by Winton, Tom
But things don’t usually move all that quickly in small, rural towns. I had no idea how long it might take to complete a title search and set up a property survey. Nor did I know how much time it would take a local lawyer or title company to set up a closing date. I told Wally all that, and I told him how cramped I was beginning to feel in Connie’s little vacation cabin.
“Not to worry.” he said, with that knowing smile of his. “You just might be surprised how fast a good ole boy with the right connections can get things done. I’ll make some calls and get back to you by supper time.”
“But today’s a Saturday.”
For a short moment he just stood there looking at me, shaking his head as if I were a hopeless case. Then he widened his smile a bit more and said, “Like I said, Chris, not to worry. I’ll call you later today.”
At four-thirty that afternoon, my cell rang. It was Wally. He told me everything was set and that we’d be closing in Conway that Friday. That was only six days away. I couldn’t believe it.
But it did happen. And when the papers were signed and it was all over, something else unbelievable happened. As we stepped out of Chance McClure’s law office and headed toward our vehicles in the parking lot, Wally patted me on the back saying, “Now Chris, if you have any problems with the place, any at all, just give me a call. I’ll help you out.”
I couldn’t believe his kind gesture. Yet, on the other hand, I could. He was a prince. Who on earth sells a home to somebody then offers to give them help after the fact? Everybody else just takes the money and runs, but not Wally Elkin. I might not have known him very long, but I damn well knew he meant what he said. And I felt privileged to have crossed paths with him.
During the days before the closing and for two weeks after, I didn’t seen Gina once. Did I think about her? Yes. As much as I tried not to, I sometimes couldn’t help myself. Busy as I was setting up my new place the way I wanted it, there still were times when her evocative face and all the rest of her entered my mind. Nevertheless, the first couple of times I drove into the village I was able to muster up enough fortitude not to glance into the parking lot alongside Bobby Bard’s general store. Both times, while gassing up the Volvo at the convenience store across the street, I wouldn’t allow my eyes to leave the old gas pump’s rolling “sale” display. But after that I weakened. No longer could I keep myself from glancing into the dirt lot whenever I drove into the village. Twice her truck was parked there. And both times it really bothered me.
As soon as I moved into my new home, I fell in love with it. Every morning I woke up earlier than I ever had before. Every night I found myself hitting the hay soon after daylight gave in to darkness. And boy, did I sleep soundly. With the bedroom windows wide open, I would lay there for just a short while after saying goodnight to Elyse, and I’d listen. No longer did I hear the constant racket I’d put up with in the city. There were no honking horns. Virtually nobody drove by on Elkin Road. I no longer became incensed by noisy neighbors or loud music coming from the other side of rented walls. I didn’t hear a single siren or any decelerating jetliners. No, there was none of that. Instead I fell asleep each night to a soothing chorus of male crickets outside my window screens. Sometimes, as their incessant chirps travelled the darkness in search of prospective mates, I’d hear something else back in the woods, the calming, mysterious hoo-hoo hoooooo hoo-hoo of a great horned owl.
I’d had a few reservations about living alone in the woods at first, but at the same time, felt lucky as well. Knowing my only neighbors within three miles were the owl and the unseen critters in the forest, allowed me a feeling of deep contentment I’d never felt before.
By the end of the second week, I had everything set up just the way I wanted, and it was time to deal with my furniture. All of it was still sitting in a truck back in Jersey or wherever the movers stored it. It was costing me more money every day. So one afternoon I took a ride into the village to talk to Luella Anders at her “Used Everything Store.”
When I stepped inside, she well remembered me from the party, and in no time at all, we worked out a deal to sell my furniture on consignment. She didn’t have enough space for all of it inside the store but said she had an old, two-car garage out back. Until more space became available, she’d store the rest of it there. I called the mover on my cell right then and set up a delivery date. They agreed to bring everything to Luella’s and, after unloading the bulk of it, they’d bring my bed and the few other things I wanted over to my place.
