Cora's Heart: A Cypress Hollow Yarn

by Rachael Herron

  At the very end, the day before he died, she’d brought her spinning wheel – the Joy, the one he’d surprised her with at Christmas – into the bedroom, and she’d treadled evenly, keeping time to his breathing. He said the sound of the wheel helped him sleep. When he opened his eyes, he watched the wheel with a faint smile. “Beautiful,” he’d said.

  “I love the way it sounds. You couldn’t have given me anything nicer,” Cora said.

  “Not the wheel.” It was all he said, and his eyes closed shortly after that as he dropped into a restless sleep. She’d cried then, the tears she tried so hard to never let him see dropping into the batt of fiber resting on her lap.

  The memory of it still hurt. They’d done so many things wrong. They’d lost the baby, the reason they’d gotten married at eighteen. Logan had stayed so very Logan right to the end – careless, carefree, ready with a rope and a laugh, never becoming the ant she believed he could be. Always the grasshopper. But in the ten years they had together, they’d built a real something. Not a marriage based on love, no. They’d never had romance. But God knew a bronc rider needed someone to bandage his wounds on a regular basis. It had worked out. And Cora still missed him.

  Restless now, she stood and turned on the front floodlight, erasing her image from the window.

  How was she supposed to know for sure that this was the right time? Should she wait until she spent the very last dime in the bank account? Until she used up all the canned goods? Until PG&E shut off her power?

  No, the time was now.

  Cora dragged out her tool box from the pantry where she kept it under the food dehydrator. The right choice of hammer was no small matter. Not the tack or the sledge. The dead-blow hammer was more than she’d need for this job, maybe more than she’d ever need for any job, but she’d loved the heft of it in the hardware store. The simple curved claw, then, was the right hammer for tearing up her kitchen floor. Combined with the slim pry bar, they should be enough.

  She moved the table, pulling hard on the heavy oak. It protested as it scraped the floor. Except for when she moved it to mop, the table had stood in that spot as long as she’d lived there. Cora pushed until it was against the wall and then stacked the matching chairs on top of it.

  Two tries, that’s all it took. It was surprising, actually, how easy it was to pry up the first board, and then the next. The wood was soft, almost pliant, like the house wanted her to find the can. One board broke, and for that she was sorry – it was going to be hard to fix that later.

  When she had a big enough hole, she realized that while she’d seen Logan put the can in the ground, and while she’d imagined it would be easy to find the same place, she had no idea where it was precisely. They hadn’t marked it, and over the years, the dirt had shifted and settled three feet beneath the beams.

  This might take a while.

  She got her favorite shovel from the tool shed in the back (the red one with the yellow anchors she’d painted up the handle), shimmied her way into the hole, and started digging.

  Cora worked as hard as she could, but she didn’t find anything in the first spot she tried. She widened her hole. An hour and a half later, the edge of the kitchen floor at the level of her shoulders, she hadn’t found anything but an old metal fitting and two thick glass medicine bottles.

  “This is why most houses have a crawl space,” she muttered to herself. “Jesus, what did you do, come and get it after you died?”

  “I’d ask who you’re talking to, but I’m scared of what you might say.” The voice came from behind her.

  “Holy crap!” Cora spun in the dirt, and almost fell over in the hole. “Mac!”

  He stood at the open door with the shelter dog, who pulled against the leash, straining hard toward her.

  She didn’t want him here. He should leave and take the dog with him.

  And at the same time, Cora had never been so glad to see someone in all her life.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  A few stitches a day keeps the worries at bay. (And that whole apple/doctor thing is probably a good idea, too.) – E.C.

  Cora was covered in dirt. From a stripe across her cheekbone where she’d probably wiped the back of her hand to the brown, dirty circles at her knees, she looked like she’d been grave digging. Inside her own house.

  “I knocked, but you were so busy deconstructing your kitchen you didn’t hear me. Do you have a permit for what you’re doing there? Because if you’re redoing the floors, I think you’re doing it wrong.”

