The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “You wanna check this out?”

  Nora bobbed her head up toward Mike’s breakfront desk where a mover was waving her over. “We were lifting this top piece off when this panel here broke open. We didn’t do nothin’.”

  Nora stuck her pencil behind her ear and hurried over to the desk, disassembled now for the crate. One side panel, disguised as molding, had popped open to reveal a thin niche. Nora hid her shock. Mike had purchased this desk, and all these years she had never known this hiding place existed. She knelt beside the open panel and, turning her body, reached far in. The wood was raw, unfinished, and dusty. Something was in there, she realized with a sudden intake of breath. Grabbing hold, she eased out a burgundy leather notebook. She stared at the leather volume, worn in spots to a dull luster, and knew with every fiber in her body that this held secrets.

  She looked over her shoulder at the two men huddled together, staring in curiosity. “Oh, my goodness. My diary! I forgot all about it.”

  She tucked the notebook under her arm, then forced an airy laugh. “Thank God you found it. I’d hate to think of some stranger reading it!”

  “Yeah. Bet it’s loaded with good stuff,” one of the men jeered. Nora cast him a wary glance, unsure if he was complimenting or insulting her. Without response she turned heel and immediately hurried to her bedroom and closed the door. The furniture had already been removed and the carpets rolled. Only her suitcase sat square in the middle of the floor, under a brass and crystal light fixture. Nora plopped down Indian-style beside the suitcase and looked long and hard at the notebook. Around her, she could feel Mike’s presence, hear his voice inside her head. “Open it. Read it.” She obeyed.

  The notebook was filled with pages and pages of numbers; more a bank ledger than a diary. Notes were scattered here and there in Mike’s distinctive, heavy script. Leafing through the pages, a pattern of desperation emerged. Neat lines and columns filled the early pages. As the pages progressed through the months, the nature of the writing changed. Instead of neatness, quick notes were scribbled in an illegible hand. Crossed-out computations and many underlined words and dashes scrawled across the final pages. An artist, Nora recognized the design of mania.

  She closed the book and rested her hand upon it, as though to force quiet memories of the last months of Mike’s life. He had gone through a period of marked deterioration. Although he had once taken a vain interest in his appearance, he became unkempt. In the few weeks before he died, Mike grew argumentative, obsessed, even erratic.

  The parallels with his handwriting were too strong. She needed time, away from prying eyes, to decipher the message held here. Time to hear Mike’s final words and time to decide if she should give this notebook to Ralph Bellows. Bellows was Mike’s closest colleague. Executor of the estate. And it was clear he was searching for something.

  Three short raps sounded on the door. Nora scrambled to her knees and stuffed the notebook into her suitcase just as a high nasal voice sang out from the doorway.

  “Oh, there you are!”

  Nora bristled. Whoever it was didn’t have the courtesy to wait to be allowed in. Turning, she saw a tall, emaciated-looking man with pale skin and the brightest, most unnatural shade of red hair she’d ever seen. Another player in today’s circus, she thought with a sigh of resignation.

  “Can I help you?” she asked. Her tone would, she hoped, give him a clue to her mood.

  “I’m from Sotheby’s,” he replied, as though that was enough introduction. “I’m glad we caught you before you left.”

  “Caught me?” Something in his tone raised her ire.

  “We went over the inventory of your jewelry for the auction and a few things are missing.” His singsong voice implied naughty, naughty.

  “Whatever are you talking about?” Nora’s voice was brusque as she rose.

  He began flipping through the pages clipped to his board. It was filled with computer entries. Did she really own that much jewelry, she wondered? She hardly ever wore it.

  “Here it is. A square-cut diamond. Antique setting.”

  “My grandmother’s engagement ring. It’s not to be sold. Didn’t Mr. Bellows notify you?”

  “No, he didn’t. Apparently he changed his mind.” The cynicism in his eyes stung. “The ring’s on the list. Sorry, dear. I have to ask you for it.”

  Nora choked. “It’s mine. It’s all been arranged.”

  “Apparently not.” He tapped the papers a tad too loudly. “It’s on the list.”