Once all that business was squared away, I walked next door to the village’s tiny public library. Had I known I was going to find far more than books in there, I would have jumped right back into my SUV and bee-lined it for home.
But I didn’t know, and it was an absolutely gorgeous day so I stopped for a moment on the sidewalk in front of the library. The sun was in its full glory, but as I stood in the shade of a tall elm, it was cool and comfortable for late June. I didn’t have to look at the building before me for very long before realizing it had once been somebody’s home. It was two-stories high but yet a tiny thing. The white horizontal boards that made up the front wall couldn’t have been more than fifteen feet wide from end to end. Three steps up there was a wooden door and on each side of it, one rectangular window. Above the entryway, a third window had been squeezed between the structure’s sharp-sloping roof. As I stepped up the walkway toward the door, I couldn’t help but wonder how much smaller people might have been back when the place had been built.
“Well, hello, new neighbor!” Carla Francis the librarian said, as I closed the door behind me and a string of bells tacked to it jingled.
“Hello, Carla!” I said after working hard to recall her name, “How are you today?”
“Just peachy,” she said rising from her desk alongside a narrow staircase. “I’ve been wondering if you’d be stopping in. I didn’t know if you were a reader or not.”
“Yes, I am as a matter of fact” I said, approaching the bespectacled, middle-aged lady with a yellow pencil wedged atop one ear. “Say, this really is a cute little library! It even smells like books in here.”
“Ouuu, I’m going to like you. I can tell already.”
After exchanging smiles, I told her I wanted to look around a bit; then get a library card.
“Sure!” she said, first pointing to the left and then to the right, “I keep fiction A to M on that wall and all nonfiction on that one. Upstairs,” she said, turning toward the staircase alongside us, “is where the N trough Z fiction is.”
“Terrific! I think I’ll go upstairs and have a look around, if you don’t mind.”
“Of course, you go right ahead. If you need me, I’ll be right here, entering these new books into the computer.”
“Sounds good,” I said, as I stepped over to the stairs.
“Now you be careful going up there,” she said, as I took the first squeaky step. “You’re kind of tall, and the ceiling’s a bit low over those stairs.”
“Sure thing, Carla. Thanks much.”
The upstairs was just an unfinished attic, with a bookshelf running its short length on each side. The bare wooden roof beams were low up there, too, and they angled down sharply. So I wouldn’t hit my head, I had to walk down the center, directly beneath the roof’s ridge. But I wasn’t up there very long before finding what I hoped the little library would have. Thinking it would give me a better feel for the New England wilderness; I stooped down to a low shelf and pulled out a worn copy of Thoreau’s The Maine Woods. With that in hand, I went back downstairs to get my new library card.
As Carla typed my information into her computer, she told me that the library was originally the home of an illiterate carpenter named Franklin Singleton. He’d built the place way back in 1849, and when he died an old man in 1898, he left an interesting stipulation in his will. He bequeathed the house to his heirs but offered to rent it indefinitely to the village of Moose Step—as long as they turned it into a library and kept
it as such. He wanted to give the townsfolk, particularly the children, an opportunity to read because he himself never learned how to. The rent he requested was just a dollar a month. And it could never be raised.
When Carla finished telling me about all that, she checked my book out, handed me a new library card, and I heard those bells ring from behind me. Another library patron had stepped inside, and as I put the card into my wallet, Carla peeked around me saying, “Well hello there, Gina!”
Oh no, I thought, as I stuffed the wallet into the back pocket of my new Levis and she approached from behind. She would have to walk in here right now—while I’m here!
As I turned to leave, she said, “Hi Carla!” Then in a less cheery tone, she added, “Good afternoon, Chris. How have you been?”
“I’ve been okay, thanks,” I said, forcing myself to look at her as I spoke.
