by Nan Rossiter
Linden listened to the familiar recording of the beautiful suite and wondered if his parents were listening too. His mother, he imagined, had her apron on and was probably “dressing the bird,” as his father called it. “A twenty-pounder,” he’d exclaimed, trying to convince Linden to make the trip, but Linden had declined. He had no interest in discussing politics or religion, and he definitely didn’t want to listen to his mother ask him when he was going to get a real job.
He poured steaming coffee into his faded lighthouse mug, took a sip, let the dogs in, fed them, and then pulled on his boots and barn coat and took his coffee out to the barn to feed the rest of the animals. The Turkey Trot was at nine, so if he was going, he’d better get his chores out of the way.
After the breakfast dishes were cleaned up, Callie bundled Henry into his new jacket. Two weeks earlier, she’d helped him into the old blue one he’d worn last year and his wrists had stuck out two inches past the end of the sleeves. “Wow, Henry, I guess you grew!” she’d exclaimed in surprise. She zipped up his new jacket, and he marched over to the door. When they stepped outside, though, she couldn’t believe how mild it was and she wondered if he needed a jacket at all. She went back in the house and grabbed his sweatshirt too.
Linden laced up his trainers and looked around. There was a pretty good turnout for Thanksgiving morning. Most of the runners were enjoying the Indian summer weather and had donned shorts and T-shirts for the event. Linden pinned his number to his faded Dartmouth singlet. They lined up for the start and, although Linden harbored no hopes of winning, he lined up near a group of shirtless high school boys who looked like they might be part of the local cross-country team. This could be fun, he thought as he stretched.
A moment later, the horn sounded, and they were off. The group of boys seemed determined to lead, so Linden let them go, but when they hit the first hill he began picking them off one by one. Not bad for an old guy! They crested the hill, and Linden picked up his pace. He was surprised at how strong he felt. They passed the first mile mark, and he glanced at his watch: 5:25. You can do better than that! Up a long incline, he passed two more hotshots, and then he began to wonder how many runners were actually ahead of him. He thought there was at least one, but he couldn’t see anyone. Finally, when he topped the last hill, he spotted the lead runner two hundred meters ahead. This one’s for you, Cal! He focused on the boy’s back and picked up his pace, hoping his young competitor wouldn’t look back. Steadily, he began closing the gap and began to feel like he was back in high school. One hundred meters, fifty meters, thirty meters. Step lightly or he’ll hear you! With twenty meters to go and the finish line in sight, the boy finally glanced over his shoulder and realized he had company. Meanwhile, the sleepy crowd woke up and realized there was a race going on! An explosion of cheering erupted along both sides of the road. Linden’s muscles burned but, with fifteen meters to go, he was right behind him, and at ten they were neck and neck! When they were side by side, Linden began to wonder if his lungs might explode. But finally, with three meters to go, the boy dug deep and pulled a step ahead.
“Good race!” he said, coming back breathlessly to shake Linden’s hand.
Linden straightened up from trying to catch his breath, shook the boy’s outstretched hand. “Yes, good race!”
“Did you go to Dartmouth?” the boy asked, nodding to Linden’s singlet.
“A long time ago,” Linden said, wiping his face with it.
“Well, good race! I win the turkey, but your prize is better... . You win the pumpkin pie!” Linden nodded and smiled. He hadn’t known there were prizes.
58
Callie turned into the cemetery and parked near the road. She helped Henry climb out and he stopped to gaze at the rows of headstones. He remembered this place. He remembered these white and gray stones sticking out of the ground, and he remembered leaving a small smooth rock on top of one of them.
Callie followed Henry through the maze of old graves and was surprised when he remembered the way. They came to the familiar shady knoll, protected by pine trees, and Henry frowned: There were two stones now! He walked over to the new one and stood in front of it. Then he ran his hand over the top and lightly traced the letters:
BENJAMIN FRANKLIN WYETH
JANUARY 22, 1947–JULY 9, 1999
DEAR HUSBAND ~ BELOVED FATHER & GRANDFATHER
HONORED VETERAN ~ FAITHFUL FRIEND
Callie fought back her tears. Why does it have to be this way? Why can’t they be here to share the holidays with us? Why weren’t they given lives that included knowing their grandson and watching him grow up? She knelt down on the soft bed of pine needles that surrounded the graves and suddenly caught her breath. Two beautiful white lilies were growing up between the headstones. This isn’t the time of year for lilies, she thought. How in the world have they survived the cold? She watched as Henry searched the ground for a second suitable stone. When he found it, he turned and carefully placed it on top of her dad’s headstone, and then something caught his eye and he looked up the hill behind her. “Who cooks for you?” he said softly.
Callie stood, turned to follow his gaze, and saw Linden walking toward them.
“Hey,” he said, drawing closer.
“Hey,” she said, brushing away her tears and smiling.
“I was driving by and I saw that old Nova parked near the road.” He paused. “I hope it’s okay that I stopped.”
She nodded. “Of course! What are you doing up this way?” “I was running in the Turkey Trot in.”
She smiled. “Did you win?”
