defeated and pained look on my face must have been hilarious because his smirk turned into a full-blown smile, exposing straight but yellowed teeth.

  “Kidding, girl.” He chuckled.

  Relief washed through my whole body.

  “You’re a funny man, Ben.” I sagged down into his visitor’s chair. “Do you feel like telling me the story of how you fell and landed yourself in the hospital?” I asked, using his joke as my opening to learn more about Ben Coppersmith.

  Ben shifted on his bed of pillows to look my way.

  “Was up on my roof, fixing a leak by the chimney. Trying to balance myself, the bucket of tar and my putty knife at the same time. Don’t know how but as I shifted to get down, lost my footing and slid down and over the side. Was able to grab hold of the gutter on my way down and slow my pace. But still fell about ten feet and hit cement sidewalk at the bottom,” he said. “Gettin’ old, girl. Years ago, probably would have landed on my feet. Now, well . . . my body’s starting to fall apart.”

  My eyes bugged out. What in the hell was he doing up on a roof at seventy-eight years old? Yes, he appeared to be in good shape. I probably would have pegged him mid-sixties if I’d run into him on the street. But despite his physique, old men should not be on rooftops.

  “Ah . . . okay,” I said. “You sure don’t look like most seventy-eight-year-old men I see in the hospital, Ben. But regardless, no one over the age of, well, I don’t know . . . forty-five should be traipsing over rooftops. Don’t you have family or friends who could have done that work for you?”

  “Got lots of friends. Never had much family. None of them were gonna be able to do this job though. And I’m too old and stubborn to pay some roofing company to come out and fix something I know how to do and could do myself in an hour.”

  “Well, just to point out, you might know how to fix a leaky roof but your current location indicates you maybe couldn’t do it by yourself after all,” I returned. “Why couldn’t your friends do it for you?”

  “They’re all out at Highland.”

  “Highland? Is that where you’re from?” I didn’t know any towns near Spokane called Highland but maybe it was out of state.

  Ben turned his brown eyes back to the wall. “Highland Cemetery. Only friend left to help lives in Montana.”

  If Ben didn’t have anyone to help him with the leaky roof, who was going to help him after he got home from the hospital? Or help him even get home from the hospital?

  “How were you planning on getting home, Ben?”

  “My car’s at home. Ambulance brought me here when I called 9-1-1. Figure I’ll just call a cab in the morning once you people set me free,” he said.

  “What about clothes? Do you have something to wear home?” He couldn’t leave in a hospital gown.

  “Just wear the ones I came in with,” he said.

  My eyebrows came together as I frowned. I went to his closet and inspected his clothes.

  “Ben, you can’t wear these clothes. They are filthy and covered in dried blood!”

  “They’re fine,” he said.

  “What about neighbors? Could one of them swing by your house and get something fresh for you to wear? Bring you home?”

  “Live out in the country. Closest neighbor is a mile away. Never met them,” he said.

  No family, friends or neighbors.

  Eff.

  I dropped the clothes and faced the window. Even though I had just met the man, Ben’s situation was really getting to me. I should leave it be and get on with my rounds. Ben’s clothing and transportation dilemmas were not my problems to solve. He had a plan, albeit a poor one, but it was a plan that would get him home. The man had managed to stay alive for seventy-eight years; surely he could manage a trip home from the hospital. I had enough of my own problems to worry about. I didn’t need to take on Ben’s too.

  But something about him called to me and I had to do more. He didn’t have anyone close that he could count on and I knew that feeling all too well. I couldn’t count on anyone else to be there for me either.

  So when I turned around from the windows toward Ben, I knew that on top of my own problems, I was going to pile on Ben Coppersmith’s.

  “Are those your keys?” I asked Ben, nodding to the set on his bedside table.

  “Yeah.”

  “Good. Hand them over and then write down your address,” I said, holding out my hand.

  He blinked twice and shook his head. “Huh?”

  “I need your address and those keys to get into your house. That way, I can go there tomorrow morning and get you some clean clothes to wear home. Then I’ll be back here to deliver said clothes and take you home.”

  With his mouth hanging open, he stayed quiet.

  “Now other than your keys, address and directions to your place if it’s hard to find, is there anything I need to know before I head out there tomorrow? Pets? Alarm system? Gate code?” I asked, shaking my outstretched hand.

  We stared at each other for a few moments until the shock on his face was replaced by a warm softening around his eyes.

  “Appreciate you offering to do such a nice thing for me, girl. But we just met fifteen minutes ago. You’ve got better things to do than cart around an old man. You don’t even know me,” he said.

  “Are you a serial killer?” I asked.

  “Uh . . . no,” he replied.

  “Criminal of any sort?”

  “No.”

  “An asshole?”

  “Probably been called that once or twice in my day.” He grinned.

  “Well, okay. You were on your own if you’d have said yes to being a serial killer or a criminal. But an asshole I can deal with. Just try and keep a lid on it and we’ll be fine. Now how about those keys?”

  Ben and I had become fast friends.

  From the day I took him home from the hospital to the day he died, he had been my surrogate grandparent.

