Montana Rhapsody

by Susanna Solomon

“No, we don’t need another horse. And no, I wasn’t going to spoil your fun.”

  “Then what?”

  “This is the deal. You have a date, I have a date. I’ve made mistakes. And so have you . . .”

  Francine ignored the last part. But the first? She wasn’t sure who this guy was. He looked like Dad, he sounded like Dad, but he wasn’t the same. “You’ve made mistakes? You think?”

  “Uh-huh.” He placed his hand on her arm.

  She frowned. She’d been stellar. Well. Mostly. She looked at him. This was new ground for both of them, worth a shot.

  “But we start over. You want your old man around, I’ll be around. And that’s a promise.” He thrummed his fingers on his paddle. “And if you’re busy, I still have a life. Deal?”

  Francine mused. “Daisy’s not going to be so happy, being second.” She slid some wisps of hair off her forehead. “No matter what, you’re still not putting her sorry ass in our canoe.”

  “Not if you don’t want to.” He placed his hands on his knees. “We have three more days on the river. Down to Judith Landing. You can paddle with me, or I can get you a solo canoe. You don’t have to be in the same boat, or even the same tent, or the same campfire, or the same anything with her.”

  “As if I’d ever allow any of that.” Francine wasn’t altogether sure, but somehow she felt better.

  “If I want to see her, I will, but she will be second, as you requested.” He shifted closer to her. “Okay?”

  “Easy, Dad, easy.” Francine waved him away. “You’re embarrassing me.” Her eyes were watery—too much sun? Sunscreen? She pulled out her shirt ends. Man, where did all this water come from?

  “Deal?” he asked. He lifted his paddle. “What do you say?”

  “Let’s get a move on, Dad. It’s getting late. And yes, we have a deal.”

  They pushed off from the reeds. Campbell dug in, his strokes strong and sure. He was smiling. She knew it. He always went faster when he was happy.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  Monday, late afternoon land

  E.B. AND LAURA

  Still feeling the softness of that kiss, E.B. reached for Laura and felt only air. He opened his eyes. She was sitting at the opposite end of a log.

  “Enjoying the day?” he asked, tongue-tied. “What are you doing over there? You don’t like guys who are soaking wet?” He moved a little closer.

  “Good thing it’s a warm day, huh,” she said, eyeing him and sliding a bit farther away.

  What would she say next, it’s not you, it’s me? Was it that he needed a shower? “Everything okay?” He didn’t think he stunk that bad.

  “Don’t you think we should get going? We haven’t seen Campbell since yesterday.”

  Crushed, E.B. thought he had been doing pretty well. Considering. Considering, what? That he had the manners of a country boy? Had he forgotten something? He’d been polite and thoughtful and taken his time. She’d been giving him signals all day. Was he that dense?

  “No, I’m fine. Just a little tired, that’s all.”

  “I bet.” Couldn’t be. He had had that feeling. That great feeling.

  “How ’bout a drink? You thirsty? Hungry? Cold?” He was babbling, but he didn’t know what else to do. The day after tomorrow she’d head home to Great Falls or LA or East Podunk, or some such godforsaken place.

  “I know, I just know there’s someone’s hand in it,” she said suddenly.

  “Someone’s hand? Whose hand?” Had he missed a step? “In what?”

  “It’s beautiful here, don’t you think? I bet you don’t even notice. The best views are wasted on people who don’t even bother to look.”

  “But I do,” E.B. answered, trying to look at the hills in the distance, but his eyes kept drifting to her. A hand in it, indeed. He’d pray again, if that was what it took. Thank God for that view. He liked that part about no other humans in sight. He scooched closer.

  Then he remembered. Oh God. He was a married man. What if Berniece was back at home, in the kitchen, a spatula in her hand, her white apron flour-dusted, a large pot of stew simmering on the stove? What would she say? Are you dreaming? Sun get to you? You, a Montana farm boy, with someone like that? Get real.

  Was he mad?

  “Being out here, doesn’t it make you want to believe in something bigger than yourself?” Laura asked.

