by Nan Rossiter
The storm passed quickly, and Linden realized that the dogs were peering out through the screen door. He pulled himself from the chair and, when he opened the door, they greeted him again as if he were a long-lost friend, and then followed him happily into the kitchen to see what he was going to have for supper. Linden put a small frying pan on the stovetop to heat up leftover spaghetti and washed and sliced an early tomato. He dropped a juicy chunk in his mouth, sifted through his mail, and discovered a check for a job he’d finished two months earlier. After dinner, he washed the dishes, let the dogs out, gave them each a treat, shut off the lights, and headed for bed.
In the half darkness, he threw his jeans over the back of a chair and his T-shirt onto a growing pile of laundry in the hamper. He pushed his bedroom window up and listened to the familiar call of a barred owl. He recognized it as the voice of his faithful barn dweller, and then, somewhere in the distance, he heard a haunting reply of interest. A cool breeze rustled the curtains as Linden lay back on his bed and, for the first time in a long time, he allowed an image of Callie to slip into his mind. It was the same image that always came to him, when he let it, like a favorite photograph his mind kept under glass.
She was smiling and reaching up to push back wisps of wild, wavy hair that the wind had swept across her cheeks. She was wearing a snow-white tank top over her red lifeguard suit, and her shoulders were the golden tan of summer’s end. Linden didn’t know why he always pictured Callie that way. It had been four years, but after seeing the lights on in her parents’ house, he couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally come home. With the image still in his mind he drifted to sleep.
Before dawn, he awoke to the loud racket of his squirrel-proof birdfeeder hitting the ground, followed by angry squabbling. He suddenly remembered what he’d forgotten to do: take the birdfeeder down for the night. “Damn those raccoons!” he grumbled as he kicked off his sheet, stumbled to the back door in his boxers, and turned on the light. “Get out of here!” he growled, opening and slamming the door to show them he meant business. “One of these days I will outsmart or shoot you!” he added. The dogs thumped their tails agreeably and looked up, wondering if it might be time for breakfast. He looked at them and immediately knew what they were thinking. “No, it’s not,” he grumbled, falling back onto his bed. But it was useless; he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.
He got up, pulled on his worn Levis, shuffled barefoot to the kitchen, reached for an almost-empty bag of Green Mountain coffee, and turned on the radio just in time to hear the recorded chorus of songbirds that the program’s host, Robert J. Lurtsema, always played at the opening of his broadcast. Most of the time the WGBH signal wasn’t strong enough to carry all the way to New Hampshire, but on rare occasions, it came in as clear as a bell. Linden smiled and wondered if his parents, perpetually early risers, were listening in their Boston home. His mother loved classical music and, to placate her, Linden had endured eight long years of piano lessons. At one time he could play everything from Beethoven’s Für Elise to selections from Bach’s complex Das Wohltemperierte Klavier, but, just to drive her crazy, he’d also been known to launch into a rousing rendition of the theme from Gilligan’s Island or Elton John’s version of “Pinball Wizard.” His mother had fumed, “I knew we should have insisted on private school!” In the end, Linden had prevailed, his mother had relented, and he was allowed to give up the lessons.
Pachelbel’s Canon drifted softly from the radio as he poured steaming coffee into the cream-colored mug he liked to use. The mug was adorned with a faded painting of a lighthouse on its side and was one of several items, including an old Chevy pickup, that the cabin’s owner and previous resident had left behind. Linden took a sip, gazed out the window at the mist rising from the north-running Contoocook River, and, in spite of everything, felt oddly content.
3
Callie could almost hear her father’s voice. Keep your chin up, kiddo! It’s not the end of the world! In spite of herself, she smiled as she poured coffee into her father’s favorite mug and ran her finger over the faded U.S. Navy anchor painted on its side. She sat at the kitchen table and noticed that his Bible was tucked under some papers. She wondered why he hadn’t taken it with him. She reached for it and discovered that a copy of The Upper Room was still tucked between its pages. For as long as Callie could remember, her parents had faithfully taken the time every morning to read the little magazine’s suggested Bible verse and daily devotional. She had even picked up the habit for a while when she was in high school, and she’d often been surprised when the words seemed to speak to whatever challenge she was facing at the time. Afterward, when she went off to college, her mom had continued to send the magazine to her, but she’d rarely found the time to read it.
