The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  Nora went back up to her bedroom and climbed back in bed, bringing the covers up around her ears. Snug in a small space, with the light from the lamp shining beside her, Nora couldn’t remember when she’d felt so alone. Not even after Mike died did she sense her isolation so completely. She knew, with a sureness as cold as the night air, that no one really cared if she made this farm succeed or fail. That no one would celebrate her life or mourn her death.

  What was she doing on this mountain, she asked herself. She had come up here with a heart full of dreams and an armful of books, but today in the barn she learned the difference between a dream and reality. Esther had walked so confidently among the sheep, doing everyday chores that she herself had only read about in one of her books.

  Worst of all were the ewes. All of them with bellies swollen with life. Such a natural chore, birth, but one she had failed in. And then the lambs…the babies…

  That thought of the baby lambs released the tears she’d held in check all day. Tears that were not for Mike, but because of him. Oh, how angry she was at him! He would not leave her alone. Instead of getting away, the farm carried his memory in each brick and stone.

  Seven years they’d been married. For five of those years she had tried to be the perfect wife and hostess. But like the car that couldn’t make it to the top of the hill she, too, had been discarded. He exacted revenge for the injustice he believed she had committed against him. A tremor shook her as she recalled the expression on his face the morning the doctor suggested he undergo sperm tests.

  “Me?” he had shouted, exploding in characteristic vehemence. “There’s nothing wrong with my sperm, Doctor. If there is something wrong, it’s with my wife. She’s the one with a problem. Got it?”

  The doctor backed up and tried to regain his composure. Nora felt sorry for the frail physician faced with a big, boorish Irishman with fists like shovels and veins protruding from his flushed neck.

  “Mike,” she said softly. “The doctor’s only trying to discuss the possibilities. No one is saying that the problem lies with you. It’s just that—”

  He turned and gave her a look so threatening that she immediately silenced and shrank back into the upholstery.

  “Mr. MacKenzie,” began the doctor, “Mrs. MacKenzie has already undergone a long series of tests. Nothing positive has shown up. We will, of course, pursue other avenues with her, but I feel it is in your best interests to explore other possibilities.”

  Mike’s shoulders hunched like a cat about to pounce. “Like me,” he responded in a low tone. The muscle in his jaw was twitching.

  She’d wrung her hands and looked from her husband to her doctor. The doctor, too, must have sensed the danger. He walked to the other side of his desk and sat down behind it. Regaining his composure, the doctor began to reel off a list of tests and procedures. His monologue included what the results would find, and finally what options they had if Mike’s sperm was in fact limited, slow, or even dead.

  Nora cringed.

  Mike’s fist slammed down on the desk, sending the pencils flying and the doctor to his feet.

  “You listen to me and listen good. There is nothing the hell wrong with my sperm, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna jerk off into some bottle for you to poke around with under some frigging microscope.

  “Is this what you brought me here for?” he stormed, turning his vehemence toward Nora. He was towering over her and jabbing his index finger into her face. “You listen to me, Doctor.” His gaze swept between the two of them. “I don’t care what you have to do, what you have to spend. But the problem lies with her,” he said, jerking his thumb in Nora’s direction. “Find it and cure it. Fast.”

  Then he grabbed his coat in his fist and stormed toward the door. Before leaving he turned his head to catch Nora’s eye. She recoiled. Again he pointed his index finger at her and said, his voice ringing with bitterness and conviction, “If you can’t give me an heir, I’ll get a wife who can.”

  He left, slamming the door on any hope for her marriage she might have harbored. Nora sat staring at the door in cold disbelief and hot shame. The doctor was muttering some thing about “normal reaction,” and how “they usually come around.” She knew differently. This wasn’t just about having a baby. This was about Mike and how she fitted into his world.

  There would be no mutual struggle to have a baby. That was her job. He had invested time and money into her. And now, she was a commodity that had come up short.