  My mother had finally lost her battle with breast cancer about six months before I had met Ben. Growing up, it had always just been Mom and me. Until the day I’d found out I was pregnant, Mom had been my whole world. Rowen had just turned one and I had been struggling to care for her while dealing with the loss of my mother. Ben had come into my life when I needed him most. When I’d never felt so alone.

  Now Ben was gone. That loneliness was back. And though I was a fiercely independent person, I missed having another adult around to talk to.

  I steered the Explorer into the drive and parked. I sucked in a jagged breath and blinked away the tears.

  Fresh air.

  That’s what I needed to make the ache in my heart go away. So away I went, running along a county road with the mountains as my backdrop.

  Not so much enjoying the fresh air as desperately trying to suck it in. Surely this was not what Ben had meant.

  I effing hate altitude. I can’t breathe.

  Turn around now. Just quit. Be a quitter. No one needs to know.

  I can do it. I’m almost there. I can make it.

  No you can’t.

  Those thoughts were looping on repeat as I hit the halfway point on my run.

  This jog was nothing like those from my past in Spokane. I was miserable. My head was pounding, my heart was
beating out of my chest, my lungs were on fire, my legs felt like Jell-O, and I was drenched with sweat. Any minute now, I was going to puke.

  But I had to get back to the farmhouse. Otherwise I was going to be late to pick up Roe, and for every minute you were late past six o’clock, Quail Hollow charged you ten dollars.

  Ten dollars a minute!

  Robbery.

  So I inhaled a deep breath and swallowed, tasting blood, while I pushed my feet forward.

  You can make it.

  You can make it.

  You can make it.

  I chanted with every step, hoping my positive mental affirmations would get me through the next mile and a half.

  I stared at the rough pavement and decided if I kept my head up, maybe it would make the run go easier. My chin lifted just as a huge truck headed down the road, coming my way. I inched to the far side of the road but kept running, expecting the driver to give me a wide berth and pass me by.

  But the truck was not just a truck, it was a behemoth police truck. The bronzy-brown monster had a rack of lights on top of the cab, plus one of those menacing grill guards. The sheriff’s emblem was proudly displayed on the driver’s side door. And so was the sheriff in the driver’s seat.

  Eff.

  As I came to a stop, Jess stopped right next to me. He started speaking but the loud roar of the diesel engine drowned out his words.

  “What?” I shouted just as Jess cut the engine on his truck.

  He leaned out his open driver’s side window. His eyes were covered with aviator-style sunglasses.

  “I said you shouldn’t be running out here. It’s a dumb fucking thing to do.”

  Did this guy just keep getting nicer and nicer, or what?

  My heart rate was already well past the elevated range. At the sheriff’s harassment, it was now thundering. There was a good chance it would sprint back to the farmhouse without me.

  “How is it that running in broad daylight in warm weather is a ‘dumb fucking thing to do’?” I panted, throwing my hands up in air quotes.

  “These old county roads don’t get a lot of traffic. People don’t pay attention to where they’re driving. You could get hit and no one would have a fucking clue where to start looking,” he said.

  “Well, thanks for the warning, Sheriff. I’ll be sure to take that under advisement.”

  “Don’t have to be snappy about it. Christ, I’m sorry I stopped.”

  “Not as sorry as I am. So please, don’t let me keep you. Feel free to leave me here on the road and share that sunny attitude of yours with other citizens in Jamison County. I wouldn’t want you to waste it all on me.”

  He clenched his jaw and even though I couldn’t see his eyes behind his glasses, I knew he was glaring at me.

  “Mouthing off to a cop. Not smart,” he said.

  “What are you going to do, write me a ticket for speaking? Does Montana not abide by that whole freedom of speech thing?”

  “How about I write you a ticket for being on the wrong side of the road? You should be running over here on the right.”

  “Fine. Write me a ticket. What’s the fine? Fifty cents? I’ll drop it by the station on my way to work tomorrow. I should be able to find some spare change in my couch cushions.”

  “Stay put,” he ordered, pointing to my feet. Then he turned back into the cab of his truck and pulled out a pad of paper.

  Was this jackass seriously going to write me a ticket for running on the wrong side of a basically deserted road?

  Yes. Yes, he was.

  Two minutes later, I had a yellow ticket in my hand with my name scribbled on top. Obviously he’d learned my name sometime in the last day, which made me nervous. Either he he’d been asking about me or someone in town had been talking about me.

  Below my name was the fine amount and it wasn’t fifty cents. It was one hundred dollars. Daycare late fees weren’t robbery. This was.

  “You’ve got to be effing kidding me.”

  “Payment is due in ten days. Appeals must be filed before the ten-day limit.” He was all business now that he’d served me with the ticket.

  Before I could dismiss him, he leaned out his truck a little farther. “Oh, and the word is fucking. Not effing.”

  “I have a four-year-old. In my world, the word is effing. Am I free to go?”

  He didn’t answer. He just leaned back into his truck, brought it back to life and roared down the road.