  Nora’s lips tightened. “How much is it worth? I’ll buy it now.”

  “Look, dear. I’m sorry, but no can do. You can talk to Sotheby’s about it, I guess, but I have to collect that ring now—and a few other items.” His voice trailed as he searched the papers.

  I’ll bet you’re sorry, Nora thought, steeped in bitterness. So, Bellows didn’t come through for her after all. A simple kindness was beyond him. She couldn’t trust him.

  Blind rage colored her thinking. She flipped up the lid of her suitcase and pulled out her zip cloth jewelry bag. Without opening it, she held it out to the nameless man with the red hair and papers.

  “Take it.”

  “Certainly not all of it,” he moued, his blush making him look like an elongated carrot.

  She jerked it toward him. The thin man stepped forward to retrieve the small bag, then stepped back again. He pulled out some Victorian beaded necklaces, a yellowed pearl necklace and earrings, a large cameo pin, and the solitary engagement ring. It was a pitiful show compared to the many-carat diamonds, rubies, and emeralds on the list.

  “So much fuss about so little,” she said softly. Her shoulders slumped. “It doesn’t matter. Just take it and get out. Please.”

  The man paused, then selected out the pearls and set them delicately upon the suitcase. “I don’t see those on the list,” he muttered as he rushed out the door.

  Nora picked up the pearls and rubbed them against her cheek. “Oma, I miss you,” she said. She slipped the pearls around her neck and placed the earrings in her ears.

  In the mirror, the burgundy notebook was visible in her bag. In that same bag, beneath wool sweaters, nestled a shirt box. And in that shirt box was a stash of personal letters, memos, and a pocket diary that she’d found on Mike’s desk the day he died. Papers that were scattered next to an empty bottle of bourbon and a loaded ashtray.

  Mike had called her to New York from her house in Connecticut, yelling over the wire that it was urgent. So she had come, against her better judgment, only to be ignored once again. Until that night, before he died.

  “Don’t trust anyone,” he’d told her, roughly awakening her. He was drunk, again, and the sour smell of bourbon and smoke descended upon her like a winter cloud.

  At first she was afraid. Something in his voice had changed; she heard it even in her sleepy stupor. The anger was gone. The arrogance was gone. In its place she heard desperation and fear.

  “Don’t trust anyone.” That was all he’d said. That and a firm shake and an intense stare. So intense. Telling her in that gaze that he was leaving. Warning her that she was on her own now. Perhaps, too, that he was sorry. She liked to think that anyway.

  Nora closed the suitcase, zipped it, and locked it. Whatever secrets lay hidden in that notebook, she’d uncover them later. On her own. One thing was certain—she would keep her secrets from Ralph Bellows.

  “Mrs. MacKenzie?” Trude stood at the door, arms akimbo.

  Nora could tell she’d overheard the entire exchange. “Well, I’m all set to go,” said Nora with false enthusiasm.

  Trude clenched her lips and nodded. “Well then, let’s get you go.”

  Nora walked over and touched Trude’s shoulder. “I wish I could take you with me.”

  “I not ask for much,” Trude replied, opening the door once again for an offer.

  Nora sighed and shook her head. “I couldn’t pay you. I don’t know how I can take care of myself, let alone anyone else. And what ab
out Roman and the children?”

  “They love mountains. Live good. Cheap.”

  For a wild second Nora considered it. How good it would be to have them nearby. Friendly faces and support.

  “I wish I could,” she replied, looking into Trude’s disappointed face.

  Trude nodded. “I know. I had to try, though.”

  Nora hugged Trude in a rush. Trude faltered, standing stiff in awkwardness. Nora felt awkward too at this rare show of physical contact. Suddenly, however, Trude responded and Nora felt true affection in the Polish woman’s bear hug.

  “You’re the only family I’ve got left,” Nora whispered.

  “You take care of yourself, hear?” Trude said, pulling back and revealing a flash of tears. “Here. Piroshki for the car. I make them. You be sure to eat them.”

  “I will, I will.” Nora laughed, moving back.

