The Cedar Tree (Love Is Not Enough)

by McGriffith, Danni

  He cautiously parted the curtains again. Still locked in the passionate kiss, Anna and Esteban stumbled along the balcony to a room two doors south. They disappeared.

  He shook his head. Women. They were all crazy as drunk monkeys—

  Suddenly motionless, he stared at the curtains with Anna's irrational behavior giving him a sliver of hope.

  Katie might not have te quiero'd him, but she had given him fifteen minutes before she cut him off that time.

  ***

  The next morning, he loaded Black Angus heifers bound for Colorado then called his mother. That evening, she and his father met him at a truckstop off the interstate south of Sun Valley. He jumped down from the running board of his truck into a brisk wind stirring the dust and bits of trash in the parking lot.

  His mother rushed to him with her dimples flashing, unruly curls flying, and her hippy skirt swirling about her petite frame. She seized him in an embrace rivaling Sister Helen's. He grinned widely, lifting her from her feet to whirl her around until she shrieked in protest.

  Laughing, he set her back on her feet then turned to where his father, thin to the point of emaciation, slouched against a white, new model, ranch truck. Roy pushed back his black Stetson, straightening his lanky frame. Dark circles shadowed his father's eyes, but they glinted clear and full of humor at his and his mother's playful reunion.

  Grinning, his father extended his hand. "How'y'doin', Son?"

  "Good." Shocked by his father's appearance and the lack of animosity in his gaze, he shook Roy's hand. "You?"

  "Good."

  Inside the restaurant, a teenaged waitress took the order at a corner booth. The pretty blonde reminded him of Katie when she glanced at him from under her lashes.

  "What would you like to drink with that?" she asked. Her voice was soft like Katie's, too.

  "Large milk."

  "Give me one, too," his father said.

  He stared across the table.

  His father shrugged. "Just got out of rehab. Haven't had a drink since before Christmas."

  He continued to stare. His father hadn't gone that long without drinking since his and Dee's childhoods, and rehab…?

  His father held his gaze. "I'm gonna make it this time."

  "Good," he said. He'd heard that before. "That's good. Rehab, huh?"

  His father grinned wryly. "I'm an alcoholic."

  He leaned back to allow the waitress to set his glass of milk on the table. "I thought you might be."

  His father nodded at the glass. "You cleaned up, too?"

  "Yeah. I was baptized in December."

  "Gil, that's wonderful," his mother cried.

  "Yeah." He grinned, glancing uneasily at Roy, but his father didn't say anything. "Instead of joinin' up with the Marines, I joined up with the army of the Lord."

  "Much better benefits there," she said.

  "I'm glad I did it."

  With her head tilted to the side like a little bird with a pretty face and freckles, she searched his gaze. Giving a satisfied nod, she sipped a steaming cup of tea. "How's Katie?"

  He shrugged. "None of them are doin' all that great since her mom died."

  An odd flinch crossed his father's eyes, reminding him of the shadow in Jon Campbell's—

  It couldn't be.

  It had to be.

  Becky. Katie's mom…and his dad.

  Why had he never made the connection? Becky Campbell was the Becky of a thousand fights and a lifetime of misery between his parents.

  An avalanche of puzzle pieces snapped together. The discontent and anger always driving his father. The drinking. The string of blonde, blue eyed women through the years. His mother's strange attitude when he'd told her about Katie. Why she hadn't known how to tell his father Becky had died…

  But his mother moved closer to Roy on the booth, the strain that had filled her eyes for years completely gone.

  His father reached for her hand with an oddly gentle touch then cleared his throat. "How's…Jon holdin' up?"

  He tried to adjust his expression. "He's not. Wanders around like an old man who can't remember how to live."

  The blonde girl brought their plates. His mother changed the subject. Dee had eloped and gone to live with Marty on his family's farm in Alberta. She seemed happy…Marty was crazy about her. In June, some Saudi prince and his wives planned to visit the ranch. The rich movie-star kid knew how much his father hated babysitting dudes, so the kid had given him a raise. A big one. The prince's security detail had already been poking around the place.