  I didn’t need chanting or positive mental affirmations for the remainder of my run. Fueled by adrenaline and anger, I sprinted the return mile and a half in record time, arriving at Quail Hollow fifteen minutes before closing.

  “I need to pay a ticket,” I told a deputy at the sheriff’s station.

  “Gigi?”

  I turned around to see Milo and Sam walking my way.

  I waved. “Hi, Milo. Sam.”

  “What are you doing here?” Sam asked.

  I took my yellow “running” ticket and held it out for them to read.

  Milo just muttered, “Wow,” while Sam started laughing.

  “What? What’s funny?”

  “Bogus ticket, Gigi. There’s no law stating which side of the road you have to run on. Sheriff is messing with you.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  He shook his head. “Wasted a trip to the station. But at least you can save yourself a hundred bucks.”

  “Ha!” Milo laughed. “You had a run-in while getting a run in. Get it. A run-in with the law? While you were running?” He kept laughing.

  Sam thought Milo’s pun was hilarious and he, too, burst out laughing.

  I, however, did not find it funny. Not in the slightest.

  The wraparound porch was one of my favorite features of the farmhouse. Like I had the last few nights, I’d gotten Rowen into bed and come outside to the wooden porch swing to drink a couple glasses of wine while watching the sun set behind the hills.

  I’d been keeping a consistent routine for Roe’s evening and bedtime activities since our move, hoping to ease her transition into Ben’s old home.

  Though Roe loved her mother absolutely, I’d always come in second place behind Ben. It had never bothered me because I had been more than willing to take a backseat to their relationship so he could feel the full force of Rowen’s unconditional love. She was missing him, but if we had a nice nightly routine, she might not get too sad thinking about how we were living in his house because he was dead.

  The nights were still warm but I had on a soft, light gray cardigan that hung loosely over my white tank top and frayed denim shorts. I loved this sweater with its huge pockets and long sleeves that draped nearly to my fingertips. It was cozy and soft. But mostly I loved it because it had been my mom’s.

  As I swayed in the swing, I thought about what tomorrow had in store for me.

  It had been a long week at the hospital. Not only had it been my first week, which meant my brain had been working overtime to learn the hospital’s protocols, but John Doe’s presence had kept a steady flow of visitors at the ER desk. People were constantly stopping by to check on his status and speculate with Maisy about who could have delivered the beating.

  Most of our visitors were from the sheriff’s office and I tensed any time I saw a tan shirt. I hadn’t seen Jess since the ticket incident but the chances of him coming into the hospital tomorrow were pretty high.

  Tonight, the evening nurses were stopping the meds keeping John Doe in his coma and he’d likely come awake sometime in the morning. Everett would give him a thorough examination and then an officer would take his statement.

  I expected to be dragging my feet home tomorrow, more than ready for a quiet weekend at the farmhouse with my daughter.

  Pushing thoughts of work aside, I took a long, deep breath and sank further into the swing. It was time to do something I’d been procrastinating since arriving in Prescott. I needed to contact the farmhouse’s caretaker.

  From my cardigan pocket, I pulle
d out two letters. Both were from Ben, one addressed to me and another to “Brick.”

  Taking a deep, fortifying breath, I eased my wrinkled letter out of its battered envelope to read it again. Ben’s letter always left me feeling empty. Why I kept reading it was a bit of a mystery. It made me sad. It made me cry. It made me miss him so much my bones ached. Reading it was self-inflicted torture to my heart, but I’d done it countless times these last six weeks.

  But tonight was it.

  I would read it one last time and then put it away in a box of Ben’s keepsakes stored in the attic, holding onto it in case Rowen wanted to read it someday.

  Ben’s attorney had given me both letters after the reading of his will and asked that I deliver Brick’s letter upon my arrival in Montana. But I’d been postponing. Mostly because I’d been so busy with the move and first week at work, but partly because it was one of the last things Ben had asked me to do. The longer I stalled, the longer I could pretend that he wasn’t truly gone.

  My eyes traveled over Ben’s rough scrawl, blurring as I read the last line.

  Drying my teary eyes, I reached for my phone. It was time to text Brick. No more delaying the inevitable. Ben was gone and he wasn’t coming back. I needed to see to his final wishes.

  This Brick guy had cared for the farmhouse for almost two decades. He’d certainly have heard by now that I was settled into the farmhouse. One thing I’d learned this past week, news in Prescott traveled fast.

  Me: Hi. My name is Georgia Ellars. Ben Coppersmith’s attorney asked me to get ahold of you. I’ve got a few things from Ben he wanted you to have. Would you be available to meet me at the farmhouse this weekend or next week?

  His response was almost immediate.

  Brick: Be there in 5.

  Tonight? It was a little late, almost nine o’clock, and he hadn’t asked if it was okay for him to come over. But I might as well get it over with. It shouldn’t take too long and Roe was asleep. I didn’t really want her around for this conversation.

  She’d been dutifully pretending Ben’s passing hadn’t happened, acting like we were on a fun vacation and when it was over, life would go back to the way it had been.