  She picked up the suitcase. It was unusually heavy. With his papers and notes, Nora was taking Mike with her.

  “I will carry for you,” Trude said.

  “No,” Nora replied. “I have to carry this.”

  She took one last look at the apartment. The sun was setting now and poured in through the slats of blinds, creating vertical shadows across the parquet. Her luxury apartment never looked more the prison it had been for years.

  “Don’t trust anyone.” Mike’s last words to her sounded again in her head.

  “I don’t,” she said to the ghost. Nora turned away, her shoulders drooping with the weight of Mike’s message.

  “I’ll never trust anyone again.”

  3

  NORA PAID THE TOLL and asked for a receipt.

  Now that she was off the Thruway, she felt New York was truly behind her. In her head, she knew that a place could not make someone happy or unhappy, rather the life one led there. But her heart didn’t buy it. In her heart, she believed she’d be happier once she crossed the Vermont border.

  The small white sign with green lettering welcomed her to the Green Mountain State. Speeding by at fifty miles per hour she felt a rush of exhilaration as she crossed the line. “Whoopee!” she called aloud as she rolled down the window and stuck her nose out like any perk-eared dog. Fresh cool air gushed in. She inhaled deeply. Vermont did feel better. The mountains were prettier, the grass was greener, and, hot dog—she was headed home.

  The Volvo hummed along on the state highway, past small towns with red general stores and lone gas stations that boasted two pumps. Nora paid attention to all the markers now; it had been a while since she’d traveled these roads. She chewed her lip as she navigated the journey. Did she turn left at this blinking light? Which way did she veer when the road split by the green warehouse?

  Following both memory and instinct, she guided the car toward the small mountain she called home. A brook ambled over white rocks along the side of the road, black-and-white cows chewed lazily in the pastures. She passed Ed’s syrup stand, rounded a steep turn, and there it was. She recognized it immediately. Why had she thought she wouldn’t?

  Her mountain. The center of the small tree-covered mountain sagged like a saddle on an old horse. A first memory flashed.

  “Let’s hike to the saddle,” Mike said. He already had his boots on, a picnic basket packed with crusty bread, strong-smelling cheese, and a cold bottle of white wine, and in his arm he carried a red-and-black wool blanket. His eyes flashed in invitation.

  Nora grabbed a sweater and Mike. “Let’s go.”

  The saddle was a long hike up, across steep terrain, over marble and granite boulders, and through muddy valleys. But once there the grass was as soft as baby hair. Wild berries flourished and the sun shone freely up where the trees didn’t grow. It was a favorite resting place of deer. A heavenly spot—divine for lovemaking.

  Nora tightened her fingers on the steering wheel. “Mike, Mike,” she murmured. She was afraid of her grief and the unexpected turns it took. Was it a good idea to come back here of all places? The one place they had been happy.

  The road curved and led into the neighboring town, really just one long road between Victorian farmhouses that were now antiques stores and bed-and-breakfasts, a needlepoint shop, the post office, a hardware store, a pizza parlor, and, busiest of all, the corner grocery. Nora pulled in to pick up some supplies.

  The small store was in fact grocery, liquor store, bookstore, and video rental shop all rolled into one confined space. The front four-square windows were plastered with local notices: the firemen were having a water show in Rutland on Saturday, Wild Bird Weekend brought a special seed sale, and a brightly colored banner invited everyone to a contra dance in October. Baskets of apples, squash, and mums bordered the store’s narrow entry. Nora selected two apples and squeezed in past the baskets.

  Inside, the small store was dimly lit and the precious floor space was crammed with more baskets filled with corn, potatoes, and onions. In the front of the store, the few shelves were crammed with dry goods, and in the rear of the store stood rows and rows of dusty alcohol bottles. Nora wrinkled her nose as dust tickled it. She wouldn’t find everything she needed here, but she’d find enough to make do. The wooden floors creaked as she crossed them but they were well swept. A plastic mat covered the grayed wooden counter, and on it sat a shiny nickel-plated cash register with the drawer half open.

  “Hello,” Nora chirped.

