Lily had never sat vigil with a dying man before. A month ago, had someone told her she would be doing it for Gus Kipling, she would have shuddered. But right now she couldn’t picture being anywhere else. A psychiatrist might have said she was making up for not being in town when her father died, but she didn’t think so. Her being here had nothing to do with Gus and everything to do with John.
She wanted to be with him. It was as simple—and easy and natural—as that.
Hard to explain to her mother, though, when Lily called her shortly after seven.
“But why are you there?” Maida asked. There was enough of an edge in her voice to trigger a conditioned response in Lily. A rush of white noise started to build.
Lily fought it. She closed her eyes and forced herself to think clearly. “Because John’s here. He’s having a hard time.”
“Gus Kipling won’t thank you.”
“I’m not here for him. John and I were talking last night when he learned about Gus. I couldn’t lll-let him come alone.”
“Kiplings have a history of using you. First Donny, now John. This feels familiar, Lily.”
“It’s different,” she said and reminded herself that she was a big girl. She didn’t have to ask Maida’s permission. “I’m only calling to see if one of the orchard hands can cover in the cider house, so that I can stay here.”
“Are you sure you want to do that?” Maida asked. “Word will spread. Do you want the town to know you’re there?”
Lily was suddenly exasperated. “Well, why not?” she cried boldly. “It adds an interesting twist to the story, don’t you think?”
Morning ripened. Harold Webber came, as did other staff doctors. The general reaction to Gus’s condition was one of surprise, but it stopped short of optimism. All signs pointed to a further weakening. While they agreed that Gus was holding on better than they had expected he would, they predicted that the next hours would be crucial.
John allowed himself to hope. He envisioned Gus waking up and being mellowed by having a near brush with death. He imagined the two of them having a few months, maybe more, of quality time. John could be satisfied with that.
As morning became afternoon, Gus did wake up occasionally. Each time, he pulled himself from disorientation to focus on John—and he did recognize him. John knew it. He didn’t know, though, whether the recognition was helping or hurting.
Then, come midafternoon, the beat of the heart monitor shifted. Doctors and nurses came on the run, and after a medication change, Gus’s heart steadied, but it wasn’t a good sign. There was talk of a secondary attack, worsening color, fluid in his lungs.
John waited in the hall with Lily while the doctors worked, but as soon as the bedside was clear, he was back again at the rail. Desperate enough to do something, with Gus looking waxy now, he took his father’s hand. It felt awkward in his—uncomfortably limp and cold—but he couldn’t put it down now that the connection was made.
“Come on, Gus,” he murmured. “Come on. Don’t leave me hanging here. Don’t you dare leave me hanging here.” When Gus didn’t respond, he said, “I’m trying to help. For Christ’s sake, I’m trying to help.” When still there was nothing, he got angry. “You can hear me, Gus. I know you can. You always could, just turned away and made like what I had to say wasn’t worth your while, and maybe it wasn’t back then. I let you down. I’m sorry I did that. I let you down, and I let Donny down, and if I could turn back the clock and change that, I would. But I’m here now, and I want a chance.”
His anger faded. How to sustain it, without Gus’s sneer?
Defeated, he opened his hand and studied those old, scarred fingers. They seemed vulnerable in ways Gus himself never had. More to himself than to Lily or Gus, he murmured, “How to ask forgiveness from a man who won’t listen?”
Those fingers moved then—not much, but enough to suggest life. John looked up to find Gus looking straight at him. The sound the old man produced was hoarse and broken, but every blessed word came through.
“You gut it ass backwuds,” he said. His eyes closed, then reopened. “ ’T’s me let you down… ’t’s me failed… ’t’s me was… nevuh good ’nough… not f’y’ muthuh… not fuh Don… not fuh you…”
John was a minute taking in his meaning. “That’s not true,” he said, but by then Gus had closed his eyes, and something was different this time. It wasn’t until Lily was touching his arm and the room was filled with doctors and nurses that John realized the monitor had gone flat.