Not wanting to keep eye contact with her, I glanced down at the small stack of books in her hands. I couldn’t believe what I saw. Here I had thought she was some small-town, provincial girl who probably read fluffy romance paperbacks if anything, and right smack on top of her books was Dostoyevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov. I couldn’t believe it. Nevertheless, blown away as I was, I looked back up at her and said, “Well, good to see you again. Got to be running.”
Turning back to Carla now, I said, “Thanks so much for your help. I’ll be sure to have this back on time.”
Then I did an about face, walked right by Gina without looking at her, and headed for the door.
“I just wanted to return these on time, Carla,” I heard her say from behind. “Got to hurry home. Dinner’s in the oven.”
With Gina’s footsteps not far behind my own now on the wooden floor, I had no choice but to hold the door for her after I opened it. It was one of those situations where, had she been just two strides farther away, letting it close wouldn’t have seemed like a rude gesture.
Her face was serious and those eyes questioning when she walked past the door saying, “Thank you.”
“Yupper, you bet,” was all I said.
As she made her way along the narrow walkway toward the sidewalk, I took my time coming down the steps. But when I stepped off the bottom one, she stopped dead. Hesitating a moment, she acted as if she was going to continue walking. But she didn’t. Instead she spun quickly around, narrowed her eyes in a way I hadn’t seen before, and marched right up to me.
“Damn it to hell,” she stammered, “what is with you, Chris? Why are you acting like you don’t even know me?”
It no longer mattered whether she was gorgeous, ugly or anywhere in between. For two full weeks, I’d kept my anger, disappointment, and frustration all pent up inside. I had tried my best to deal with the spirit-sucking emotions but hadn’t gotten along very well with any of them. I didn’t want to have a confrontation with her, but there was no getting around that now. Standing face to face in the shade of the trees, I just let it rip.
“Let me tell you something, lady! I don’t know you, and you don’t know me. We’re just acquaintances, and I want to leave it that way. Okay? Now leave me alone.”
Her lower lip started to tremble. I wasn’t sure if it was because she was angry, disappointed or deeply hurt, but I didn’t care—not until I noticed the tears welling up in her eyes.
“Listen to me.” she stammered. “What happened at the party was nothing! It didn’t mean a thing! He doesn’t mean a thing! Would you please stop acting this way for a minute and listen to me?”
A truck went by then and the man driving it honked the horn. Obviously he’d recognized Gina from behind. That was a sight no male would easily forget. But she didn’t turn around. She just flung up her hand, gave a quick half-wave, jerked it back down, and leaned closer to my face.
“No!” I said, as if throwing the word at her. “I’m not going to stand out here and have a screaming match with you.”
“Nobody’s screaming! Won’t you just listen to me? I didn’t . . . ”
“Forget it,” I interrupted, “I don’t want to hear anything. I just want to go on with my life. Why don’t you do the same?”
She didn’t say anything for a moment. She was breathing heavily; just staring at me. Then we both heard a man’s voice shout out, “Gina! You okay?”
It was the guy who had just driven by us. He was up the road, just beyond the Used Everything shop, standing outside his truck in the parking lot at the general store.
Gina sniffled one time then turned toward him. Just loud enough for him to hear she said, “I’m fine, Roy, just having a conversation is all. Thanks.”
He gave me a good long look, slowly nodded his head; then started walking toward the store’s entrance.
I turned my face back to Gina and she turned to me. I was trying to think of one last nasty thing to say before going next door to get my SUV. But nothing would come—not from my mouth anyway. Instead Gina dropped her head, and a tear fell from her eyelash. I saw it land on the taut breast pocket of her beige blouse. Then she looked back up at me. Her beautiful face was flushed, but she fought to keep her composure. Her voice cracked when in a low tone, a much calmer tone now, she said, “Look, Chris . . . I’ve got to get home. Like I told Carla inside, I’ve got dinner on—chicken casserole. Why don’t you come over and have some? Please . . . just give me this one chance to explain everything.”
