by Nan Rossiter
“And drum up mah business!” Mr. Connor added with a smile.
“I’ll definitely try,” Linden answered, thinking that maybe he would this year.
Mr. Connor helped him load his tools in his truck, and Mrs. Connor put the plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on his passenger seat. Linden thanked them both and waved as he shifted gears. He looked in his rearview mirror and, watching them walk slowly back to their house, thought of all the good times he’d had there. It had practically been his second home when he was in high school.
When he reached the end of the driveway, he hesitated, and then turned right to head up the dirt road. Clouds of dust billowed behind the truck as he drove. A short distance away, at an old cedar post marking the northern boundary of the Connor property, he pulled over and gazed out the window. Finally, he got out and started to walk down the once familiar path. He looked around, amazed to find it unchanged. The stone cairn they’d built years ago was still standing; in fact, it even looked as if more stones had been added. Other than that, the rock outcropping was untouched, and seemingly eternal, in spite of his absence.
A gentle breeze cooled Linden’s face and whispered of days gone by. He looked out across the valley and thought of the countless summer nights under the stars, the chilly autumn evenings after cross-country meets when they’d built a fire, and the sweet spring midnights after dances. Somehow they’d always ended up here, passing around a bottle of Boone’s Farm or some other intoxicant, talking, laughing, and gazing at the stars, and never imagining their carefree days would end. Back then, with his arm around Callie, the future had seemed so certain, so full of hope. He wondered if the initials he’d scratched into one of the rocks were still visible or if time and the weather had worn them away. He climbed up and, with a sad smile, lightly traced his finger over the letters: L.F. + C.W. Then he leaned back against the rocks, felt their warmth, and remembered the last time he’d stood there.
It was the summer after Callie’s mom died. They had not seen each other in several months, but they’d talked often on the phone, making plans for the summer that stretched ahead of them with only one more year apart. Then, out of the blue, Callie had called to say she was staying on campus for the summer, that she’d found a job. Yes, she’d come home for the Fourth, but she’d have to head right back. It was late when she’d finally arrived at the Connors’ party. He had watched from a distance as she had greeted their friends but, when she’d come to him, she’d avoided looking in his eyes, and her hug had seemed stiff and forced. Dismayed, he had held her hands and asked her what was wrong, but she had just pulled away and said, “Nothing.”
Later in the evening, he had asked her to go for a walk, and although she initially put him off, she’d finally agreed. They had walked down the road and sat on the rocks to watch the fireworks, but she had still seemed to be worlds away. Silently, they’d listened to the voices at the party, oohing and ahhing, and then the sky had filled with the brilliant lights of the finale and he had realized, in alarm, that tears were streaming down her cheeks. Bewildered, he’d pulled her up to face him, and pleaded, “Callie, tell me what’s wrong.”
She had turned away from him and stammered, “I ... I don’t think we should see each other anymore.”
Linden looked up at the endless blue sky, crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and shook his head in dismay. Why does it still hurt so much?
5
The hospital wasn’t far from the nursing home, but Henry was not happy about getting back in the hot car. Callie finally calmed him down with the promise that Papa was waiting.
“You can see him,” the nurse said when they finally found his room, “but try not to wake him. He needs his rest.” Callie nodded, clenching her jaw as she turned to go into her father’s darkened room. A single shaft of afternoon sun filtered in through the drawn curtains. The only other light came from the machine blinking steadily beside his bed and tracking the blessed beats of his weary heart. She set Henry down, and he immediately walked over and stood in front of the machine to watch the pattern of lights. Callie pulled a chair quietly up to the bed. Her heart ached at the sight of so many tubes and wires crisscrossing the frail frame of the man who’d once held her in his strong arms.
“Oh, Dad,” she whispered. Where is that amazing man that danced me around the living room on his shoes, crooning an old Eddy Arnold song? She could still hear his smooth tenor voice singing the melancholy lyrics about a world made for two. Callie closed her eyes and tried to remember the warm comfort of being held in his arms. She blinked back tears. Where is that invincible man that always shouted from the sideline, “Go get ’em, kiddo! You can beat her!”? She reached out and slipped her hand into his and, to her surprise, he gently squeezed. Callie looked up and he opened his eyes and whispered, “Don’t worry, kiddo, everything’ll be okay.”