They tried to resuscitate him. They shocked him once. When that did nothing, they tried a second time and a third. There was a moment’s pause, then a reluctant exchange of glances. In the next instant what little hope there had been seeped away, like air from lungs that had finally ceased to work.
The doctors and nurses left.
“He said what he needed to say,” Lily whispered, then she, too, left, and John didn’t try to stop her. For a final few minutes, he needed to be alone with his father.
He didn’t say anything. He didn’t even think anything. He just stood there holding Gus’s hand in both of his now, studying the face that he had both hated and loved. When the time seemed right, he gently put Gus’s hand down on the sheet. He bent, kissed his father’s cheek, and started to leave.
But something drew him back to the side of the bed. So he stood with Gus a little longer, and it was a peaceful time. When he was sure that his father’s soul had passed to wherever it was headed, he gave Gus’s shoulder a last gentle touch and left the room.
Lily had waited and watched from the hall. She straightened when John came toward her. He looked exhausted but managed a sad smile. Without a word, he took her in his arms and held her so tightly that his arms trembled, but she wouldn’t have complained for the world. Giving him comfort pleased her more than she would have imagined possible.
When he finally drew back, his eyes were moist. He raised them to the ceiling and took a shaky breath or two. Then he looked at her and said, “I’ll drop you home. I have to go to the Ridge.”
They drove back to Lake Henry in silence. When he pulled up at the cottage, he thanked her. “It meant a lot having you there.”
She pressed a finger to his lips, then shook it to suggest that he shouldn’t say another word. Feeling that same incredible fullness in her heart, she climbed out, watched him turn and drive off. When the Tahoe was gone from sight, she walked slowly around the cottage.
It was nearly five in the afternoon. The lake mirrored Elbow Island, the far shore, and the sky, all seeming calm and reverent in the wake of Gus’s death. Needing to commune with it—with Celia, with a loon or two—she crossed the pine needles, went down the railroad-tie steps, and out to the very end of the dock, all the while wondering whether she was crazy to feel what she did.
But all the wondering in the world couldn’t stop the feeling, nor did she really want it to.
CHAPTER 23
John felt a loss the minute he left Lily at her cottage, but the need to go to Gus’s place was great. Gus’s place? It was his place, too. But had it ever really been his home? He had grown up there. No amount of repainting, relandscaping, or refurnishing could change that fact. Driving along Ridge Road now, with Gus dead and gone, he had to acknowledge the connection.
He parked beside the tiny house and walked inside as he had thousands of times as a kid. The small living room was the bedroom that he and Donny had shared. Dropping into the sofa, he heard the sounds of those years—yelling, but laughter, too. Gus wasn’t happy by nature, but John’s mother was. And Donny. He and Donny had fun times.
John put his head back and closed his eyes. He felt weary in ways that went beyond the physical—weary in ways that had to do with being the only surviving male in this house, the head of the family, so to speak. Arguably, he had borne that responsibility for the past three years. But bringing food, paying a maid, and repairing the house were physical things. What he felt now was emotional.
The
weight of it was too much after a night without sleep. He dozed off in no time, sitting right there on the sofa as Gus had done so often of late. A muffled cry brought him awake with a start.
Dulcey Hewitt stood just inside the front door with a hand over her mouth. She pressed it to her chest. “You scared me,” she breathed. “Here I’d just heard about Gus and I was comin’ over to straighten up so’s you wouldn’t find a mess, and there you are, sitting just the way he was.”
For a minute, John was groggy enough to be confused. Then he remembered that Gus was dead, and felt a sinking in the pit of his stomach. With an effort, he pushed himself forward.
The light was on. Dulcey must have done that. It was dark outside.
He ran a hand over his beard and into his hair. “What time is it?”
“Eight. I’m sorry about Gus.”
John nodded. “Thanks for coming by last night. I wouldn’t have wanted him to die here alone.”
“Were you with him?”
