The Long Road Home

by Mary Alice Monroe

  “Humph,” he muttered with a slap on the door. “Foolin’ around again. If that girl spent half the energy on her chores as she did on them paints, we’d all be ahead. Yes, we would.” His head bobbed in conviction.

  Nora stared with her lips tight. Competent, self-assured Esther, of all people, painted. Couldn’t she knit or write or something other than the one talent Nora coveted but had never mastered?

  “Is she any good?” she asked.

  “How would I know? Why would anyone want to paint a sky when it’s right there to marvel at? God did it right the first time. Why waste time making a second-rate copy?” His voice was harsh but his eyes were soft as he viewed his daughter.

  Nora’s face grew somber. How long had it been since she herself picked up a brush? Two years? Three? She had buried the need, along with so many desires. Yet the yearning still burned.

  “Wait a minute, Seth. I’ll be right back.”

  “Well, don’t be all day. I’ve got to get started on that flooring.”

  Nora nodded as she slammed the door shut. The walk across the meadow was a long one. The tall meadow grass that from a distance waved like silk, was brittle. It scraped against her jeans and poked through her socks as she sidestepped woodchuck holes and rocks. Yet ahead, like a beacon, stood Esther. Nora’s strides were long with anticipation by the time she reached the painter’s side.

  Esther turned and raised her palette before her chest like a colorful shield.

  “I don’t mean to break your concentration,” Nora said. “May I see your work? I didn’t know you painted.”

  Esther shrugged then turned back to her work.

  Encouraged, Nora stepped forward and looked past the bony shoulders to the canvas ahead. Once there, she was trapped, captured by the boldly colorful landscape. Nora exhaled a long, ragged breath.

  “Esther, it’s magnificent.”

  Esther swung around, her eyes at first wide, then narrow.

  “This thing? Oh, I dunno. I like it, but something’s not there yet.”

  “There’s such vision in your work, Esther. You’ve captured the orchestration of the mountains, their power and color. Believe me. I’ve studied art, collected it. Even arranged shows. Esther, you have real talent.”

  Esther closed her eyes and let the palette droop by her side. When she opened them again, Nora saw a vulnerability she had never witnessed there before.

  “Thank you,” whispered Esther.

  A silence enveloped the two women. Neither knew what to say next. In the distance, two short beeps blared from the car horn.

  “Is that C.W. beeping like that?” asked Esther, turning away and squinting her eyes.

  “No, it’s your father.”

  “Aha,” she said, nodding in understanding. “Can’t imagine C.W. doing something like that. But Pa, well, he doesn’t like to waste time.”

  Nora smiled. “So I understand. He thinks painting is a waste of time.”

  Esther smiled too in conspiracy. “Yeh-up, he does.” She dabbed her brush upon the palette. “I hear you paint.”

  Nora almost stuttered. “Oh, I dabble. I haven’t got your talent.” She looked over the meadow. “I guess I’m still searching for the talent I do have. You know, you’re lucky. Your gift is obvious.” Her disappointment cut through the compliment and she knew by Esther’s puzzled expression that she had heard it. Feeling a twinge of embarrassment, Nora looked off at the pickup.

  “I better go. Your father is waiting. Sorry if I bothered you.” She turned and began her trek across the meadow.

  “Hey,” called Esther.

  Nora stopped and turned to face her.

  “Maybe we could paint together someday.”

  Nora stood, stunned, blinking in the high afternoon sun. At last, an overture from Esther. Her own ambition to paint was pulled out of its hiding place and left dancing in her veins.

  “I’d love to,” she yelled back. She saw Esther nod a yes, then slowly return to her painting.

  “Thank you,” Nora whispered to her back.

  The light from the barn glowed in the valley as C.W. hiked down the mountain to do his nightly lamb check. He was expecting a birth or two tonight. Most nights things progressed as Mother Nature had intended. Every now and then, however, a mother wasn’t up to the job, and if someone didn’t check, an abandoned lamb could freeze in the few hours till dawn. He was the hired hand for the MacKenzie lambs, so that someone was him.