  She chatted about the royal visit for a while then left to pay the check. He and his father rose to head outside.

  His father looked like he had swallowed a lemon. "I hope I'm either dead or got a different job by the time his Royal Pain-in-the-butt gets here. Babysittin' dudes is like herdin' chickens. Your mama's pretty good at it. She can talk to a stump, but I'd just as soon go shoot myself."

  In the parking lot, the pungent odor of manure from the cattle pot filled the air.

  His father breathed deeply, grinning. "Smells like money."

  He chuckled. "And a lot of it."

  His father followed him around the trailer as he checked the heifers—all of them stood unperturbed, chewing their cuds. He started the old Peterbilt then jumped down from the cab.

  His father nodded toward the abnormal amount of black smoke belching from the stacks. "You're gonna have to hit that ol' boy up to buy you a new truck one of these days."

  "He'll cry like a baby. He's tight."

  His father chuckled. "You ever know a rancher that ain't?"

  He grinned. "No."

  An uncomfortable silence fell between them. He should apologize to his father for hitting him, but did he really want to open that can of worms? Maybe better to let sleeping dogs lie. He shifted, searching over Roy's shoulder for his mother.

  She hurried across the parking lot toward them. Relieved, he shook his father's hand then removed his hat to lean down for his mother's tight embrace. She didn't turn loose, silently comforting his pain. He buried his face in her soft shoulder, breathing deeply of her familiar herbal scent.

  "Katie's so young," she murmured against his ear. "You'll have to give her some time, honey."

  He nodded, holding her tighter. "Love you, Mama," he mumbled around a lump in his throat.

  She stroked his hair. "I'm so proud of the man you've become," she whispered, her voice choked with tears.

  It made up for a lot.

  ***

  The smoke from the Peterbilt's stacks had been a bad omen. Impatient to get home, Gil pushed the old truck until the head gasket blew just outside Vernal, Utah. Jim Harris sent another truck to get the heifers, but left him to wait on two Mormon mechanics to overhaul the motor.

  While he did what he could to help with the repairs, he talked religion and team roping with the Mormons—enthusiastic participators in both venues. The three of them good-naturedly disagreed on religion, but agreed on team roping technique when he spent a couple evenings roping with them in a small jackpot competition.

  He arrived home almost a week later with the fifty dollars he'd won as his share of the jackpot. In the bright, early March sun of the next morning, he took his grandfather's place on the hay trailer while the old man drove.

  Molly seemed happy he'd returned. She bounced around underfoot, her pink sweater hanging in tatters. He broke open a bale on his knee and heaved it to the string of cows following the trailer.

  "It's a lot easier to do this when you're home, Son," his grandfather called back to him with a grin, eyeing him in the rearview mirror. "Glad you're back."

  "Karl'll probably be glad, too," he called.

  The old man's face in the mirror sobered. "He ain't home."

  "Where's he at?"

  "He went to work for Harold Snow's construction outfit. Went to North Carolina."

  He stared in disbelief then jumped off the trailer. His grandfather stopped the truck while he stro
de to the open window. "Why'd he do that?"

  The old man shrugged. "He beat Tim up pretty bad the other day. I think somethin' else happened, too, maybe somethin' with Annie, but if anybody over there knows what it was, they ain't sayin'."

  "Annie…?" he asked with a puzzled frown.

  "Well, I could be wrong about that. Puttin' two and two together to make five. Coulda been anything. He's been like a powder keg waitin' to blow for a while."

  He nodded, slowly. "Yeah, guess so. Who's helpin' his dad?"

  The old man shrugged. "Seemed to jolt Jon a little. He's been takin' a better hold. Between Tim and Katie, and Dave drivin' a little, they're gettin' by.

  That afternoon, he worked the kinks out of a deep-chested sorrel gelding then rode the horse to the cedar tree. A few sprigs of grass tried to poke through the packed earth trail leading from the road, but no fresh tracks marked it. The horse fidgeted while he reached from the saddle to count the notes in the tree. All there.

  He slipped in a new one then undecidedly sat the restless horse, staring across the brown fields toward the Campbell place. Finally, he nudged the gelding into a lope. He had to see her.