Again he nodded. He looked around. “Nothing much is messed. He didn’t have the strength at the end. Go home, Dulcey. Be with your kids.”
John watched her go. Totally aside from grogginess, he was feeling confused about things he couldn’t put his finger on. He wanted to be alone.
Dulcey had no sooner left, though, than a neighbor came from across the street to offer condolences. She didn’t come inside. Nor did any of the others who came by in short order. They just stood at the door, told John that they were sorry about Gus’s death, and left.
He was touched. Gus hadn’t been any warmer to his neighbors than he had been to his family, yet these people found it in themselves to come by. They made him feel guilty for every negative thought he’d had about the Ridge, which only added to his confusion.
Needing to do something, knowing that he had a funeral to plan and that he wanted Gus looking good, he went to the bedroom closet. It was a total mess. Either Dulcey had drawn the line here or Gus had forbidden her to touch it. There was an overcoat that John remembered from childhood, and a couple of shirts that weren’t flannel or plaid. There were—incredibly—a few dresses that had belonged to John’s mother. And there was a suit. John pulled it out, thinking that he might bury Gus in it. Apart from needing a pressing, it was in fine shape. He brushed at a place where the jacket bulged.
Feeling something there, he pulled back the lapel. Suspended from the hanger on a string was an opaque plastic bag. He laid the suit on the bed, removed the bag, and opened it. Inside was a collection of clippings. Some were old and yellow, some more recent. They were arranged chronologically and neatly, as though a hand had carefully pressed them flat before filing them away.
John looked at the clippings, one after another, until the heartache was too great. Here was a collection of his work, preserved by a father who had never once, never once told John that he loved him.
Feeling intense inner pain, John straightened, arched his back, and pressed his hands to his eyes. He moaned, but that brought little relief. He ran a hand around the back of his neck, stared at the papers, moaned again.
Unable to stand still, he went out the back door and paced the yard in the dark. He walked the length of the stone wall that Gus had been busying himself with so recently, then walked back as he tried to sort through his thoughts. From nowhere came the image of Gus falling on his butt, of John trying to help him up and being shaken off.
Then came a weak and gravelly voice. It was me who let you down. Me who failed. Me who was never good enough. Not for your mother. Not for Don. Not for you.
Understanding then—feeling a gut-wrenching sorrow for a man who had suffered, an illegitimate child born at a time when illegitimate children were marked, a man who had grown up believing himself unworthy, a man John had loved for no other reason than that he was his father—John sank to his knees on the grass. Hunching his shoulders, appalled but unable to stop, he cried softly for everything that he hadn’t seen, hadn’t known, hadn’t done.
He couldn’t remember the last time he had cried, couldn’t remember the last time he had let go quite this way. After a while, he might have been able to stop, but the release felt good. So he let the tears flow until they ran out.
Slowly, he rose from the grass. He dried his eyes on his sleeve, went inside, and threw cold water on his face. By the time he straightened, he was thinking clearly.
Carefully, he returned the packet of clippings to the bag where Gus had kept them, and rehooked the bag on the hanger, to be buried along with the suit and Gus. He collected a clean shirt, a tie, underwear, socks, and shoes, and brought everything out to the truck. Then he drove home, hung Gus’s clothes in his own closet, and took the shower that he badly needed after a day and a half without.
His body was still damp when he set off in the canoe, and the cool air was chilling, but a strong, steady stroking warmed it quickly. When he reached his loons, he stowed the paddle. All four birds were here this night, swimming slowly, diving occasionally, raising their voices in the night, in a sound so primal that it shot straight to his soul.
There was timelessness here, a sense that death was no more than a progression of life. There was history here, a returning from season to season, and survival—two young successfully raised to perpetuate the species. Yes, the years had seen losses when nests were flooded or young lost to predators. But there was reason, order, and meaning.
Breathing that in, feeling at the same time loss and gain, John put his paddle in the water and set off. The call of his loons followed, carrying smoothly across the water and around a series of bends to Thissen Cove.