  Tonight, however, he could hear he had company. The twang of country music wafted up the road and now and then, low voices or a burst of laughter. They called it mountain noise, the way voices can carry for miles. Esther swore she knew what music he was listening to way up in his cabin.

  He could use some company tonight. The day had proved too long and he needed the companionship of friends. Laughter roared out again, and catching the mood, a smiling C.W. stretched out his long legs and hurried down the road over to the barn.

  Inside, Frank sat sprawled across bales of hay sipping a can of beer, and beside him Junior plucked a guitar. Esther leaned back against a hay bale with her knees up to her chest. Her face was down, ignoring the sulking glances heading her way from John Henry across the aisle. It surprised C.W. to see John Henry back with the gang and, knowing the facts, he wondered why the man would put himself through the pain.

  “What’s up?” C.W. asked at the door.

  Their heads swung up and several hands waved him over.

  “Oh, you gotta hear this,” Frank said between laughs. “It’s pretty good. Go ahead, Junior. Tell him.”

  Junior colored and shook his head.

  “Aw, come on,” Esther cajoled.

  Junior shook his head.

  “Well, is someone going to let me in on the joke?” C.W. settled on a bale of hay near Frank and stretched his legs out one upon the other. “I’ve got all night,” he said, grinning widely.

  “It’s something Nora was explaining to Pa today over at the house,” Frank said. He was still chuckling and coughed on his beer.

  “Oh?” C.W. leaned back on his elbows. His smile faded. “What was that?”

  “You should have heard her. She can talk up a pitch real nice.” His sarcasm was dripping. “She’s tellin’—no, teachin’—us about how to use the pastures. Like, right. We don’t know. We’ve only been doing it for generations.”

  “That’s not the funny thing,” Esther said. “She had all these papers, jam-filled up, and she started spreading them all out in front of Pa.”

  Junior smiled sheepishly. “Near took up the whole table.”

  “There were figures, and notes and columns and columns of calculations. Pa was like to get dizzy following them graphs! You should’a seen his face!” Frank started laughing again, and this time, Junior and John Henry joined in. Esther didn’t laugh. She seemed embarrassed and chugged at her beer.

  “I wish I could have seen Seth’s face,” said C.W. in a calm voice. Inside, he was elated. His pupil was doing her homework. Knowing Nora, her report was well researched and she shirked no detail. “What did Seth say?”

  “He liked it,” Junior blurted out.

  “Oh, he did not,” Esther said. “He was just being nice to her.”

  “He liked it,” Junior repeated, his jaw stuck out.

  “Maybe he did,” C.W. said slowly. “As a matter of fact, Nora and I talked about that program. The extension agent told me about it, and I suggested that she study up on it. Seems she did, in spades.”

  “Since when are you and the boss lady talking shop,” asked Esther, pushing up from the bale of hay. John Henry scowled and threw her a sharp glance.

  “Since day one.”

  Esther’s face clouded and she leaned back again.

  “Really?” asked Frank, siding up to C.W. “So, you think this plan of hers is any good?”

  “I do, Frank. I think you might want to look into it for your own pastures. According to the agent, it should not only raise yield, but make your land
more valuable.” He looked at John Henry. “Yours too. With all your livestock, it’s all the more critical.”

  John Henry snuck a glance at Esther’s face and shook his head. “Nope. I like our tried and true methods, thanks.”

  C.W. shrugged. “It’s your place.”

  Frank, however, looked interested. Frank was always interested in any idea that could increase his farm’s value.

  “Where’d you learn to become so expert?” John Henry asked, jealousy ringing in his voice.

  A dull ache began in C.W.’s lower neck. “I never said I was expert.”

  “I was born to a farm,” said Frank to John Henry. “I started walking beans at six and driving a four-wheel pickup by the time I was nine. That still don’t make me ‘expert.’ You don’t need to pick the beans to learn how to grow them.” He looked over at C.W. and gave him a firm nod.

  Like many farmers these days, Frank had to earn money off the farm to offset the rising farm costs. It’d been a tough decision for a man who loved nothing more than farming to go work with rocks and stone. Still, with being able to share C.W. part-time with the MacKenzies, Frank had made the only economic decision he could to survive.