  The old woman behind the counter gummed her lips a moment and gave Nora a thorough once-over. “’Lo,” she replied.

  The woman was no one Nora had ever seen before. It appeared no more talk was coming, thank heavens. Nora wasn’t up to questions yet. She cut a swath through the store, grabbing quickly. Coffee, eggs, milk, bread, and she was done.

  “Thank you. Bye.”

  “Yeh-up.”

  If she shopped there daily for the next ten years, Nora doubted she’d ever get more of a response than that. Vermonters weren’t a chatty group.

  At last she made the final turn by the marshy pond. The car veered off the paved road and rumbled along a dirt town road, not fit for tourists. She stretched out her cramped legs and arms and slowed to a crawl. The meadows were on a higher plain than the road and were separated by a low stone fence bordered by pine, maple, and apple trees. She began searching for something—a barn, a tree, a pond—anything familiar.

  She passed the Johnston house, her nearest neighbors. The small cape with pale green asphalt siding appeared to be slipping down. Its sills were sloped, the front porch leaned, and there was chokecherry now where there used to be flowers.

  The house was close to the road but she passed without stopping. She was too near her final destination to stop for hellos. The vista opened up and she smiled seeing Skeleton Tree Pond, acres of fresh spring water so cold Mike swore it could stop the heart. She felt the first prickle of excitement along her neck.

  The bumpy road curved around the lower barn where sheep stood in small clusters. In the field beyond, fifty, maybe more, lazily chewed in the sun. They raised their white faces as she passed, ears pricked. Nora smiled again, feeling an instant bond with the gentle creatures.

  She was on her own land now. Four hundred acres, most of them vertical, all of them green. She was surrounded by green, interspersed now with the oranges, reds, and golds of an early fall. A few yards ahead she spotted the pair of marble monoliths that signaled the foot of her private road. The stones blended in with its surroundings, so only a careful eye could spot the entry. Mike had wanted to build an imposing brick gate, but Nora had persuaded him that, at least in Vermont, nature should prevail.

  She made the turn and slowed to a stop. Her road curved gracefully and disappeared behind a small hill, but Nora wasn’t fooled. She knew that beyond that hill the pastoral road made the grand prix seem like child’s play. It turned and twisted sharply and inclined straight up, making it a hair-raising trip in spots where the gravel gave way to dirt.

  The unanswered question was: How was the road? Did Seth put down the gravel? Did the
rain wash out gullies so deep a tire could get caught? Why hadn’t she stopped at the Johnstons’? Even now she could back up and travel back down the road.

  Something inside of her resisted. A new independence told her to handle it herself. She was tired of asking for help. Sooner or later she’d have to deal with this road and sooner came now.

  Gear in first, she let the clutch up and pressed the accelerator. On up she went, past the hill, past berry bushes long since picked clean by the birds, around big rocks that had lost hold and fallen to the road. Leaf-laden branches arched low, brushing the windshield as she passed and giving off an eerie squeak. Then the road began to incline steeply and the gravel bed grew thin. Nora pressed the accelerator a tad, scuttled up twenty yards and then felt the wheels slip.

  Her knuckles whitened on the steering wheel. Her foot pressed the accelerator, yet her car slid backward down the steep dirt road. Pushing the pedal to the floor, she leaned far forward and whispered, “Go, go.”

  The Volvo whined as its wheels dug to dirt, spitting gravel and swinging its rear across the narrow road like a wild bronco. She headed straight for the steep bank. Nora slammed on the brakes.

  Nausea swept over her as she shifted her gaze from the steep road ahead to the shallow cliff beside her. Unable to move forward, terrified to slip backward, she was in limbo. “What do I do? What do I do?” she muttered in a litany as she laid her head against the wheel.

  There was no reply. She was very alone. In the density of the forest surrounding her she sensed the presence of animals—crouched and watching. Squirrels, deer, porcupines, bears, and scores of others she couldn’t even identify. She heard every snap of a branch in the uneasy quiet. Each call of a wild bird seemed to say, “Go away. You don’t belong here.”