Lily was sitting at the end of her dock. She stood when he neared, as though she had been expecting him. When the canoe glided alongside, she took the line from him and tied it to a cleat.
Seconds later he was on the dock, taking her in his arms, and it was the most natural, most right thing he had ever done. He wasn’t thinking about writing a book. Wasn’t feeling duplicitous or exploitative. His mind and his heart were in total sync.
He held her close, then closer still, while the lake flowed around them and the loons called. He kissed her once, then again—sweet, then deeper. By the time the third kiss was done, there was hunger as well.
At Lily’s urging they went up to the house, up the stairs to the bed in the loft, and again it was the most natural, most right thing—removing clothes, touching private spots, rushing toward consummation. John’s dreams had been dominated by Lily’s body, and he found it even more beautiful than he had imagined, the full expanse of warm flesh and soft curves. He felt the comfort she gave, the consolation, the hope, and his body came alive as never before. Buried inside her, deep and deeper still, he felt fulfillment even as he hungered for more.
She climaxed with the catch of her breath and a soft cry.
He lingered, reluctant to leave her. In time, he slipped to his side and drew her close, but he didn’t speak. He kissed her softly and tucked her against him, thinking that he could be perfectly happy lying still like this with Lily Blake for the rest of his life, then rethinking that moments later when his penis thickened. And she was ready. She welcomed everything he did, then and in the hours that followed, and the initiative was far from one-sided. Her hands weren’t knowing, but they learned. Her increasing boldness was an aphrodisiac in itself, feeding his arousal.
Eventually exhaustion caught up, and John finally let go. Safe in Lily’s bed, warmed by the heat of their bodies and the scent of sex, he sank into a sleep so deep that he didn’t hear a thing.
I’m at the cider house. Will be done at four.
Lily propped the note on her pillow, then took it back and drew her initial couched in a swirl that could have been a heart if John woke up in a mood to see hearts. She wasn’t used to mornings after. She had no idea how he would wake up, or when. But she had promised Maida she would work today, and besides, she needed space.
Sheltered by a hooded raincoat, rubber boots, and gloves, she got it.
She thought about the night that had been, and the night before that. She thought about the week that had been, and the week before that, and tried to reconcile them all, but it felt as though she had been through a lifetime of events and emotions. So many unresolved issues. How to sort through? How to deal?
Maida made sandwiches for lunch and served them on the porch. She didn’t ask about the day before, not about Gus or John or Terry, but the noon hour was misty and calm, a cat with sheathed claws, and Lily welcomed the break. She returned to the cider house for the afternoon’s work, feeling her body now in ways she hadn’t earlier, and working harder to limber it up.
Quitting time approached. She had taken off her rubber clothing and was spraying down the cider house floor when John appeared at the door. He looked tentative. Sharing the feeling, unsure about what to say and do after the night, she finished quickly, washed up, and met him outside.
He had his hands in the pockets of his jeans and wore that same hesitant look.
But they were lovers now. At some point during the day, Lily had accepted that. She could agonize all she wanted about whether she was crazy to trust him with her emotions, but that didn’t change the fact that she cared deeply for him.
“Walk with me?” she asked with a small smile.
His features relaxed so quickly that it was almost comical. Almost, but not quite. It was actually quite endearing, Lily thought as she gestured toward the orchard. Minutes later they were walking on a hard-packed dirt road past row after neat row of apple trees. She picked a row that looked less worked and led him off onto the grass. Even without the sun, which was still hidden by mist, the apples gave off a sweet scent.
“What kind are these?” he asked as they walked.
She pointed. “Cortland. Macoun. Gravenstein. McIntosh.”
“Mixed together?”
“They have to be. Blossoms have to receive pollen from different varieties to be fertilized. Cortland can’t pollinate Cortland, or Mac pollinate Mac. Unfortunately, bees don’t know that. But they do move from tree to tree. So we mix varieties this way.”
Lake News Page 32