I felt like a heel. I couldn’t stand to see a woman cry, and I’d brought all this on. I wanted to say, sure, let’s go work things out. But I didn’t. An invisible wall of self-pride held back those words. Instead I said what was in front of that wall. With a gentler voice, but still firm, I said, “No thanks, Gina. I can’t. I’ve got things to do back at my cabin. Sorry.” Then I turned away and walked quickly across the library’s front lawn.
I didn’t look back—not until I climbed into my Volvo in front of the secondhand shop. Gina’s truck was no longer parked in front of the library. She was already at the four-way stop. Barely slowing down for it, she cut her wheels hard to the left and hot-footing it up Portland Road. Her tires squealed as I slid my key into the ignition, and I felt absolutely miserable. By the time I turned onto Portland Road, I was feeling even worse.
“You’re a real hard-ass!” I scolded myself as I picked up speed heading for home. “She actually cares, you jerk!”
Then I thought, Maybe she had a legitimate excuse for what she did at the party. You should give her a chance to explain. No, forget it! There’s no excuse for ignoring me the whole time. Move on with your life, man. Forget about her.
I kept going back and forth like that, as I steered along the deserted, two-lane. And as if that wasn’t enough, there was yet something else complicating things. For some reason, visions of Elyse’s loving face began slipping through my stream of thoughts. None of her images lasted very long, but they kept flashing in and out of my head like a nostalgic slide show. “Why,” I asked myself, “is this happening right now?”
Was my subconscious mind playing games with me? Had it turned sadistic? Was it cackling as it made my decision even more difficult? Maybe it wasn’t! Maybe my inner mind meant no harm and was only trying to console me. Maybe it was telling me that Gina’s deserting me at the party, the argument we’d just had, the feelings I’d had about her—none of it really mattered anyway. Was I being told that, even if I wanted to, I could never again love another the way I loved Elyse? I just didn’t know. It was all so confusing.
Then, as I got closer to Gina’s road, something else happened. All jammed up as my head was, I started hearing things in there. They were shouts—loud and clear shouts. Upset as I was by now, I didn’t know whose voice it was. I thought it was my own but wasn’t sure. It demanded, Go see Gina! Go see her right now! Listen to what she has to say! Allow yourself this one small chance to possibly love again!
I just didn’t know what to do. I needed more convincing. Then it came.
You don’t meet a woman like her every day! You may never again! She want
ed to make up with you, stupid!
Gina had been too far ahead and driving too fast for me to see her truck. But then as I passed her dirt road, I did see dust settling in the shade of the pine trees.
“Oh hell,” I said to myself, “I can’t do this! It isn’t right! I’ve got to talk to her.”
I hit the brakes hard, hung a sharp left into the Contented Moose entryway, completed a u-turn, and motored ahead to the narrow road. As I turned onto it, I thought to myself, what the hell am I going to say? Is she going to be glad to see me or will she be pissed off by now? She might very well tell me to get the hell off her property!
Moments later I rounded a tight curve through the trees. The first chipmunk I’d ever seen ran past the front of my Volvo. And as soon as I passed where he’d scurried into the woods, I suddenly heard dogs barking. Seconds later everything opened up, and I came upon a wide, grassy clearing. Sitting about thirty yards back was a small ranch-style house with a porch running along the front of it. Behind that I saw a small pond with still more forest on the back and sides of it. But what really grabbed my attention was the huge mountain way off in the distance. It may have been twenty or thirty miles off, but it was still immense. Immediately I knew it was Mount Washington. In the early evening light, the vision with the house, the pond and all the rest was as tranquil a setting as you’d ever want to see. But it didn’t help a whole lot. Awesome as it was, it didn’t do much to ease my anxiety. Neither did the two, hulking Labrador Retrievers now charging across the lawn at me.
By the time I raised my window most of the way, the dogs were trotting right alongside the SUV. Hoping they wouldn’t jump up and scratch at my door, I spoke as calmly as I could through the small opening at the top of the window.