  That was when he started seeing other women. He pursued them with a vengeance. Brassy blondes, fiery redheads, sloe-eyed Asians, all with that lean, hungry look. Eyebrows had raised and tongues had wagged from Nantucket to Long Island. At first her friends rallied around her in exaggerated sympathy. Yet as whiff of her descent became apparent, invitations grew few and far between.

  Mike grew more brazen about his affairs, openly displaying his latest paramour at parties she should have attended. He drank more, gambled high stakes and spent large sums of money in an obsequious display of his wealth and virility.

  He was running away from a truth he couldn’t escape and he punished Nora for it. After years of doing her best to dress to his liking, entertain his endless hordes of cronies, arrange his social calendar, smile charmingly at a sea of meaningless faces, have his baby, his message was clear. She had failed.

  And the tragedy of it all was that she had believed him.

  Nora lay shivering in her bed, knees curled to her chest, when she heard the back door open. Her memories vanished as fear sharpened her senses. She heard the door click shut, then the steady footfalls across the hall, up the stairs, then at her door. Her mouth went dry. She slid her hand across the bed to the nightstand and closed it around the handle of the kitchen knife.

  A gentle rapping sounded on her door.

  “Mrs. MacKenzie? Nora, are you awake?”

  The deep voice was unmistakable. A thousand thoughts flashed through her mind, all of them ending with the question: What was C.W. doing here alone at night?

  “What do you want?” Her voice was crisp, unwelcoming. One hand was tight on the knife while the other reached for the phone.

  “Sorry to bother you so late. But you’ve been asking to see a birth.”

  Her breath exhaled with a great whoosh. She couldn’t decide whether to be grateful or angry. Releasing the knife from her hand, she laughed a little at her cautiousness. This wasn’t New York.

  He knocked again. “Nora?”

  “Yes, yes, I’m coming,” she called, responding to his impatient tone. “Just give me a minute to get dressed.”

  “You don’t have time for that. Just get your coat and shoes and come on. Nature can be impatient.”

  She grabbed her suede jacket and fumbled on the floor for her loafers. Then, shoving a bare foot in one shoe and carrying the other, she shuffled across the room and swung open the door. C.W. filled the frame. Even in the dark, his eyes glowed, and by the crinkle at their corners, she knew he was smiling.

  “Do you even sleep in a braid?” he asked, gazing at her hair.

  Her hand flew to her hair, opening her jacket over her long flannel gown.

  He took a long look at her, then shook his head and laughed. “Come on, Wee Willie Winkie. You can tie up your shoes in the car.” Laughing again, he turned and led the way down the dark stairs with his flashlight, muttering something about putting light fixtures in one of these days.

  The ride down the mountain through the tunnel of foliage was both exciting and frightening. He wasn’t speeding, but he had to be driving with as much instinct as skill to make the sharp turns in the blackness. The lights on the dashboard glowed green, barely piercing the darkness. Sitting close in the front seat, Nora found it hard not to notice his long, hard thighs as they pumped the clutch, or how long and tapered his fingers were as they molded around the gearshift. The darkness made the silence easy.

  As soon as she entered the barn, she heard the laborious breathing of the ewe.
C.W. left her side and hurried to the small pen, then grinning, he brought a finger to his lips with one hand and waved her over with the other. Careful not to run, Nora walked as quickly as she could to the pen where a ewe stood panting heavily amidst the clean hay. The ewe turned in her small stall and bleated. Nearby, other ewes bleated in reply, their ears pricked and their attention focused on the pen. Nora watched the exchange and wondered if the miracle of new life didn’t bond all living creatures somehow.

  “Not to worry, it’s all quite normal,” C.W. reassured her.

  She felt helpless as she stood and watched the poor ewe who seemed in such pain. Yet as the low grunts increased their pace, Nora grew inexplicably drawn to the miracle that was unfolding. All this was part of a world that had eluded her. She was desperate to learn the secrets of this natural process, somehow to become whole as a woman, if only through the efforts of a ewe. She leaned forward as the ewe bore down and a new lamb joined the world.