  He swung off the horse in the yard, empty of vehicles. The gelding blew out his breath in a long snort, rubbing its head on the back of his leather vest.

  "Quit, knucklehead." He shoved away the horse's head with his elbow, squinting far down the hill.

  Muted sounds of cattle bawling, dogs barking, and a yell drifted up on the warm breeze. A male figure sat on the old Massey tractor. Another figure stood on the hay trailer pitching hay onto the dun colored grass of the pasture for a long string of black cattle.

  He grinned. Perfect. Maybe he'd find Katie alone. He tied the horse to the hitch rail then headed for the house. Nobody answered his knock.

  He stuck his head inside. "Anybody home?" he yelled.

  Nobody answered. The rich aroma of ham and beans simmering on the back of the old stove combined with the fresh baked smell of cookies. His mouth watered. He stepped inside, crossing to a mound of peanut-butter cookies cooling on the counter. Helping himself to a handful, he stared out the window while he ate.

  Judging from Tim's words, Katie must've had some kind of reaction to his card. Had she kept it? Girls were supposed to keep junk like that if they had any feelings for the dumb cluck who'd sent it, weren't they?

  He ate a second cookie, eyeing the refrigerator. It'd be nice if he had a glass of milk, too.

  No, he'd better hurry. She might come back to find him going through her stuff. He narrowed his eyes and selected another cookie. So what if she did? Let her call Lone Tree's own Barney Fife on him. He popped the cookie in his mouth then his spurs rang on the wood floor as he walked quickly down the hall to her bedroom.

  He opened the door and stopped as his mouth dropped open.

  She must have stood in the middle of the room, hurling whatever came to hand, knocking the pictures off the walls, cracking the mirror over the dresser to the right, overturning the nightstand beside her bed on his left. A broken lamp lay beside it. A flowered bedspread made a tumbled heap on the floor, sparkling with broken glass.

  He swallowed the cookie, wiping his mouth on his shirt sleeve. Stooping, he picked up a broken picture frame, glass crunching beneath his boots. A shower of tiny confetti sprinkled from the frame's glass.

  He picked up a bit of paper—his hat and part of his hand in the air. Another bit showed his ear and part of his jaw clenched tight with effort. He picked up a few more confetti scraps—flying hooves, the custom made spur on his Tony Lama boot, and the red fringe of his rodeo chaps underneath the silver GH of his initials. He frowned. Not a very encouraging start.

  Moving to the window across the room, he glanced out. The driveway remained empty, so he turned to the dresser. A framed picture of Lance teetered on top of a pile of books—Physics, English Literature, and a ragged paperback copy of Great Expectations. He nudged the picture with his finger and smiled grimly as Lance toppled behind the dresser.

  He slid open the top drawer. Hair stuff. He stirred through it with his finger, hooking a familiar length of blue satin ribbon. Untangling it from a handful of barrettes, he remembered the day he'd untied it from her hair. So soft, and shining like a halo in the sun. Beautiful. He fished his wallet from his back pocket then folded the ribbon into it.

  He replaced the wallet, and then in the middle drawer on the right side—her panties drawer—he found it.

  "Geez," he muttered.

  She had mutilated the cactus flowers, shredding the postcard like she'd shredded his picture, only she'd taped it back together. He peered closely at it. What was that…coffee grounds? A small seed…maybe a tomato seed…formed a tiny bump between the Nevada sunrise and the tape. He sniffed. It smelled like…goat. Soured goat milk.

  Yet…she had taken a lot of effort to dig the tiny pieces from the trash and tape them together. Was that the emotion he'd been craving?

  He glanced around the room. It certainly looked like the work of an emotional woman. Darlene could have done that.

  Replacing the card as he'd found it, he started to slide in the drawer then stopped. He hesitated then slowly unfolded a small pair of pink cotton panties. His heart beat faster as he rubbed his rough thumb over a soft yellow butterfly. Lifting her hair ribbon didn't bother him much, but what were the moral implications of stealing a virgin's underwear? Probably not as bad as fornicating, but…

  Reluctantly, he replaced the panties and shut the drawer. He had enough trouble constantly wrestling his thoughts from images of her and him together as it was.