  C.W. earned the traditional package for a hired hand: a modest monthly wage, a place to live, and once a year, a freezer full of meat. And C.W. had earned their respect over the past year the old-fashioned way: with honest labor and ideas that worked.

  “I never was real good in school, but C.W.’s been teachin’ me a lot about money managing. Ya gotta know that stuff now to keep a farm going. You know that.” He ended with a warning glare at John Henry.

  John Henry nodded in agreement. Still, C.W. could see it rankled John Henry that this no-account farmhand had gained the trust not only of Frank, but of Junior, Seth, and most importantly, Esther as well.

  Trust meant a lot up here.

  John Henry stood and slipped on a canvas jacket over his Grateful Dead T-shirt.

  “Well, it’s gettin’ late. Katie Beth Zwinger is waitin’ for me to come over.” He spoke to everyone, but he looked only at Esther.

  C.W. narrowed his eyes in curious speculation. Frank looked ready to keel over. Junior’s mouth fell open and he shifted his glance from John Henry, to Esther, then to Frank with a worried look on his face. Seeing that Esther was more intent on staring at her boot than at him, John Henry waved a quick good-bye and hastened out of the barn.

  The moment he left the mood of the barn lightened. Junior grabbed his guitar and started strumming. Junior was a simple, good-natured person who avoided confrontations.

  Not Frank. He was too much like his pa. “What’s this about John Henry seein’ Katie Beth?”

  Esther picked at the straw, but two small patches of pink appeared on her cheeks.

  “Damn it all,” cursed Frank. “He knows I’ve got my claim on her. I oughta give him two good reasons to back off,” he said, lifting clenched fists.

  “Aw, cut it out, Frank,” Esther snapped. “He’s only seein’ her to get back at us.”

  “What did I ever do to him?” asked Frank, still pissed off.

  “You’re my brother.”

  “Yeah. Me too,” offered Junior.

  “I still don’t like it,” said Frank, lips taut.

  “Then do something about it,” said Esther in a huff. “You’ve been scratchin’ at Katie Beth’s door for years now. It would do you right, do us both right, if the two of them ran off and got married! What’s the matter with us Johnstons anyway? A bunch of old bachelors and spinsters, that’s what we are. Looks like that’s what we’ll ever be.”

  This time, it wasn’t Esther’s temper that shut Frank up, but her sadness.

  Frank rubbed his neck and sprawled far back on the hay bale, bringing his foot up to rest against it with a thump.

  Junior’s clear, rich voice began to hum, then sing the words of the Cat Stevens song he was playing. His voice had a soothing quality. After a few measures, Frank joined in with his fine tenor voice and finally even Esther sang. Pick, strum, strum. The earlier tensions melted away and faces softened as the circle of music bound them once again.

  C.W. leaned back on his elbows, perplexed by the sudden explosion of emotion and its equally sudden demise. C.W. allowed himself to get drawn into the music; he who never sang. Not knowing the words, he hummed along and kept time with the wagging of his boot.

  Nora would love this, he thought, stretching out in the circle of music and friends. He hoped she’d be included too, someday. If Nora was going to live up here, work here, become a good neighbor, she’d have to join this circle.

  16

  DAYS FLY FAST in the country. Not as fast, however, as Esther flew from her house a few mornings later, slamming the screen door behind her. Her long legs barely touched the ground as she traveled, straight as an arrow, to Aunt May’s trailer. Taking the two steps at a single leap, she slammed against the door and knocked three times, rocking the metal, calling, “Aunt May?” She knocked again, even louder.

  May swung open the door. “What in heaven’s name is the matter with you, child? I’m watchin’ my soaps.” May took in Esther’s wild-eyed appearance.

  “Come on in, Esther,” she said softly, as she stepped aside.

  Esther slipped in, brushing against May’s ample bust, and immediately slumped down on the small sofa. In her hand she carried a torn envelope and a single sheet of white paper.

  “I guess you heard from that New York school?”

  Esther nodded, her face grim. “Oh, Auntie May. They don’t even want to give me an interview.”