Callie wrapped her fingers around his calloused hand just as she had when she was a little girl sitting beside him in church. Back then, she’d whiled away the sermon studying every scar and callus and repeatedly tracing her fingers over his mountain range of knuckles, pausing on each one to whisper the name of one of the peaks in the Presidential Range.
“Oh, Dad,” Callie whispered, “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here.”
“It’s okay, honey,” he murmured, opening his eyes and trying to look around. “Did you bring my handsome grandson with you?”
Callie nodded. “He’s right here, Dad, entranced by your illuminated heartbeat.”
“How is he?”
“He’s fine.” She paused, trying to decide if she should tell him.
“What did the doctor say?”
She continued holding his hand. “She said he might outgrow it.” She paused, not wanting to upset him, but then continued quietly. “She said it’s called autism and it’s more commonly seen in boys. Symptoms can range from mild to severe, but she thinks Henry is on the low end of the ‘spectrum’—that’s what she called it. She also said it’s something like a sensory overload.”
Ben Wyeth nodded and closed his eyes, and Callie sat quietly with him for as long as Henry’s mood would allow. Before they left she put the Bible on his bedside table, kissed him lightly on the cheek, and whispered they’d be back soon. He opened his eyes and smiled.
When they pulled into the driveway, Callie realized she’d been so lost in thought that she’d forgotten to stop at the store and she’d forgotten to ask her dad if she could borrow some money. She opened the fridge, wondering what she might find. On the top shelf was a half gallon of milk, a quart of orange juice, a jar of pickles, a bottle of Heinz ketchup, and a faded box of Arm & Hammer baking soda that looked like it had been there since the beginning of time. She shook her head in dismay. Not daring to smell the milk, she turned her head and listened to it plop into the sink. Then she turned on the faucet and dumped the orange juice too. She rinsed out both containers and threw them in the garbage. The fridge door had swung shut, as it always had after her dad, tired of it being left open, purposely made the front of the fridge higher than the back. Callie pulled open the door again and stuck out her knee to keep it open. On the shelf in the door was a sticky jar of grape jelly and, beside it, a jar missing its label but looking like marmalade. She opened the jelly jar and peered inside looking for evidence of a “science experiment”—a term her dad had liked to use for fuzzy growth on forgotten food. To her surprise, the only color she saw was purple, and the peanut butter she found in the cabinet hadn’t even been opened yet. She still needed to go back out to the store, though, and pick up bread and milk and what little else her last five dollars would buy.
6
Linden sat on the tailgate of his truck in the hazy morning sun, studying the worn tread of his racers. He knew they would get him through the annual Firecracker 5K, but if he ever started running again he would definitely need to invest in some new shoes. He’d been wearing the same pair since high school and, over the years, they’d molded to his feet. A
t one time he’d considered having them resoled, but then he decided that no cobbler could ever replicate the classic Bowerman tread unless, of course, he used a hot waffle iron. He’d also considered sending the shoes back to Nike for resoling, but then he’d imagined the amused look on the face of the service agent who received them and speculated on the chances of having the same shoes returned to him. Nike would probably just send him their latest model with a note of regret. He had pictured his old shoes carelessly discarded in a garbage can and decided it was too risky.
He loosened his laces, slipped on his shoes, and gingerly pulled the laces tight, praying they wouldn’t break. Then he dropped off the tailgate, stretched, and thought about the previous year’s race. He’d traversed the rolling three-mile course with his former high school cross-country coach and English teacher, Asa Coleman. Mr. Coleman also owned the cabin where Linden lived, and in lieu of rent, Linden maintained the property for him and took care of any small carpentry jobs that arose.
