Within a Man's Heart

by Winton, Tom

  Gina stayed about fifteen minutes longer that night. She said she’d ask her Uncle Wally if he’d consider selling the cabin along with a few acres. She told me again where it was and that I could drive by it if I liked. She said there was a long unpaved driveway there, and that the cabin could be seen from her uncle’s road, but just barely.

  She also told me the name of the road was “Elkin” Road, and that her great-grandparents settled the thirteen-hundred acres surrounding it way back in 1902. They had also owned the thirty-five acres Connie’s cabins and Gina’s house sat on. Gina said that her deceased father and Uncle Wally had been the sole heirs to all of the land, and that they had struck up a deal together when they inherited it. Her father wanted the property closer to town so he could build the cabins on it. Wally was happy to stay put on the old family homestead. Because of its location, the smaller piece had a much higher value per acre, and over time Wally paid his brother the difference. The larger piece of land had originally been used for logging, just as Elkin Road had. The company that owned it denuded it of all its trees and then sold it off to the Elkin family. After that the company just upped and left, moving their operation up to Northern Maine.

  After Gina filled me in on all that, she had to be getting over to her mom’s. When she stood up to leave, and I marveled at her again, she said, “You know what . . . my mom is having a get together tomorrow night at eight. A few times every year she has a little party and some of our friends and relatives come over. Why don’t you come?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, Gina.” I said squirming in the wooden chair. “I wouldn’t know anybody. And I’ve got a lot going on anyway. Maybe we could make it . . . .”

  “Oh come on, Chris! If you’re going to try to settle here, it would do you good to meet some of the locals.”

  “Well . . . I don’t know,” I said with a hint of resignation in my voice.

  “Oh stop. Come on.” she countered. Then, as if she were waving a carrot, she changed her tone to a tempting one, saying in a sing-song voice, “If it doesn’t rain, there just might be a barbeque!”

  Not saying anything for a moment, I just gave her a little half frown. And she well knew what it meant.

  “Okay, okay . . . I’ll come.” I said as I stood up. “Thanks for inviting me. I’ll see you at about eight. Can I bring anything?”

  Glancing and nodding at the beer can that was standing on the armrest of my chair, she said, “A few of those would be fine. Don’t worry about bringing anything else.”

  She then gave me a warm smile, turned away, and started walking toward her truck. I could have sworn there was a little extra bounce in her step. Then, as she drove away, she waved to me. And she was still smiling.

  Hoping For Nirvana

  The next morning a cover of low, gray clouds hung over Mountain Step like an old, flophouse sheet. But neither that nor the light rain falling was about to dampen my spirits. I was too excited to let any of that get to me as I steered up Portland Road. With my wipers slapping away the small drops on the windshield and my second cup of coffee in the console beside me, I tried to imagine what Uncle Wally’s cabin was going to look like. And I didn’t have wait for long. Just minutes after leaving the Contented Moose, the nice lady trapped inside my GPS told me I was coming up to Elkin Road, and that I should turn left there.

  The old logging road was very narrow. Flat, except for two small rises, it cut like a dirt alleyway straight through another forest of unbelievably tall pines. Lined on both sides by a five-foot-deep ditch, the road seemed just wide enough for two vehicles to squeeze by each another if need be. The surface was bit rough in spots with a scattering of small depressions, but by keeping my speed down to twenty-five, I did fine. And after just a few minutes, I came upon a driveway on the right side.

  The swath through the trees was slightly curved. I could only see the very edge of the cabin that was way back in there. Rolling the Volvo forward a foot or so more, I saw a bit more but not much. It was made of logs and had a green metal roof, but that was all I could decipher. I just had to see more. Even though Gina said it had been vacant for quite some time, I still didn’t feel quite right driving in there. But I was very curious now. I looked straight up the road and then into the rearview mirror. What the hell, I thought, I can go in there for five minutes. I backed up a bit, turned in, and drove slowly over a golden bed of pine needles. As I got closer to the cabin, I whispered to myself, “Wow, would you look at that!” The place had a wide front porch and seemed the perfect size for me. Somewhat bigger than a cabin it was really a log home.