  “I’m looking for something. What are you doing?”

  “Bringing Clementine to say hello.” He gestured at the dog as she pulled against the leash, trying to join Cora in the hole. “She might be able to help.”

  Cora straightened, her hands at the small of her back. “You adopted Salt.”

  “Cindi said I should keep her overnight. I’m just borrowing her until you realize she’s supposed to be yours.”

  “Not gonna happen.” Cora leaned against the splintered wood. Something skittered at her feet in the dirt, and while he saw her jerk, she didn’t jump out.

  And just like that, Mac remembered the first time he’d seen Cora in the school’s quad on a rainy afternoon. Her hair had drawn his eye – long and tangled and red as a Mustang’s tail; she’d been impossible to ignore as she tried to push past Billy Thunker, who held her by the shoulders, making smart comments to his friends about her boobs.

  “Let me go.” Her voice had been embarrassed, her face white with fury.

  The boys laughed harder, and Mac moved toward them. This new girl was going to need help. Billy was a jackass of titanic proportions. He went after everyone regardless of gender or size – most of the school feared him, and because of that, most also hated him, with the exception of his small, socially stunted posse. He’d never troubled Mac, maybe because their dads gambled together, but there was a first for everything. Mac would rescue the girl, kick Billy’s ass, and then figure out where the heck she’d come from. New faces were rare in Cypress Hollow, especially one as pretty as hers.

  Billy said, “You think you’re something, huh? At least wherever it is you came from they knew how to grow ’em.” He released her and pantomimed Cora’s already generous curves with his hands, adding a hip thrust for emphasis. His friends doubled over, howling with laughter.

  “I think you’re nothing.” Her small hands were clenched into fists at her sides and her tattered purple backpack had slipped off her shoulder.

  Billy puffed out his chest and said, “You know what I think? I think you’re some dumb slut who probably likes it when guys talk about her tits. That how you ended up at Windward? Huh? Mommy like to drink too much, lost you to the system, huh, baby? Or did Daddy touch you in the wrong places?”

  Mac, only feet away, yelled, “Hey, asshole,” but no one noticed him – not Billy, not the girl, not the crowd that had formed around them.

  Then Billy was on the ground, taking the beating that Mac wanted to give him. But it was Logan on top of him. Logan who’d come out of nowhere, Logan landing the punch that broke Billy’s nose, the punch that must have felt so damn good.

  Cora had hunched her shoulders and escaped, scurrying through the crowd, hiding away the tears that fell from her cheeks. She’d jostled his shoulder as she’d run past him. Jesus, he’d wanted, even then, at sixteen, to take her in his arms and make it all okay. Mac had fallen in love with the new girl at that moment, and now, looking at the adult version of her, covered in dirt and cobwebs, panting with the exertion of whatever the hell it was she was doing, he knew that had never changed.

  Shit.

  Cora held out her hand and the dog wriggled forward on the end of the leash, licking her fingers. “She’s a sweetie. I’m glad she found you. You’re good with animals.” She blushed. “Of course you are. That’s what you do, right? You’re a vet. You have to be good with them.”

  “Whatever.” He brushed off her words lightly. “So you’re looking for t
he coffee can?”

  She gaped. “How did you know about that?”

  “Everyone in this family has a coffee can. I keep mine in a safe deposit box, but the principle is the same.”

  “Fine, yes. You’re right.”

  “Times that hard?”

  “Did I fail to mention the fire?”

  He knelt on the floor at the edge of the hole. Clementine sat obediently next to him. “Savings?”

  “Gone wherever it is money goes. Emergencies. Rainy days.” Cora pushed her hair out of her eyes but it looked like she only managed to get dirt in them instead. “Ow. Crap.”

  Mac moved to the sink. “Stop. You need a wet cloth or something. There’s dirt on your hands.”

  “You think?” she said but she waited while he dampened a paper towel and handed it to her. “Thank you.”

  “You want help there?”