  “Uh, uh,” E.B. answered, tongue-tied. “All I know is my tractor, winter wheat, summer wheat, the weather, uh, oil changes, spark plugs, you know, stuff,” he lied. In December, on the darkest day of the year, probably in the middle of a blinding blizzard, he’d remember this fine summer day and the way her hair flew in the breeze. Even if that kiss had been a mistake, she’d returned it. Or maybe she did that with all the guys she met?

  He leaned back on his elbow, admired the line of her chin, her blue eyes, the body he couldn’t help from wanting. Then he told himself, no, not for me. Not for this farm boy.

  “The cliffs rise like a dream from the river. It looks as if a majestic hand brought them there, carved out of earth. And it’s so quiet.”

  “I guess. Never thought about the land in that way.” What a liar. What would Mom say? Shame on you. The land had his blood in it, his grandparents, his soul, his faith every spring when he worked it with his tractor and prayed for a good crop.

  “My brother says it helps him to pray,” Laura said, “but I don’t. How ’bout you?”

  E.B. was silent. He used to enjoy the feeling of being part of something whole. Once.

  “You know, pray?” she asked.

  “Pray? Don’t know how,” he muttered. Shut up, you fool, he told himself. Don’t spoil this dream.

  Laura stretched her legs.

  E.B. tried not to tremble. Or moan.

  “There are so many churches here. I saw them along the road from Great Falls. And announcements about revival meetings. Religious country, not at all like LA.” She eyed the shore. “I’d think, to you, God would be a comfort—with the weather and all.”

  E.B. searched for a way to change the subject. Baseball? Fashion? Life in LA? All that was anathema to him.

  She sat up. “Oh come on. You must’ve been involved in church at some point.”

  “I never said I wasn’t.”

  He looked at the moon peeking through the trees. He knew only too well that feeling of belonging to something bigger than himself, and he missed it. Even on those twentybelow days when they bundled up and went to church and he just wanted to stay in bed. “God doesn’t take vacation, why should we?” he’d say to Berniece. Now, he knew better.

  “Most farmers are fools.” He pitched a few pebbles into the river. “They think they can go out drinking every Saturday night, and on Sundays dress in their best, wipe their boots by the front door of the church, and be saved.” Some farmer’s wives too, he thought bitterly. Damn you, Berniece. He stood up and paced under the shade of a cottonwood tree. Blossoms drifted onto his arms and onto Laura’s shoulders. She looked like she was wearing a wedding dress.

  “What’s the matter with you? Don’t you like the land? Can’t you see what I mean?”

  “I couldn’t say.”

  “Bunk. You’re making that frown again. Didn’t you grow up with faith? Churchgoing Christian? I bet you are. Or were.”

  “I couldn’t say.” Of course he could. He had planted deep, prayed, kneeled, spent nights out here, on his horse Tessa, for days, talking to God. It wasn’t the talking about God he minded. It was the other. It was that goddamn preacher who destroyed his family. He threw rocks into the water.

  “Hey, you’re splashing me,” Laura said. “I didn’t do anything to you.”

  “You asked. So I’m telling you.” He threw a rock at a tree, heard a resounding thunk. “Around here, everyone’s religious—from great-grandparents down to pesky two-year-olds. Religion is born in you, fed to you like mother’s milk, from your first day to your last.”

  “I knew it.”

  He pic
ked up a blade of grass, chewed on it, and let the wind blow it away.

  “You must have been lonely since you left the church,” she said.

  “Lonely? Not really.” Lonely as hell. Lonely in that big house, no other voices breaking the silence that crawled over him like a bunch of ants and never went away. He wasn’t going to tell her that. Hell no.

  “When I was a boy, I didn’t know any different. I loved stroking the smooth pews on a warm day, watching flies make squares in the air, seeing sunlight streaming through the windows, and I would fall asleep during the sermons sometimes, while outside it was so cold and the wind blew a hundred miles an hour. Learned a few things, I guess. Gave comfort.” God, if this is a test, I’m failing.

  “Doesn’t sound so bad to me, I’ve never had that.”

  “Well, it was.”

  “Then why do you look so sad?”

  He paused a moment, disarmed by her comment. “We . . .” he stopped. “We did what we were supposed to do.”

  “We? Who’s we?”

  “Church dinners, Scout suppers, Bible meetings, choir—endless events helping the elderly, the homeless, the children. All good things. Always cooking. We, she . . . always cooking, always involved.” Once he started he couldn’t stop.