  He glanced out the window again then crunched across the bedspread to the overturned nightstand and set it upright. The top drawer of the nightstand held the familiar ivory colored paper of her notes to him and some pens. The bottom drawer held an assortment of lotions and perfume. He picked up one of the bottles and sniffed—the musky floral fragrance he had come to associate with her. She certainly didn't need to wear it for Lance. He slid it in his shirt pocket, shutting the drawer.

  If she missed her stuff, she could call the marshal. "Yes, Officer, I've been robbed. I'm missing a hair ribbon and a bottle of perfume, but my panties are still here, so I don't think it was Gil…"

  Her Bible lay open on her pillow. He sat on the tumbled bedding on her mattress and picked it up.

  Blessed are they that mourn: for they shall be comforted…

  She had underlined it.

  He stared soberly down at the words, imagining her miserable and grieving in the silent darkness of her room. Did she roll out of bed to pray and try to find answers like he did? Had she ever wished, even once, for his arms around her while she cried?

  He carefully replaced the Bible then stood. With his hands on his hips, he scanned the room. His hat—the one the dog had peed on—hung from a hook on the wall by the door, clean, now. He left the hat there and turned to leave. Then he stopped, frowning. Where else could they be?

  He turned back to the bed, lifting the covers. She'd jammed the stuffed dog he'd given her for Christmas head-first between the mattress and the wall. He smiled narrowly. Disrespected, but in her bed anyway.

  He lifted the mattress. The pile of his notes and the letter from before her mother's death fanned out on the box-springs near the edge. Except for the box of Christmas chocolates, all his stuff was there.

  He'd check on the bridle when he went outside, but he'd lay money it was with her saddle. She probably would've gotten rid of everything if she was through with him.

  With his heart lighter than it had been in many weeks, he strode out of the house. His assets might be a little battered, but he was still in the running.

  ***

  That night, newfound hope won out over decision. Considering what he'd found in Katie's room, he wouldn't wait until the end of March to approach her. He showered and shaved—the gash on his cheekbone had faded to a pink line—then splashed his cheeks and chest with the aftershave she like
d. In polished boots and dressed in his best shirt and jeans, he drove to church.

  When the service finally ended, Katie gathered the kid's stuff, wearily clutching him in one arm. Rachel took him away then Lance approached and said something. Katie nodded, but her dark circled eyes didn't smile. Lance hesitated, his gaze on her troubled, but then he walked away.

  She scanned the room to where Rachel was still holding the kid. An expression of relief passed over her thin features. She shouldered the diaper bag then slipped through the side door of the church.

  He followed her into the chilly darkness outside. "Katie?"

  She jumped and whirled toward him. Then she glanced quickly toward the parking lot at the other end of the building and turned to walk away.

  He stepped in front of her. "We need to talk."

  She sidestepped him.

  He matched her movement. "I'll make a scene."

  She stopped and sagged resignedly, her eyes closed. "What do you want?"

  He gripped her elbow, urging her around the corner of the church into deeper shadow.

  "This is far enough." She pulled away her arm then stared at her feet.

  He studied her downcast face in the dim light from the streetlamp across the road. The muted screams from a horde of children racing around the parking lot reached him. She didn't move.

  "You've hardly said two dozen words to me since your mom died. Don't you think I rate some kind of explanation?"

  She remained motionless.

  "It's been three months, Katie. I just wanna know what I did wrong."

  Still nothing.

  "You haven't even broke up with me," he said, growing desperate. "You just stopped talkin' to me. Why?"

  She rubbed her forehead. "Okay," she said tonelessly. "I'm breaking up with you."

  "No, you're not." He stepped closer. "You're just gonna tell me what I did and we'll get it fixed."

  She drew away, holding her arms around her thin middle. "I can't," she whispered, finally.

  "Why not?"

  A long moment passed. She made a hopeless gesture. "I'm…I feel like I've…died. I'm all shriveled up inside. Talking won't help, and I can't…handle any more demands on me."