Linden shook his head. “I came in second. First place won a turkey, but second place,” he said with a grin, “won a pumpkin pie!”
“You won a pumpkin pie?”
Linden nodded proudly.
“Punkin pie,” Henry whispered from where he was standing near the headstone. Linden smiled and knelt down. “Henry, did you just say punkin pie?” Henry nodded, and Linden laughed and put out his hand. “Can you give me five?” Henry walked over shyly and slapped his hand down on Linden’s. “Thanks!” Linden said, ruffling his hair.
Henry nodded and whispered, “Sheriff, this is no time to panic.”
Linden gave Callie a puzzled look, but she just shrugged and shook her head. “I think it’s from a movie... .”
Linden nodded. “It’s really great that he’s talking.” He paused. “How have you been?”
Callie smiled. “I’m managing. Coming here always makes me sad, but that’s okay. How ’bout you?”
“I’m managing too,” he said. “Life’s pretty quiet.”
“How are the animals?”
“They’re fine. That calf is getting big.”
Callie hesitated. “Linden, I’m sure you probably already have plans ...” she began uncertainly.
Linden searched her eyes and slowly shook his head. “No, I don’t have plans.”
“You’re not having turkey?”
He shook his head again. “You can’t really cook a turkey for one person.”
Callie smiled. “I know. You can’t really cook a turkey for one and a half people either, but I was going to try.” She hesitated again. “Listen, if you’re really not doing anything, would you like to have Thanksgiving with us?”
Linden smiled and nodded. “I’d like that.”
Henry slipped his hand into Callie’s and softly whispered Springer’s name, and Linden knelt down in front of him. “Springer likes turkey too. Do you think I should bring him?”
Henry nodded, looking up at Callie for approval, and she knelt down next to him. “Do you think Linden should bring Kat too?”
Henry smiled shyly and nodded again.
As they walked up the hill, Callie whispered something in Henry’s ear, and he looked over at Linden and said, “Don’t forget the punkin pie!”
Linden laughed. “Oh, I won’t! I think that’s why your mom invited me!”
EPILOGUE
Callie heard the va
cuum in the hallway outside her classroom, glanced up at the clock, and realized it was getting late. She lifted Sam’s chair back onto his desk, slipped her books and papers into her canvas bag, pulled on her coat, and walked toward the door. As she reached up to turn off the lights a poster hanging next to the door caught her eye. It had an image of a blue puzzle piece in the center and underneath were printed the words “Autism Speaks... . It’s time to listen.” Callie had walked past the poster hundreds of times, but this time she paused to reflect on how far the world had come in its awareness and understanding of autism. She smiled and thought, Henry has come a long way too! Just then, Jim came around the corner with his vacuum and waved. Callie waved back and left the lights on for him.
Ten minutes later, she parked her new Subaru Outback behind the high school, got out, and buttoned her barn coat as she hurried across the parking lot. She couldn’t believe it was November already. Where has the time gone? It seemed as if the school year had just started and now Thanksgiving was just around the corner. She reached into her pocket for her fleece hat, pulled it down over her ears, and hoped that Henry had remembered his hat too. She looked across the playing fields at the small crowd gathering under the gray New Hampshire sky. As she hurried to join them, she felt her heart pounding with anticipation and excitement. She slipped through the crowd and discovered that the boys were already lining up. “Good luck, Hen-Ben!” she called. A slender boy wearing a bright orange hat looked over and smiled, and Callie smiled back, her eyes brimming with thankful tears.
“Hey,” a familiar voice said behind her.
Callie turned, and Linden gave her a hello kiss.
“They haven’t started yet?” he asked.
“Nope, you’re just in time.”
“Good! I was sure I was going to miss it.”
An official standing near the starting line held up his air horn and shouted, “All ready?” One breath later, the horn blasted through the New Hampshire countryside and the boys were off, up the hill and into the woods. Callie and Linden watched them go and then hurried with the rest of the parents to the next viewing area. As they stood waiting, straining to see them come out of the woods, the late-day sun dropped below the clouds and stretched bright rays of sunlight across the fields. Callie shielded her eyes and held her breath, praying, and then spotted Henry’s famous orange hat.
“There’s Henry Finch!” someone yelled.
“Go, Henry!” Linden shouted.
Cheering voices filled the air, and someone exclaimed, “Wow! That boy can fly!” Henry rounded the corner, putting more and more distance between himself and the field of boys behind him, and Callie blinked back tears and whispered, “Look, Dad, here comes our boy!”
As Henry ran past, she shouted, “Go get ’em, kiddo! You can do it!”
A READING GROUP GUIDE
WORDS GET IN THE WAY
Nan Rossiter
ABOUT THIS GUIDE
The suggested questions that follow
are included to enhance your group’s
reading of Words Get in the Way.
DISCUSSION QUESTIONS
1. Callie struggles with feelings of guilt and remorse and even wonders if Henry’s autism is punishment for her indiscretion. Do you think sin triggers punishment, and does God make bad things happen?