His presence at the cabin also discouraged teenagers and rabble-rousers from breaking in and having parties and starting fires in the stone fireplace, an occurrence that had happened regularly when the cabin was unoccupied. Now Linden hoped to see his former coach again so he could talk to him about a couple of housekeeping projects that needed attention. He turned to lift the tailgate and saw Jon Connor trotting toward him. “Well, well, if it isn’t the legendary Linden Finch!” Jon teased, stopping to shake hands. “How’s it hangin’?”
Linden glanced inside the front of his shorts and shook his head in dismay. “Limp, as always.”
Jon laughed. “That’s what I’ve heard.”
Linden smiled. “How’ve you been?”
“Fine, actually, really fine.” Jon grinned. “I’m gettin’ married.”
“No!” Linden teased. “Who’s the unfortunate soul?”
Jon laughed again. “She’s back at the house. We got in last night—had to do the whole separate bedroom thing.” He rolled his eyes. “By the way, my parents said you might grace us with your presence tonight.”
Linden grinned. “I might.”
“Well, you definitely should. Then you can meet her.” Jon paused. “By the way, nice job on the wall.”
“Thanks.”
“So, are you showing off today or just out for fun? I can’t keep up if you’re showing off again.”
Linden laughed and turned toward town. “Nope, just out for fun.”
Jon fell into step beside him, caught sight of his old running shoes, and shook his head in dismay. “Please tell me you aren’t still wearing those tired old Prefontaine racers? Don’t you think it’s time to break down and invest in some new shoes?”
“It’s crossed my mind,” Linden answered with a glance down at Jon’s pristine New Balance trainers.
Runners were already lining up when they turned the corner onto Main Street, and although Linden saw several old teammates, there was no sign of his former teacher and coach. Moments later, the cannon boomed and Linden started his watch. He and Jon started off at an easy pace, but when runners started to pass them, Linden patted Jon on the back and said, “See you at the finish!” He pulled away, picking up his pace considerably.
A short time later, he crossed the finish line and glanced at his watch. Not bad for no training, he thought, but not even close to my best. Those days are long gone. He looked around to see if Jon had come in yet, but there was no sign of him. He waited, watching the now-steady stream of runners.
“Hey, Linden! How’d you do?”
Linden turned and smiled. “Under 17. How ’bout you?”
“Just came in,” Mr. Coleman answered, smiling and catching his breath. “These old muscles just don’t fire like they used to.” Linden nodded, and as they walked around together, he took the opportunity to mention the repairs at the cabin.
“Two of the porch steps need some attention and one of the back window frames is rotting.”
Mr. Coleman nodded. “No problem. Whatever needs doing—just charge the materials to my account.”
Linden nodded, and his former teacher eyed him. “I mean it.”
“I know you mean it,” Linden replied with a grin.
Another runner joined them, and Mr. Coleman took the water he offered. He paused thoughtfully, looking from one to the other. “Linden, you remember my son Noah.” It was more of a statement than a question.
Linden nodded and reached out to shake hands. “It’s been a while,” he said. Although Noah was much older, Linden remembered seeing him at cross-country meets. In fact, Noah was a bit of a legend among the high school runners because he still held several unchallenged records.
Linden looked from Noah to Mr. Coleman and realized he’d never seen them standing side by side. They looked more like brothers than father and son. Linden talked with them for a few minutes more and then wished them well and turned to go. As he walked away, a slender, blond-haired boy ran by, and Linden glanced over his shoulder and watched him stop breathlessly in front of Mr. Coleman and Noah.
“Hey, Dad, Grampa,” he exclaimed, “I did it! I broke 18!”
Linden drove slowly past the tidy little ranch that sat back from the road. Mr. Wyeth’s old pickup was parked in the driveway, and beside it, under a leaning, rusty basketball hoop, was the Chevy Nova that Callie had driven in high school. The screen door was wide open, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Linden suddenly wondered what he would do if Callie was around—if she just happened to be standing in the driveway. Would he quickly look away and pretend he didn’t see her? Would he smile and wave? Would he stop? And if he stopped, what would he say? What do you say, after your heart has been broken, to the one who broke it? Do you just say, “Hi, how are you?” Do you act nonchalant as if nothing ever happened, as if all that you shared never really mattered? Or do you search that person’s eyes, trying to understand, and then blurt out the only question you ever wanted to ask: Do you realize what you did to me?