  May took the letter and brought it close to her squinting eyes. It didn’t take long to read the few lines. Lord help us, she thought, looking over at her niece blinking fast, swallowing hard, and pinching her lips, as if she was going to heave tears. So few words to throw a dream away. Esther’s smug confidence would take a beatin’ by this blunt rejection, that was sure. And Esther’d be more mortified to show tears.

  That Esther could come here to let go touched May deeply. She understood her niece’s headstrong ways. She had come by them honestly. Stubbornness could be the seed of loneliness, May well knew. It was her fervent hope to spare Esther the regret she herself felt by teaching Esther to temper her willfulness with contemplation.

  “You might not believe this,” May said. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out. But New York is a big place. There be lots of roads to it.”

  “Not for me.”

  May watched as Esther gathered up her legs and sat as stoically as an Indian. May sighed heavily and plodded the short distance to Esther’s side. There wasn’t room enough on the small sofa for Esther and a woman May’s size, so she eased down into the kitchen chair beside her, grunting on settling in.

  “So!” she exclaimed, slamming her hand down on the table. “Let’s see some tears! Where are the angry shouts? Let’s hear them, get them out. Or all that anger will fester in your spleen and make you sick.”

  Esther shook her head. “No, Aunt. There’s no fire left to belch. It’s time I woke up from this dream. Get me a life.”

  “There ain’t no fire, huh?” she said, disbelieving.

  Esther stared at her hands. May followed her gaze to where the nails were stained in green and brown oils. “Esther, that paint goes deep under your skin. You couldn’t wash it off in a thousand washings.”

  Esther chipped at the paint a moment, then her face contorted and she brought her colored fingers up to hide the tears. May drummed her fingers on the table while Esther sobbed, her own big heart breaking. Even as a little girl, there weren’t many times she could remember seeing Esther cry. Those childish tears were easy to deal with, unlike complicated woman tears. Last time she saw Esther’s tears was when MacKenzie had hurt her bad. Back then, however, May’d witnessed more shame in those tears than sorrow, and her own heart didn’t break as it did now. She reached out and handed Esther a box of tissues, which Esther promptly used.

  “It’s not just
about going to New York,” Esther said plaintively, tearing the tissue into bits. “I can live with them rejecting me for some reason: I’m poor, I’m ugly, I’m crude. Anything—but not my work. I don’t know how much more rejection I can get past. Hell, Aunt May, I’m not even in the running. I haven’t crossed the line, and until I do, all my work is just, oh, I dunno… It’s considered a hobby.”

  “By whom?”

  “You know.”

  “Not by me. I know how hard you work, and how good you are.”

  Esther shifted her weight, irritated. “I know. But everyone else will. They think I’m crazy already. And Pa…well, you know how he feels about it. He’ll be glad I didn’t get in. He’ll say, ‘I told you so.’ To get married.” She threw her head back and emitted a bitter laugh. “Boy, John Henry will like this. Seems he was right all along.”

  “Seems to be you’re listening to all the wrong people, honey. What do you say?”

  Esther ground her teeth with a determination typical of her.

  “I say I’m through wasting my life. John Henry’s right. I’m twenty-six years old. I’m gonna settle down, marry John Henry if he’ll take me back, and have babies. I deserve a little happiness.”

  An alarm went off in May. She was eager to support this turn in Esther’s attitude. To have her niece comfortably settled on John Henry’s dairy farm nearby was her fondest wish. But only if she really meant it. If Esther was giving up before the fight was finished, her regret would last a lifetime and snuff out any chance for happiness in the bitterness of might-have-been.

  “Be sure you know what will give you happiness,” May said.

  “I didn’t say a lot of happiness, just a little.”

  “That’s a dangerous sentiment.”

  Esther straightened her long legs. “Besides, Pa needs me. The boys need me. They depend on me. I’ve got to stay here and take care of them. And John Henry needs me too. He loves me, even still. Everyone expects us to get married. It’s just my stubborn nature that fights it.”

  May picked up the letter, smoothed out the wrinkles, folded it three times and neatly tucked it back into the envelope. Handing it back to her niece she said, “Esther, I’m going to ask you a favor. I don’t ask many, so I hope you do me this one.”