She slipped the magazine out of the Bible and glanced at the open date, January 15, two days before her dad had moved to the nursing home. She thought of the call she’d received from his attorney around that time to see if she could come home and arrange to have the house drained. He had explained that it would save on the heating bill, but Callie had never found the time. She’d visited her dad as often as she could, but she’d purposely avoided stopping by the house. If she had, she realized now, she would have found his Bible sooner. She picked it up and put it by the door. She would stop at the church to pick up a current copy of Upper Room and bring it when they went to visit him later.
Reaching over the sink, Callie pushed on the gray metal bracket that slid the bottom of the kitchen window out, but it was stubbornly stuck so she climbed up on the counter, as she’d done when she was little, and put all of her weight behind it. It creaked and, reluctantly, slid out, releasing a rush of fresh morning air into the musty kitchen. She moved to the living room and pushed open those windows too, and then she tugged open the heavy wooden front door and discovered she needed to locate the screen inserts for the storm door.
She dressed quietly, pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail, peeked in on Henry, and took her cup of coffee outside. Standing in the garage doorway, she contemplated the pile of boxes that were waiting in the back of her dad’s pickup truck and sighed. For someone with so little money she had certainly accumulated a lot of stuff. She started the truck, pulled it out into the sun, and began to unload.
Henry opened his eyes and quickly shut them again. Each time he opened them, he hoped he would see a wooden bookcase in front of a blue wall. On the shelf of the bookcase, which had a long scratch on one side, should be six books lined up in order of height and, next to the books, a model of a truck that he’d made from LEGOs and, beside that, a small Model M John Deere tractor. But each time he opened his eyes, he quickly shut them again because what he expected to see wasn’t there. He really needed to pee too. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he just lay there and let it stream out. At first it felt warm but, after a while, it felt cold and he began to cry.
Callie carried the last box inside. As she put it on the kitchen counter she heard a muffled sound, hurried down the hall, and found Henry sitting on the floor in wet underpants with his arms around his knees. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She helped him stand and guided him across the hall. “Why didn’t you look for the bathroom?” Henry rubbed his eyes and, at her suggestion, looked around.
She continued to talk to him as she filled the tub with warm water. She bathed him quickly and, since the water seemed to calm him, let him play for a few minutes while she went to pull the wet sheets off the bed. When she returned to lift him out, though, he kicked and screamed. Callie set him down again, disappeared, and returned with a toy truck, hoping the distraction would work. While Henry inspected the truck, she lifted him out again and gently dried him with the soft towel. Then she rinsed the tub and headed down the hall to look for a box of clothes. Wearing the towel caped over his shoulders and clutching the truck in his hands, Henry traipsed down the hall after her.
“Did you know this used to be Mommy’s room?” she asked as she rummage
d through one of the boxes. Henry solemnly furrowed his brow as he looked around the small, simply furnished room. He pointed to the pine bureau, and she turned to see what had caught his eye. Lined up in front of her mirror were several old trophies. Callie tugged clean underwear, shorts, and a T-shirt from a bulging box of clothes; tucked them under her arm; picked up one of the trophies; and knelt down in front of him. Henry traced his finger lightly over the figure of a girl shooting a basketball and left a shiny gold trail through the years of settled dust. Callie handed the trophy to him to hold while she pulled on his shorts, and Henry put his free hand on her shoulder as he lifted each leg. When she pulled his T-shirt over his head, he put the trophy down and slipped his arms through. Once he was dressed, he picked the trophy up again and ran his finger over the engraved nameplate. “Let’s see which one you have,” she said, pausing to read the inscription. “ ‘Most Dedicated.’ Seems like forever ago.” Henry pointed to the trophy of a girl kicking a soccer ball and then one of a girl swinging a bat. Callie patiently handed all of her high school trophies to him and watched as he carefully lined them up in order of height. “You’re a funny guy,” she said with a gentle smile. Henry looked up and pointed to a medal that was hanging from the corner of the mirror. As Callie reached for it she noticed a faded photo tucked into the mirror’s frame. She handed the medal to Henry, slipped out the photo, and sat down next to him. While Henry examined his new treasure, Callie looked at the tall, slender boy in the photo and recalled a long-ago summer day.