Linden turned the truck toward home and wondered why he continued to torment himself. Why was he even thinking about Callie? And why the hell, after all these years, couldn’t he move on?
7
Callie glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall above her dad’s desk. It was still turned to January, and a dilapidated Plymouth, abandoned in a snowy Vermont field, graced the scene. She took the calendar down, turned it to July, and looked at the picture of a forgotten Chevy Nomad with a tree growing up where the engine had once been. She looked at the date: Sunday, July 4, 1999. If her mom were alive, holiday or not, they’d be getting ready for church. She hung the calendar up, broke down the last empty box, and dropped it on top of the others on the bed in the spare room. Henry had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, right after they’d had scrambled eggs and toast for supper. Callie had carried him down the hall and gently laid him on the bed, and then she’d spent the rest of the evening unpacking. That morning, while he was busy playing with his LEGOs, she’d finished unpacking his toys and finally decided to leave her boxes of kitchenware stacked in the garage. Who knows when I will need them again.
She lifted a flattened pile of boxes and maneuvered them clumsily down the narrow hall that divided the cozy, modest ranch down its middle. “Ready for lunch?” she called as she passed the living room, but then stopped in her tracks. Colorful towers of LEGOs were arranged in neat rows on the carpet, but Henry was not there.
“Hen-Ben?” Callie dropped the boxes on the table and hurried back down the hall. She quickly scanned the bedrooms and then went back to look under each of the beds and in the closets. “Henry?” she called as she pulled back the shower curtain. “Henry, where are you?” Her heart and mind began to race. Oh, God, where is he? Please let me see him!
She ran into the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement. Her voice was strained. “Henry, are you hiding on me?” But there was no sign of him anywhere. Callie flew back up the stairs and realized the screen door was open. She
clearly remembered clicking the little metal lever down and pushing on the door to make sure it held. But now it wasn’t even latched, and the breeze blew it open and closed. “Henry, where are you?” she shouted.
She pushed open the door and shouted his name. She looked in the garage, her car, her dad’s truck, all around the house, and then she ran down the driveway to the road, but there was still no sign of him. She was absolutely beside herself as she hurried down the road. She stopped at the intersection with the town road and then backtracked past her parents’ house and up the hill, feeling as if she had been swept into a terrible dream. She kept picturing the way Henry furrowed his brow fretfully when he was concentrating ... and then she was overwhelmed by the terrifying thought that she would never see that look again. A sickening wave of nausea swept over her. “Oh, God, please let me find him,” she pleaded. “I’ll do anything. Just let me find him.” She looked up at the sky and begged, “Please, if you just show me where he is, I promise I’ll never ask you for anything ever again.” She paused to listen, certain that God would answer such a selfless prayer, but all she heard were songbirds, chirping and fluttering in the bushes, their seemingly cheerful indifference only adding to her agony. Finally, she pulled herself up, clenched her fists, and loudly commanded, “Henry! Answer me!”
8
Linden was still in a bit of a funk when he pulled into the yard. Kat and Springer were happily oblivious to his mood, though, and greeted him with sloppy tennis balls entrenched in their mouths. At first, Linden shook his head. “Not now.” But the dogs persisted, following him around and dropping their soggy treasures at his feet. Finally, he relented, picked up both balls, and threw them as far as he could. The dogs raced away and returned moments later, happily wagging their tails and nudging their tennis balls toward his feet. Linden continued to throw the balls until the dogs’ tongues were dragging on the ground. “Okay, that’s enough,” he said, turning on the hose. Kat wagged her tail and slurped and snorted at the cold stream while Springer danced around, barking and chomping at it. Linden turned off the water and headed around the corner of the cabin. The dogs stood still, watching curiously, and then rounded up their tennis balls and bounded after him, grinning from ear to floppy ear. As they neared the river, the dogs plunged headfirst into the cold water, and Linden, laughing at their unabashed enthusiasm, pulled off his shirt, and joined them.