2. Callie is a “type A” personality. She is competitive and sometimes self-centered. How does she change?
3. In what ways does Linden’s personality differ from Callie’s? Does their relationship give credence to the old adage “Opposites attract”?
4. One of Callie’s best attributes is that she thoughtfully considers the counsel of others. What are some examples of this and how do these words of wisdom help Callie grow?
5. Throughout the story, Callie fondly remembers childhood moments with her dad and, even though his death is devastating, she finds the strength to carry on. How does her dad’s faith help Callie learn to face life’s trials?
6. Fairbanks, Dr. Franklin, and Maddie all play similar roles in the story. What are their roles and why are they similar?
7. What role do the animals play in the story?
8. Callie’s screen door is an important element in the story. What are some of the events that mention the door? Who are the people who knock on Callie’s door or visit the house? What is the reason for each one’s visit?
9. Callie, Linden, and Henry all have obstacles to overcome. What are the obstacles each one faces and how do they overcome them?
10. How has the awareness and understanding of autism changed in recent years?
If you enjoyed Words Get in the Way,
read on for a special excerpt of
Nan Rossiter’s
THE GIN & CHOWDER CLUB
A Kensington trade paperback on sale now.
1
All day long, the leaden sky had hung low and threatening over Nauset Light. Asa sat at his desk and watched the lighthouse from his bedroom window. There was something haunting about the steady measurement in each revolution... . It was almost as if you could watch time passing.
“Asaaa, we could use your help down here,” Samuel Coleman bellowed from the kitchen, interrupting his son’s thoughts.
“Be right down,” the boy answered. He scribbled one last sentence and closed the notebook, slipped it into the bottom of his desk drawer, and pushed back his chair, almost tripping over the family’s old black Lab who was dozing on the braided rug beside his bed.
“Sorry, ole girl,” Asa said, scratching her head.
Martha thumped her tail forgivingly and followed him gingerly down the worn narrow treads as he hurried to help his father and brother.
Samuel looked up. “Please rinse before dropping ’em in.”
“Yes, Dad,” the boys replied, rolling their eyes and elbowing each other. When they had first begun helping with the task of pulling clam bellies from their shells, the boys had stood side by side on a chair. They had grown considerably since then, but the task would not be the same if their father forgot to reiterate these mundane instructions. Asa didn’t mind. He loved to help with the recipe that had been in their family for generations. He loved it not only because it was a tradition, but also because it meant that his parents would be having company. When they were younger, he and Isaac would already be in their pajamas when their parents’ friends arrived, and they would be allowed to stay up just long enough to say hello and to explain that they had indeed helped with the chowder. Then they would be ushered upstairs for prayers and gently tucked into bed. The ocean breeze would whisper to them through their bedroom window as they listened to the merry laughter and voices downstairs. Finally, the boys would hear the chowder being served and the men jovially toasting, their voices lilting with unmistakable Cambridge accents... .
“ ’Tis the chowdah that waams a man’s belly ... But aye, ’tis the gin that waams his soul!”
Then they would drift off to sleep, warmed by the happiness in their parents’ deep old friendships... .
Asa pulled the last clam belly, gave it a quick rinse, and dropped it into the pot. He scooped the empty shells into a large metal pail, and Isaac carried it outside. Asa watched his father drain off the potatoes and add them to the steaming pot as well.
“So, what do you boys have planned for tonight?” Samuel asked as he poured in a generous amount of cream.
“Depends on the weather,” Asa answered. “We’re supposed to meet some of the fellows down on the beach for a bonfire.”
“Just fellows?” His father looked up with raised eyebrows as Isaac came back into the kitchen.
“Dad, do you need ice up here?” Isaac asked.
“Yes, we’ll need some ice. Are you offering to bring it up?”
“Sure. Asa, give me a hand.”
Isaac gave his brother a playful shove as they headed out of the kitchen. Samuel watched them go. He was amazed to think that these young men were his sons. What had become of the small boys who, just yeste
rday it seemed, had relentlessly chased each other through the house? Where were the little fellows he had carried out into the waves, one in each arm, the older one squealing with delight, the younger one silent and wide-eyed with determined courage? Now they were as tall as he was.
Isaac and Asa were both slender and handsome. Isaac reminded Samuel of himself at the same age—chestnut-brown hair that was already showing signs of receding, hazel eyes, and long dark lashes that were the envy of every woman who ever saw them. Isaac was a mathematician and an artist. He was creative in a conscientious and orderly way. He attended art school in Rhode Island and, having just finished his foundation year, had settled on architecture as a major, and it suited him.
Asa, on the other hand, looked just like his mother. His features were gentle and kind. His blond hair shone in the sun. By August, it would be bleached to almost white against his brown skin. Asa’s eyes were as blue as the sweet summer sky and often reflected the distant thoughts of the poet he tried to keep hidden. Samuel wondered why his younger son was so reluctant to share his writing but respected his privacy. Asa would be heading to college in the fall, and Samuel hoped that there, he would finally grow more confident.
Samuel’s reverie was interrupted by the sound of chunks of ice sliding into the old metal tub on the porch. The boys were laughing about something. Samuel decided that Isaac was teasing his brother again.