It had been the last day before they’d headed off to different colleges, a decision his parents had pressed hard for. That morning, she’d finally started getting her things together when he’d surprised her by stopping by to see if she wanted to go hiking. He’d even packed a picnic lunch. She had surveyed the piles of clothes on her bed and then the look on his face, and had reluctantly given in.
The New Hampshire air had whispered of autumn, and Callie remembered thinking that she’d never seen a sky so blue. They’d hiked to the summit of Monadnock, and after lunch he’d stood to find the mountain’s benchmark. Callie had slipped her camera out of her pack and called to him, and he’d looked over his shoulder. Seeing the camera, he’d mustered a half smile. In the photo his chestnut hair was streaked from the sun and windblown from hiking and his face was tan, but the camera had also captured a measure of sadness in his eyes.
Henry reached up and put the medal around Callie’s neck and then pointed at the boy in the picture. Callie smiled wistfully and whispered, “Linden.”
After she’d taken the photo, Linden had pulled her into his arms, and she’d tried to catch his eye but he’d looked away.
“What’s the matter?” she’d asked.
“Nothing,” he’d murmured, his eyes glistening in the sunlight.
“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”
He had looked up at the endless blue sky and stammered, “I hope you know how much I’m going to miss you.” Finally, he had turned to her and searched her eyes. “Callie, please don’t forget about us.”
“Linden, don’t you know?” she’d whispered. “I could never forget about us.”
Callie shook her head sadly, slipped the picture back into the mirror’s frame, and went down the hall to the linen closet to look for clean sheets. At the bottom of a neatly stacked pile she found an old threadbare set that had once been hers and a clean mattress pad. She pulled them out, went back to her room, put the mattress pad on, shook open the fitted bottom sheet, stretched it over the corners of the mattress, and recalled how she’d always begged her mom to just wash the sheets and put them back on instead of putting on different ones. Henry pointed to the figures on the faded pillowcase and Callie nodded. “Yup, Mickey and Minnie, and on the other side,” she said, turning the pillow over, “is Donald and Daisy.” Henry looked at Donald and Daisy and then turned the pillow back over so Mickey and Minnie were on top. After the bed was made, Callie took the laundry basket to the basement and threw a load in her parents’ old Kenmore, shaking out the last of the Tide from a damp box that was on the floor. She trudged back up the stairs, wondering if there was anything in the cabinet that they could have for breakfast. She found Henry lining up the kitchen chairs in a neat row, and she scooped him up. “What in the world are you doing, Hen-Ben?” she asked with a smile. But Henry squirmed and fussed, so she set him down again. She opened the cereal cabinet and found a box of stale Shredded Wheat and an old box of chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast, neither of which would be very good without milk. She clicked off the coffeepot, picked up her dad’s Bible, turned to Henry. “We’re going to see Papa,” she announced. To her surprise, Henry left the chairs without a fuss.
After stopping at the church to pick up an Upper Room, Callie pulled into McDonald’s and realized they were already serving lunch. She reached into her pocket, pulled out three singles, and ordered a Happy Meal. She wasn’t very hungry, and besides, she knew she’d end up with at least one McNugget and some fries. She definitely needed to ask her dad if she could borrow some money though.
As they drove along, Callie thought about the nursing home and wondered if her dad might be able to move back home now that she was there. His care wouldn’t be easy, but it would make him so much happier. The idea bolstered her mood and gave her hope.