  Cora looked down. “It’s really a one-person job, I think. Not much room.”

  “Then give me a shot. I’m fresh.”

  “I can do it by myself.”

  “Come on, Cora. When did you get so stubborn?”

  Cora’s eyes narrowed, then she turned her back to him and bent at the waist, digging as hard as she could again. The shovel slipped in her hands, and the sweat dripping down her face gave away her tiredness.

  Fine. Mac pulled out a wooden chair and sat. He watched.

  “Don’t mind me,” she called. “Make yourself comfortable.”

  “Okay, then.”

  The chair creaked as he leaned back. Why didn’t she just turn around and ask him to leave? Tell him it was time to go?

  Instead, Mac watched as Cora dug harder, using all her weight to rock the spade back and forth, tearing up the ground underneath her house. It was killing him to sit still. To watch as he did nothing. In another minute, maybe she’d give in. Hell, in another minute he’d take the shovel away from her, no matter what she said. She was strong, yes. But he was stronger, could get this done faster…

  The blade of the shovel gave a chunk as it hit something solid.

  “Hey, now,” said Mac, leaning forward. “I think you got it.”

  “Really?” said Cora. “Thank God you’re here. How would I have known?” But she grinned as she dropped to her knees. Using a small trowel, she scooped away the dirt at her feet.

  “Is it the can?” He knelt on the floorboards, Cora below him.

  “Give me a minute. Sheesh.”

  Then there it was, under the trowel’s blade, the old metal of the can dull and tarnished although the plastic lid, untouched by sun, was still bright green.

  “Do you want help?”

  “Will you back off?” Cora shook her head. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got this, okay?”

  “Fine,” said Mac. “Yeah.”

  She rocked the can until it came all the way free and brushed it off with her filthy hands. Clutching it, she glanced at him, and his heart did that strange knock inside his chest again.

  Reaching out to her, he offered his hands. “Here,” he said.

  But Cora shook her head and placed the can on the floor. She jumped up as if she were exiting a swimming pool, pushing up on her arms, twisting her hips at the last moment to sit on the splintered edge of the planks. “I’m up.” She stood. “Now.”

  “Do it.”

  Cora paused.

  Was this a thing she should do in private? This was hers and Logan’s. He had no right to watch this. “You wanna take it upstairs? Light a candle or something?”

  “What? No,” she said, but she was hesitant.

  Mac said, “You want me to go?”

  “No, it’s fine.” A beat. “It’s nice that you’re here. You and Logan… were more than cousins. You were like brothers. He’d want you here.”

  It felt good, suddenly, that he was in this torn-up kitchen with her. Somehow, it was right. He’d fix the floor for her when they were done. He wouldn’t ask, either – he’d just do it.

  “Okay,” he said. A simple word. The right one.

  Cora reached for the can. “It’s light. So it’s not gold coins,” she said, shaking it. “I know that much.”

  “I’m dying here. Open it.”

  So Cora did. She took off the plastic lid and stared inside. Then she looked harder, holding it under the kitchen overhead light.

  A note. It held nothing but a single piece of paper, folded twice over.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Knitting is like a make-believe play language that actually works.

  – E.C.

  Cora frowned and pulled out the note. Maybe it was a game Logan had been playing. He’d always liked to make up scavenger hunts for her, sending her to the pasture and back to the fridge and then out to the barn to find something as simple as a bouquet of daisies he’d found in the field.

  “That’s it?”

  “No, it’s something. It’s from him.” Cora automatically went on the defense, just like she always had when it came to Logan.

  Mac sat back, waiting.

  Cora unfolded the piece of paper, and there it was: his handwriting, dark against the faint blue lines.

  Dearest Cora,

  If you’re reading this, I apologize. I’m only writing this note in case something awful happens like I kick the bucket before I get a chance to refill the nest egg. I’m borrowing the money to put on a horse that can’t lose. I’ll be able to repay the coffee can five times over. But if I get hit by a bus or bucked one time too many at least you’ll know I’m sorry.