  Nora’s hand flew to her mouth as she squelched a cry of awe. Never before had she witnessed an event so excruciatingly beautiful that it touched her to the core. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

  “She’s a fine ewe,” C.W. announced. Placing the newborn under her mother’s nose, he added, “It’s a shame such a good mother only had one lamb.” He paused then snapped his fingers. “Nora, go and get the runt. This might work.”

  Nora backhanded her cheeks and carefully crossed the distance to the training pen. She approached the runt. He looked weaker and could barely utter a broken bleat when she lifted him. With maternal care she delivered the runt to C.W. Then he held both lambs in his big hands and gently rubbed one against the other while Nora watched with amazement mixed with admiration.

  “With a little luck, she’ll accept them both.”

  “You mean, she’ll think the runt is her own?”

  “Let’s hope. Even so, that runt’s going to need a bottle of milk replacer—and a prayer.” He shook his head in doubt as he viewed the scrawny condition of the orphaned lamb.

  Nora watched as the ewe approached the runt and suspiciously sniffed him.

  “The strong maternal bond starts in the first few hours after birth,” C.W. said, watching from a distance. “If she’s going to accept the runt, she’ll have to do it now.”

  “Come on, mama, don’t ignore this little fellow,” Nora crooned.

  As if she understood, the ewe sniffed the runt again while he bleated and hungrily rooted for a teat. The mother held him in abeyance. Nora held her breath. The ewe sniffed once more. Then, with maternal confidence, she began licking the runt clean while allowing him to suckle.

  It was too much for Nora to watch any longer. She turned and escaped to the entrance where she leaned against the frame and stared out at the drifting night clouds.

  “You all right?” C.W. asked as he approached.

  She hastily wiped her face and nodded, then wrapped her arms around her chest. “It was beautiful.”

  He moved one step closer, peering into her face, then stopped, tucking his fingertips into his waistband. “A birth is always beautiful. Sometimes brings tears to my eyes as well.”

  She sniffed and cast him a woeful glance. He was overcome with the sadness of it.

  “Yes, but that’s not it,” she replied, tightening her arms around herself. “You see…” She blinked, and her pooling eyes overflowed. Wiping her cheek again, Nora collected herself with a deep breath, looking back out at the sky before continuing. It was easier to talk to the silent vastness.

  “Mike and I were never able to have children. We tried—saw a lot of doctors, took lots of test—but…” She shrugged, her thin shoulders saying what was clearly understood. That nothing had worked. No baby had been conceived.

  “I thought I had reconciled myself to not having a baby of my own,” she continued. “But nothing prepared me for what I witnessed tonight. I never could have imagined the utter beauty of birth.” She swallowed hard, a sob catching in her throat. “I could never do what that simple animal did tonight.” In tempo to her fist pounding on her thigh, she stammered out, “I feel such a loss.”

  C.W. watched in silence as Nora struggled for composure. Her throat was constricting and her eyes and mouth were closed so tight they formed a mask of anguish.

  He stood beside her, wishing there was something he could do, knowing there were no words to say. He understood now the pain behind her eyes. He understood, too, her maternal affection for the lambs. How sad, he thought. Nurturing seemed to come so easily for her. She would have made a wonderful mother.

  There was more to this woman than he’d figured. In fact, he’d figured her completely wrong. Seth was right. She was nothing like Mike.

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured, looking at her feet as she wiped her eyes. She forced a laugh. “I’m a pushover for sentiment.”

  He stepped closer and leaned over her with his arm against the wall. He was so close she could smell the scent of hay and leather on his jacket, and she felt the air thicken in the small space between them. She sensed that he was studying her face. Nora kept her eyes turned away from his.

  Then he touched her. His one finger wiped away a tear, and she slipped into his arms. He wrapped her snugly against his chest, like a father, or a friend. She buried her face in the warmth of his flannel shirt while he stroked her hair.

  Nora snuggled deeper into the crook of his arm, rooting for security as eagerly as did the runt. As she did so, his arm tightened around her and for that moment she allowed herself the escape of feeling protected and cared for. Nora was desperate to feel the touch of human comfort. A hug.