The air in the lobby of the nursing home was stale and old. She stopped in front of the elevator and remembered the scene Henry had made the last time they’d used it. Its close quarters or its unfamiliar movement had upset him, so, not wanting to cause another scene, she lifted him onto her hip and climbed the three flights of stairs instead. Taking two at a time, she had to stop on the second landing to tuck the Bible more tightly under her arm. On the third landing she pushed open the door, stepped into the hall, and walked quickly past the ghostly quiet rooms, trying not to notice all of the forgotten souls as they passed. It broke her heart to see so many lonely old folks, and she wondered how anyone could work there, day after day. Some patients were in wheelchairs and their heads were drooped so low that their chins rested on their chests; it was almost as if, after so many years, their heads had become too heavy to hold up. Other patients pushed walkers along slowly with no apparent destination, and one old fellow with no teeth called out, “Hey, cutie, can you give me a ride home?” Callie smiled sadly, shook her head, and continued on. As she approached her dad’s room, a nurse emerged with sheets in her arms but, seeing Callie, stopped abruptly.
“Miss Wyeth, we’ve been trying to reach you.” Callie saw the concerned look on her face and her heart began to pound.
“Is he okay?” she blurted.
“He is ...” The nurse paused and put her hand on Callie’s arm. “He had a mild stroke last night. We tried to reach you at both of the numbers we have on file, but we only got recordings saying they’ve been disconnected.”
Callie started to pull away. “Yes, I know. They turned our phone on, but it’s still not working. They’re supposed to come out next week and fix it.” She turned to go into her dad’s room, but the nurse stopped her.
“Miss Wyeth, your father isn’t here. He was rushed to the hospital last night.”
4
Linden loved stone walls, and although he understood the sentiment in Robert Frost’s poem, he took umbrage with the poet’s choice of metaphor. To Linden the act of building a stone wall was an art form, an architectural ritual, a puzzle to be solved, a time for meditation, and, quite possibly, a simple path to redemption. Linden felt at peace when he was working on a wall. He held each stone in his hands, feeling its weight and texture, tracing his fingers over its lines and moss, and thinking about the hands that had held it last; perhaps they were the tough, calloused hands of a farmer, or maybe they were the smooth, knowing hands of a Native American scout. Only the stone knew the touch that had lifted it into place or carelessly tossed it aside. And from snow cover to sunlight, from swirl of autumn leaf to relentless pelting rain, the stones had weathered the world
and its storms and endured to sparkle again in the dancing shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trees. Carefully choosing each stone, Linden felt as if he became a part of its story.
The words of the poem ran through his mind as he laid the last stone on the Connors’ wall and stepped back. “Looks good,” a voice bellowed. Linden turned and saw Mr. Connor walking toward him. “Just in time too!” He held an envelope out to Linden and, in a thick Boston accent, said, “The less the govahment knows, the bettah!” He stepped back to admire Linden’s handiwork. “Very nice!” he said, clapping Linden on the shoulder. “Ahh expect to see you at the picnic this yeaah.” Linden smiled, and they both looked up as Mrs. Connor crossed the lawn with a plate in her hands. Overhearing her husband she chimed in, “The boys’ll be home, and Katie too.”
The boys were the Connors’ twin sons, Josh and Jon, classmates of Linden’s, and now, Linden knew, well on their way to high-paying careers in finance. Katie was the youngest Connor, a strawberry-blond, freckle-faced tomboy who had never tried to hide the crush she had on Linden. He smiled at the thought of Katie. She’d always been a good sport and seemed to understand that his heart belonged to Callie.
“How is Katie?” he asked.
“Oh, fine, fine,” Mr. Connor answered, “just finished her junyaah year at Dahtmouth.”
Linden shook his head in disbelief. “She’s going to be a senior?!”
“Yup, time flies! Now, don’t go changing the subject... . Back to the Fauth. There’ll be lots of food, as always, and fireworks of course. I think the whole town is coming!”
“We invited your parents, Linden,” Mrs. Connor added, “but you know your mother. They have season tickets to the Pops, so that’s where they’ll be. It’s never the same without them. We’d love for you to come, though, and then you can take the credit for this lovely wall.”