  Nestled the way it was in all those skyscraping pines, I felt as if I had pulled into a tranquil corner of God’s green heaven. The front lawn wasn’t all that large but, if the backyard was the same size, you wouldn’t want to be cutting the grass with a push mower. As an added bonus, there was a double carport alongside the place. And it had a green metal roof just like the house. But I didn’t dare pull beneath it. Still feeling like if I had no right being there, I stopped my SUV in front of the open structure, killed the ignition, and climbed out.

  Although the rain had stopped, a heavy drop of water dripped from an overhanging limb and splattered right smack on top of my head. I laughed it off; then stepped closer to the place. There was no peeking in the front windows because the curtains were drawn. But I did walk around to the back. A small screened porch was there and a nice-sized storage shed. The back lawn was a bit larger than the front, and it had a few blueberry bushes here and there. Everything was perfect. I absolutely loved the place. Finished scoping the place out by now, I stood in the middle of the lawn and looked way up at the tops of the surrounding trees. So far back did I have to tilt my head, that I actually felt a little dizzy. But that didn’t last. As soon as I lowered my head and gaze, somebody pulled into the driveway.

  Oh hell, who could that be?

  Quickly, I walked around the front of the cabin. Somebody had parked right behind my Volvo. It was a pickup truck with a snowplow harness, and it wasn’t Gina’s.

  The man took a moment getting out. His window was open and a plume of smoke lifted out of it. He then leaned toward the dashboard for a second or two, and I figured he was probably mashing out a cigarette in his ashtray.

  He then stepped out of the truck, and the look on his face told me he wasn’t all that happy to see me. He glanced at the New York plate in the back of my SUV. Obviously, what he saw did nothing to lift his spirits. Beneath a blue Boston Red Sox baseball cap, his white hair was cut close— military style. He looked to be about seventy, but walking toward me now, his gait belied his age. Tall, lean, and upright, he strode like a far younger man—a very disconcerted younger man. I knew he had to be Gina’s Uncle Wally. The L. L. Bean boots on his feet looked like the exact same ones I’d seen splayed on Connie’s kitchen floor the night I rented the cabin from her.

  As he approached me I nodded my head, saying, “Hi there.”

  He said nothing, and three strides later stopped in front of me, a little closer than I’d have liked.

  “This here’s my property. Who are you? And what are you doing here?”

  Somehow his pale blue eyes looked much softer than his tone. It was as if he wasn’t any happier having to confront me than I was about being caught on his land.

  “I’m sorry. Let me explain,” I said, feeling like a tenderfoot alien from another world with my Izod golf shirt, nearly new jeans, and Reebok cross trainers. My fancy Volvo wedged in by his big truck didn’t help either.

  “I’m a friend of Gina’s, well . . . I know her is what I mean. I’m staying at one of Connie’s cabins. When I checked in there on Sunday evening, you might have heard me talking to Connie. You were there, inside a cabinet, fixing her kitchen sink.”

  “Okay,” he said, slowly bobbing his head, now looking a tad less suspicious, “I remember.”

  “Anyway, I was talking with Gina last night and told her I was thinking about buying a place up here in Mountain Ste
p. She told me that you might consider selling this cabin . . . that I should take a drive by it.”

  “Um hum,” he said, lifting his white brows as if to say go on.

  “Yeah . . . so, I wasn’t going to drive in here, but I couldn’t see much from the road. Look, I’m sorry,” I said turning the palms of my hands up now, “I did it against my better judgment. I just took a quick look around is all.”

  Now nodding his head again, he turned his gaze to the cabin. He looked it over for a moment, lifted his cap off then stroked the short white bristles on top of his head.

  “Never thought a lot about selling . . . but never said I wouldn’t neither.”

  He then took another brief pause to think.

  “Tell you what,” he finally said, “I’d have to think on it some. But since you’re here, you wanna take a look at the inside?”

  For more than one reason, there was relief in my voice when I said, “Sure, that would be great. I won’t take up a bunch of your time.”

  “No problem,” he said in a much warmer tone now, as he extended his hand, “I’m Wally Elkin.”

  I knew then I was going to like this man.