  You’re my girl,

  L

  Cora pressed her lips firmly together. The tears that pricked at the back of her lids weren’t sad tears – they were furious ones, hot and painful. A clod of dirt startled her by tumbling down into the hole she’d dug.

  “What?” Mac’s voice was quiet in the small room.

  At her feet, Clementine leaned into her calf, and she didn’t push the dog away. Silently, she handed him the note.

  Mac read it. Then he said, “Bastard. I wish he was alive so I could kick his ass.”

  “Don’t –” But it came out half-heartedly. Cora corrected her tone. “He wasn’t a bastard.”

  “Technically he was, since Uncle Skully never got around to marrying Valentine before he skivved off and died. And sometimes Logan was just a freaking jerk.” Mac handed the note back to her. “You know that.”

  Cora read it again. No money. There was no money. Nothing put away, nothing to fall back on. Cora had managed this long, and the thing that had kept her going some cold nights was the thought that she could someday, if she really needed it, dig up the coffee can. In her head, it was capitalized. The Coffee Can.

  Empty. Logan had blown it at the races.

  Of course.

  Any money they’d ever had in the bank account had been in there because she’d earned it, because she’d put it there. He hadn’t even been as bad as some in his family – he wasn’t like his father, Skully, who hadn’t been able to pass an Indian casino without taking out another mortgage, leaving Valentine to scramble once again. But if Logan had been actively controlling himself in the betting, then he’d blow their money on more bucking stock. This mare is gonna be our golden ticket, this is the one, he’d say to her, never listening when she said they had all the horses they could afford to feed. And when Logan would notice they didn’t have enough in the bank to stake his next bet, he’d sell that new mare without a backward glance. He assured Cora over and over again that he’d take that management class, really start his breeding business, of course he would. As soon as they were a little more comfortable.

  When they’d had to sell Logan’s last horse to pay the property taxes a year before he died, he’d blamed Cora for not having a real job. The work she did a hundred hours a week, the work that brought in actual money: the knitting and the spinning and the gardening, the articles that she managed to sell here and there, none of it meant anything to him. After one bad fight that lasted three days during which s
he’d told him she’d get a nine-to-five job the same day he gave up riding broncs, she’d thought long and hard about leaving him. He hadn’t turned out to be the man she’d thought he was, the man she’d thought he could be, if he just tried a little harder. Maybe the belief she’d placed in him hadn’t been fair.

  But then Logan had gotten sick so fast. He’d been thrown for the millionth time and took a little longer getting up. They’d thought he had a concussion, but something showed on the MRI that the doctor at the small local hospital couldn’t name. The brain tumor grew the way Logan rode – fast and aggressively. Almost as quickly, he’d died. The years she’d spent expecting the call from the rodeo grounds that he’d been hurt, paralyzed, killed, were for nothing. Not one minute of that wasted time prepared her for losing him to something attacking him from the inside.

  Maybe they hadn’t had a “normal” marriage, but who had one of those, anyway? She’d loved him as best she could, picking up the pieces, one by one, trying desperately to hold them all in hands that seemed too small some days.

  She shouldn’t have relied on the coffee can. Cora knew better than that. But Logan had told her she could, and dammit, she’d trusted him. And he’d let her down. Again.

  “I’m an idiot. He was just like all the men in your family.” She bent to scratch the dog’s head, carefully not making eye contact with Mac.

  “Not all the men,” Mac quietly corrected.

  “Fine. So you’re the only one who doesn’t gamble. Your grandfather did. Your father did. Logan’s father did. Logan did. Now they’re all dead – do you see a pattern here?” She tried to keep her voice level. “Or at least you don’t admit you gamble. Who knows what the real truth is?”

  “Never. I never would.”

  “Do I need to remind you that you’re a racetrack veterinarian?”

  “Not anymore. Private practice now.” Mac leaned forward, his face serious. “No matter what Logan did, he should have taken care of you. That was his job.”