  “She?” Laura whispered. “You mean like church ladies? Your mother? Aunt? Sister?”

  He marched back and forth. “I did my part, Laura.” His voice was clear and cold. “And it was nothing. Not worth a damn.”

  “Girlfriend? Wife?” she asked, her voice quiet.

  “Because then we got a new preacher.” E.B. paced. “Stanley Cornelius the third. He got the congregation all riled up. We’re Lutherans, for God’s sake! Not used to that kind of thing. Neighbors, best friends, pillars of the community jumped up, fell down, waved their arms over their heads, and cried like babies. ‘It’s the rapture!’ some of them said. ‘It’s a gift from heaven! God’s finally listening!’ Even the old men with gnarly hands and curled-up backs, those old guys had tears running down their faces.”

  “Like those Pentecostal preachers—like on TV? Like the one who’s coming here?”

  “She left.” E.B. took a breath. “One day she made a tunanoodle casserole for a church dinner, packed a case of fresh chokecherry jam in the back of her Buick, and took off.”

  “Your girlfriend?” Laura asked.

  “‘I’m joining the preacher,’ she said. I never saw it coming.” He threw his paddle into the canoe. “Let’s go.”

  “That preacher—he must be something.”

  “You’ll have to ask her. She was—I mean—is, my wife. She’s the one who ran off with the preacher. My wife. Berniece.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Monday, evening

  Coal Banks Landing

  DAISY

  Once the sun went down, a chill settled over Coal Banks Landing that Daisy couldn’t shake. The cold seemed to delve into her bones and settle there. She crouched down behind some bushes and trees, hoping to get some shelter, but now the bushes and trees were alive with the sounds of frogs croaking, twigs snapping, and animals moving. She hoped they were small.

  On the other side of the bushes, Daisy heard mothers call for their children, the clink of barbecues and coolers being put away, and families getting ready for bed. She wanted to be with them, to be home again, back when Mom was all right, back when she used to tuck her in, her soft kiss bright by Daisy’s cheek, the hall light on all night. Now she was all alone. Campbell wasn’t coming now, tonight or maybe never. She held back tears.

  Another hour went by. She wrapped herself up in a little ball, as tight as she could get. Her feet were freezing, her rear end had gone numb, and her fingers, clenched around her legs, had frozen up on her. She was sure she was going to die and no one would ever know.

  Something howled, a deep wail that echoed across the canyon walls. Whatever it was, it was coming into camp, and she’d be the first to go. She cried helplessly, loud, convulsing sobs. Her voice rose with a wail. She tried to muffle it and buried her face in her hands.

  A few minutes later, she heard footsteps close by and stayed very still.

  “You okay, honey?” someone asked. “You don’t sound so good.”

  Daisy kept her head down.

  “You can’t stay out here. You got that blanket, Marcy?”

  Someone, another woman, wrapped a blanket around Daisy’s shoulders and cooed, “Poor, poor thing. Out here alone, no coat, no nothing. “What’s your name, dear?”

  Daisy wasn’t going to say. Warmth enveloped her body, whether from the blanket or the people, she didn’t know or care. Strangers’ hands tucked the blanket around her.

  “You think you can walk?” the first woman asked, and Daisy, stiff with cold, tried to straighten her legs. Strong arms, on both sides, helped her up. Stones and twigs dug into her bare feet.

  “My shoes,” she said, her voice cracking. Hands surrounded her and slipped on her shoes.

  “Lift your feet, great, it’s bumpy, careful, stop, left, good.”

  “She’s nearly frozen to death, poor thing.”

  A few minutes later, Daisy sat in a camp chair near a warm fire in the campground, a cup of hot tea in her hand.

  Three faces surrounded her—a tall, thin man in a dark coat, a thin woman, and Berniece.

  “Hi, Daisy,” she said.

  Daisy nearly spilled her tea.

  “Berniece, Marcy, make up some more hot soup,” the man said. “You’re half-dead, child.” He came over and whispered in her ear. “Don’t worry. We aren’t going to hurt you.” His voice was soothing, like honey, or warm maple syrup on a cold day.

  “What time is it?” Daisy croaked.