  Wally walked me through the log-walled home, and I liked what I saw as much as I did on the outside. There were two bedrooms with a loft area above them, one bath, a country kitchen, and a good-sized living room that seemed even larger because the ceiling was vaulted. All the rooms were was furnished, too. Everything was in an Early American motif and looked to be in excellent shape. I wanted this place. From the first moment I stepped through the doorway, I wanted it badly. But I knew I couldn’t rush a man like Wally Elkin. And that created a problem.

  I preferred not to rent before buying. I wouldn’t have minded staying at Connie’s cabin for two or three weeks, but I really didn’t want to get into a lease situation somewhere else. During my first nights in Mountain Step, I’d spent considerable time on my laptop— checking real estate sites and trying to familiarize myself with local home values. I certainly wasn’t a real estate agent who could do property assessments, but I had learned enough to have a rough idea of what the value of Wally’s place might be. Unfortunately, none of that mattered. I knew well and good that small-town folks don’t normally make snap decisions. There would be no pushing Wally Elkin.

  Before leaving, I told Wally that Gina had invited me to Connie’s party that night. Not only did he say he’d be there, but he acted as if he was glad I was going as well. I wondered if that was a sign. Did it mean he could possibly reach a decision by the time we saw each other again?

  Nah! I thought to myself as I got into my Volvo and he backed his truck out from behind me. That would be too good to be true. Even if he did decide to sell, who knows how much he’d want for it? His price could be way, way out of line. Well, whatever happens, at least Gina will be there.

  As soon as that last thought registered in my mind, I jumped all over myself. Giving myself holy hell for thinking about Gina again, I backed out of the driveway, got on the road, and headed back toward the Contented Moose Cabins. Then something strange happened.

  The sky before me suddenly grew even darker, and I mean darker. It was as if the grim reaper himself were pulling an ominous, blue-gray wall down from the clouds. And in just seconds it came all the way down. It looked as though the entire world had closed in on me. I couldn’t believe it happened so fast. I’d never seen that before.

  Then the wind came up out of nowhere. It started blowing like a Category 2 hurricane. And with it came the rain. Horizontal sheets of it peppered the SUV like high-powered shotgun blasts. Turning on my high beams, I put my nose to the windshield and drove into the demonic wall. The impossibly-heavy rain blitzed my windshield as if it hated it. As if it hated who was sitting behind it. So hard was it blowing, that I could barely see through the tempered glass. A couple of times the wind gusted with such force that I had to work like hell to keep the Volvo on the soaking-wet logging road.

  The half mile drive seemed like ten by the time I finally came up to Portland Road and stopped. Glad as I was to have reached a paved surface, I still couldn’t see more than ten feet in any direction. I looked both ways to see if there were any headlights coming. None were visible, but I did see something else. It was on a corner of the intersection just a few feet to my left. A flimsy green and white street sign was fluttering atop its thin metal pole as if frightened to death. The words “Elkin Road” shuddered back and forth so fast that I could barely read them. It was if this evil wind detested them, wanted to strip the sign away and send it airborne. Then something else happened.

  A tremendous bolt of lightning lit up the entire chaotic scene as it struck a pine tree just beyond the sign. The wide stroke was so close, so bright, that it lit up the Volvo’s hood and my face like a thousand flashbulbs. Everything else turned a blinding white as well. I flinched and jerked my shoulders back as the bolt hit a tree just beyond the sign. Almost immediately a heavy limb came falling down. It fell onto a smaller tree and I could hear the crack, crack, crack as it plowed through a succession of smaller branches. There was a deafening thunder clap as well. BOOM! I thought my ears would split. My two-ton SUV shook like a frightened hamster, the steering wheel trembled in my hands, and I took off for my cabin like an Indy 500 driver coming out of a pit.

  “COME ON MAN!” I shouted in a desperate voice as I sped into the dark rain and howling wind. “DON’T BE STUPID! SHE WAS YOUR WIFE! SHE LOVED YOU!”

  Slamming my fist into the steering wheel then, wishing more than believing, I hollered, “ALL THIS IS JUST A COINCIDENCE!”