  But a hug is a two-channeled effort. As she garnered strength from him, he gathered the same from her, and in the sharing, a subtle bond was forged. They would never again look at each other without remembering this moment of closeness.

  She didn’t know how long they stood there like that. He did not press her with questions nor did she offer any explanations. But as time passed, the arms of her comforter became the arms of a man. She smelled his skin rather than his jacket, and under her cheek, his heart pounded as heavily as her own.

  He smelled too good, this felt too good, and she hadn’t had a rush like this in so long it caught her by surprise. She’d thought that part of her died long before Mike did.

  But this feeling was wrong. He was her hired hand—a drifter. If she wasn’t careful, she’d confuse business with pleasure. My God, she wouldn’t be like Mike.

  Nora straightened and without looking into his face, released herself from his hold. The moment was awkward. It required words. She took a deep breath of the cool air and struggled for something to say. But her mind went blank and her throat went dry. So without speaking, she simply turned and walked back to the pen to peer in and feign interest as her mind cleared.

  C.W. said nothing either but stood with his arms hanging at his side. He struggled to define his sudden confusion but couldn’t. He only knew he felt as though someone had given him a gift, something beautiful, then snatched it away before he could even see what it was.

  Nora stood at the pen, feet together and arms over the rail, and watched the two baby lambs sleep beside their mother. So, she thought. This was birth. A continuation of life, a renewal. She sighed deeply, the cycle of emotions coming full circle within her. Before her, the runt rested his chin on his adopted sister’s rump and his bony ribs expanded and fell with his quick breaths. She knew he’d make it. He was a fighter. Little fellow, she thought as her chest swelled, you’re an inspiration.

  Her gaze swept the barn for the second time that day. This time she took in her sheep, the line of grain troughs, and the mysterious tools with a more positive perspective. They weren’t so mind-boggling, they were just different. All things she could learn.

  She smelled the sweet hay, the musky wool and the woodsy sawdust. Smells that she already felt akin to. This was her home. These were her babies. Deep in her core, she felt a rebirth of conviction.

>   “C.W.?” she called over her shoulder.

  He walked to her side and raised his boot upon the gate.

  “Boss?” he queried, swinging his head her way.

  She almost smiled at the title. The degree to which he cocked his head, the way his hair fell over his forehead, the shine in his eyes as they met hers, rekindled the tenderness they had shared a moment ago.

  “I don’t know how to say this eloquently, but…thanks.”

  He pushed out his lips to avert his smile. “Don’t mention it.”

  Nora released a satisfied sigh. She knew he understood. He was all right, she decided. “I hear you have a lot of books on sheep and farming. I’d like to borrow them—all of them. And anything else you’ve got that might help. I’ve got a lot to learn and I better get started.” She turned her head and met his gaze. “Will you help me?”

  He studied her as he considered her request. She appeared so frail, even scrawny, but her eyes shone with so much determination, it was a pleasure to witness. He could not help but admire her fighting spirit and tenacity. Did she realize how much she resembled that runt of hers?

  “Of course I’ll help,” he replied.

  She flashed a smile. The darkness could not conceal her gratitude. From the pen, her runt nickered with contentment.

  This time, Nora’s heart replied.

  12

  C.W. ARRIVED AT the barn early the next morning to check on any new births and to see how that spunky runt was faring. When he walked in, however, he spied Nora already sitting on the pile of hay in the corner of the barn, smiling a smile as bright as the morning sun. The runt was in her lap, lazily stretching his neck under her scratching fingers. Other lambs clustered around, curiously sniffing her shoulders and nudging her outstretched leg.

  He leaned against the wall at the entry and watched with fascination as Nora pulled milkweed pods from her pocket and blew their seeds into the air. The sun that flowed through the cracks in the barn wall filtered through the darkness and illuminated her hair, giving it the aura of a golden halo. Around her, the milkweed seeds floated in a lazy pattern. She reached up and caught a fairylike seed on her fingertip, then giggling, balanced it like a tiny ballerina atop the runt’s nose.