  “Midnight, I think. We’re glad to have you with us. You remember me?” Berniece asked.

  Daisy stared into her tea. “Yes.” She wasn’t going to tell them anything.

  “Better now? Want something else? Some soup?”

  “Yes, please.” Daisy’s stomach ached with hunger. She’d be careful with this bunch, have something to eat, and disappear, though where, she had no idea.

  The man tended the fire, breaking up the logs with a stick, making hot coals sizzle and pop, mesmerizing her.

  “Time to go in, dear,” one of the women said a few minutes later, beckoning Daisy like a close friend.

  “I’m not sure.” Daisy looked from one to the other in the dying light from the fire.

  “You have those biscuits ready, Berniece?” the woman called out. Twenty feet away, bright lights poured out from an RV.

  Biscuits?

  “My goodness, Daisy, I haven’t properly introduced myself. I’m Marcy. I’ll help you every step of the way. Need a hand?”

  “Yes, please, I’m starved.” Just like Mom’s biddies at her church suppers. She didn’t have to believe to eat, did she? She stepped up onto a milk crate, took Marcy’s hand, and was soon inside.

  The RV held two bunks and a small galley kitchen. Faded sky-blue curtains drooped from the windows. Two thick red wool blankets were stacked on a settee.

  “Come along in, little sister,” Berniece intoned. “We’re all friends here.” A pot of chicken soup simmered on the stove.

  Daisy took a seat on one of the settees and eyed the stove.

  “Just us girls here, honey.” Berniece gestured to Marcy, who was plumping pillows. “How ‘bout some soup?”

  “And put out some biscuits, Berniece,” Marcy said.

  “Oh God, yes, please.” Daisy took a bowl, inhaled the aroma, and took a sip, trying not to slurp. As if. She’d down the whole thing in one gulp if it weren’t so hot.

  The man stepped inside. He was wearing an oldfashioned frock coat with worn silk lapels, a bow tie, and scuffed black shoes. A preacher, Daisy thought, just like at home. He went to shut the door, but Berniece put up her hand.

  “Not yet,” she said.

  He stepped back out.

  Daisy felt relieved. At home, she avoided clubs and
groups and gatherings for the same reason. She sipped her soup hurriedly.

  “Where are you from?” she asked, trying to fill the silence.

  “We’ll make introductions after. That all right with you, Daisy?” Marcy slid onto her knees beside her.

  Berniece and Marcy nodded and muttered beside Daisy.

  “It’s okay, sweetheart.” Marcy smelled like roses.

  Daisy was eyeing biscuits cooling on the stove, when the man stepped back inside.

  “Douse the lights, Berniece, and light the candles. God wants to welcome this new child in His own way,” the preacher said, his deep brown eyes staring into Daisy’s.

  Well, heck, she’d been through this before. In tenth grade. Some kind of ceremony with Mom. Right after, she’d caught a train to Park Slope, and spent the afternoon fooling around with Conrad.

  “Okay,” Daisy replied, wondering whatever had happened to Conrad. Hadn’t he joined the marines?

  “You’ll never be in our way, sister.” The preacher straightened his tie.

  “Didn’t say I was,” Daisy said. Before, with Mom, she’d pretended she was somewhere else. That took concentration. She closed her eyes. Conrad’s place had been nice.

  “You were out there for quite a long while, alone,” Berniece said.

  Yeah, but that was before. Before she got the heebiejeebies, before she almost froze to death. Jesus, didn’t they have any more soup? She held out her bowl.

  “The girls told me you didn’t have a jacket or a tent. Good thing we found you.” The preacher sat down too close to her.

  “I’ve always loved chicken soup.” Daisy scooched down the settee, hoping not to offend. Ah, a fresh bowl. She hummed. The women at Mom’s church were the same way, courteous and not insistent. It used to make Mom happy that Daisy came to church at all.

  But in the middle of the night, Mom used to pace the house, worrying her. “I just don’t think you’re completely with us, girl,” she used to say. Daisy sure as hell wasn’t going to tell her about Conrad and what they did Sunday afternoons in Park Slope. That was when she decided to hold Mom’s hand during the sermons and started memorizing gospel. And telling Mom how much she loved the Lord.