  The Pilot Returns

  When I pulled up to the cabin, the rain was still teeming and the wind hadn’t lost much of its mean-spiritedness. But as the afternoon wore on, the storm did pass. It took its fury elsewhere and only left behind a lingering, steady rain. Dreary as it was, I just stayed in the cabin, alone with my thoughts. I tried to read but couldn’t concentrate. My emotions wouldn’t stop wrestling with each other. My thoughts and better judgment were tied up in knots as well. Wrought out as my emotional state had been ever since Elyse’s death, I knew that my sense of reality sometimes wasn’t what it should be. I knew it had been damaged. But as I sat inside with the front door open and the rain dripping off the porch, I did manage to sort a few things out.

  Of course the rational part of my mind knew that Elyse had absolutely nothing to do with the storm. But the fragile part, that broken part deep inside my head, sometimes found ways to overshadow logic. The takeovers never lasted long, but when they did, it was always unsettling to say the least. But now I had a grip on myself again. I well knew that Elyse didn’t have the power to ignite the storm. I knew she wouldn’t have started it even if she could. I also believed she probably didn’t dog-ear that page in Travels with Charley or trace that route in my atlas. But that probably would not go away. I still believed there was a small chance she’d done those things. I actually wanted them to be signs, messages. It might have been my ailing mind, wishful thinking, or pure lunacy that kept me thinking Elyse might have been involved. But whatever it was, I was glad the possibility was still alive. I wanted to believe that her burial hadn’t been the end of her.

  As I sat on the end of the sofa closest to the screen door, another revelation occurred to me. I finally allowed myself to believe that Elyse would not have wanted me to be as unhappy as I had been the previous four years. I also realized for the first time that she wouldn’t have wanted me to spend the rest of my life alone. She had loved me too deeply to ever want that. And as the rain continued to fall, I wondered why it had taken me so long to realize something so important, so obvious. Her permission had been there all along. Why hadn’t I seen it sooner? I didn’t know. The best I could figure was that the injured part of my brain had been much larger than it now was. It had been healing—slowly, but it had been recovering. And by late afternoon that gloomy day, I felt better than I had in a long, long time. It was almost as if I were a whole perso
n again. I say “almost” because there was still an annoying asterisk floating in and out of my rare, good mood. And that tiny, black six-point star denoted a question—would my newfound sense of wellbeing last? It seemed like it would, but it also seemed too good to be true.

  By dusk it became obvious there wouldn’t be an outdoor barbeque. Not sure how to dress for the party, I stepped out on the porch a couple of times after hearing vehicles driving up the Contented Moose’s entryway. Both times they turned and went to Connie’s place. Both times the folks who got out were dressed the same casual way they would have if they were going to Bobby Bard’s general store or out to mow their lawns. Trying to go as close as I could with the flow, I put on a slate-blue crewneck shirt and clean Armani jeans. But for the second time that day, I couldn’t help feeling like an out-of-place city slicker. And as I watched myself comb my hair in the bathroom mirror, I vowed to buy myself a few pairs of plain old Levis as soon as I could.

  Minutes later, in the near darkness with a twelve-pack of Corona Lights under my arm, I quick-stepped through the rain and puddles over to Connie’s A-frame. As I got closer I could see Gina’s truck parked out front with several other vehicles. By the time I got to the screen door and knocked on it, butterfly wings were tickling the inside my stomach.

  “Well hello, Chris! Come on in.” Connie said as if I were a longtime friend. “So glad you could make it.”

  Spacious as the log cabin’s only room was, it didn’t feel the least bit crowded. Some folks were sitting on the sofa and chairs; others carried on lively conversations while standing. One couple, wearing matching plaid flannel shirts, was dancing near the back wall—working it out pretty good to Creedence Clearwater Revival’s classic hit, Proud Mary. I had to smile. As I listened to the line about leaving a good job in the city, it seemed as if the song was being sung to me. But then something else about the tune clicked in my head, and my smile took on a more melancholic look. When I was a little boy, Proud Mary had been one of my mother’s favorite songs. Her name was Mary. And whenever she’d play that song on our stereo, she, too, would smile as she sang along. Unfortunately, the singing in our apartment didn’t last. Neither did the devil-may-care attitude that my Mom had always had. The cancerous tumor that had been eating away at her left lung put an end to all that. She was the first of the only two women I ever loved to die before their time.