Dances of the Heart

by Andrea Downing

  ****

  “Things haven’t changed any I see. Looks good.” Jake shoved the ancient pickup truck’s door closed, then reached into the bed to retrieve his bag.

  His father was waiting, playing with the keys in his hand, before he bounded up the steps to the porch and yanked the screen open. He held the door for Jake to pass into the house before following him inside.

  “No change here either I can see,” Jake mumbled. “Where are the dogs?”

  “Dogs are in the office at the moment. Larry had them down there for some hunter education class he was running. Why would you expect change? I look after things, it doesn’t need changing.”

  Ray Ryder spoke in the flat, straightforward way Jake remembered so well. The keys were thrown on a counter in the kitchen, before his dad came back in.

  “Well, let me have a look at you then,” he went on, briefly gripping Jake in welcome. “You all right?” his father asked.

  Jake set down his bag. “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Can I get you something? Coffee? A beer?” There was an awkward nervousness to him, the same restlessness of which Jake had long been aware.

  “Coffee’d be fine.”

  His father headed into the kitchen. Slouching into his favorite leather armchair, Jake dangled one long leg over another, throwing his head back. His clothes had more or less dried now and he settled into a comfortable unwillingness to go change. Unsure as to whether he was really happy to be home, he kept what he knew within him like a package waiting to be unwrapped.

  At the snap of a metal pull-tab on a can of what was no doubt beer, Jake shook his head. Then there was the clatter of a mug being filled from the coffeemaker.

  “You not having coffee?” he called through to the kitchen.

  “Naw, I’m swimming in it already. Thought I’d get myself a—”

  “Thought you’d given up, Dad,” Jake confronted his father who came back into the living room and handed him his coffee. “Thought you’d stopped drinking?”

  “Yeah, well.” His father lowered himself into another armchair. “You know how it is. Gave up Jack for a while but, what with worryin’ ’bout you being out there and all, and dealing with Leigh Anne…” He slugged his beer.

  “How is Mom then?”

  “Well, I don’t have much to do with her, Jake. You know that. Lawyers see to everything. I don’t want her hanging ’round my neck for the rest of my life so I’m tryin’ to…” His voice trailed off before he took another gulp of beer. “You fixin’ to see her?”

  “I guess.” Jake peered into his mug, his black liquid reflection as wavering as his response.

  He got up to go over the photos scattered around the room. A rustic wood mantel above the fireplace held most of them, but they also sat on side tables and the top of a row of bookshelves. Picking them up one by one and carefully replacing them, he was conscious of his father’s gaze following him as the man sat there finishing his beer.

  “Got a new gun vault out in the office there.” His dad nodded toward the door to his right leading to a small room. “Dang thing works with both a key and a combination. I can’t remember the combination—have it on a piece of paper in my bedside table. Key’s in the office drawer when you need it.” There came the sound of the beer can being crushed in his hand.

  “I guess there is one other change here, though,” Jake challenged his father who had risen to face him. “You’ve removed all the photos with Mom in them.”

  His dad walked into the kitchen and opened the fridge to reach in for another beer. There was a moment’s hesitation before he snapped the tab, took a swig, then sauntered back to face Jake. “No point dwellin’ on the past. What’s done is done, marriage is finished.” He set the beer down on a side table. “Truth be told, it was finished a long time ago, even before…”

  A kind of sorrow wormed its way through Jake, surprising him. A bitterness took hold. “You didn’t remove Robbie’s photos,” he grumbled. “Robbie is still here, every last one of his photos.” He let a scowl wash over his face.

  “Robbie’s dead, Jake, that’s different. He didn’t go sleeping around like some tomcat in an alleyway. He didn’t go using my house—this house that’s been in my fam’ly for well over a century—like some dang brothel.”

  Jake’s fist came up before he realized what he was about to do—and to whom he was about to do it. His father, however, was just as strong and quick. His hand gripped Jake’s wrist and held it there for a moment before he let go. Jake stood back, glaring into his father’s eyes yet, even as he did so, he was wondering how he could have considered hitting his father, this man he idolized, who’d brought him up, taught him everything.

  The anger within him receded, ebbed like a river rolling out to sea.

  “That’s my mother you’re talking about.” He made his voice intentionally low. “And you drove her to it. You took to drink, and she took to men. It’s as simple as that.”

  “And you, Jake, what did you take to? You took to the goddamn army, didn’t you? Wanted to get yourself killed as good as your brother, didn’t you?” His father picked up his beer and glanced at it a moment. “We all deal with things in our own way. So. There you have it. Whatever it was, best to get on and move on with life, put it behind us. That’s what I say and that’s what I’m doing.” He eased himself back down into his chair. “You want photos of Leigh Anne, keep them in your room. I don’t have to look at her.”

  Jake paced a bit. The living room had the smell of home, the cedar cladding, the stone fireplace which, although empty now for the spring, still carried the aroma of wood smoke, the sharp scent of the leather and coffee, which always permeated this room, mixed with the fresh perfume of the Texas spring grasses and juniper stands.

  Nothing like Iraq. Nothing like the stink of burning cars, or rotting bodies lying under the blister of desert sun. The stink of fear.

  He ran a hand through his cropped hair then slumped back down into his chair. “How’s the Rocking R going? Miss Mabel still come in?”

  “’Course Mabel still comes in. As ornery as ever. In fact, she comes in more often since your mama left. Never did get on, those two. Mabel thinks this house is her responsibility now. Cleans it like one of them whirling dervishes, does my laundry once a week and ironing, and leaves me enough cooked suppers to feed the whole of Gillespie County, then gets in that beat-up Ford of hers and collects the grandkids from school. Laila run off again last Thanksgiving—I think I emailed you—and left her with the brood. What with George passed and living out there on her own, I don’t know how she manages an’ all, but she does. Heart as big as all outdoors and a temper to match it.”

  Jake gave a small laugh and rested his head on the back of the armchair, the comfort of home slowly washing through him. He reached down and picked up the mug of cooled coffee by his feet.

  “Let me get you some hot?”

  “No, don’t bother.” He sensed an easier silence between them now, each lost in thought until he said, “Still can’t figure them women.”

  “Which women?” his father snorted. “I can’t figure any dang woman. Which ones are we talking about?”

  “The ones who gave me a lift. Damn truck driver dropped me in the pouring rain at the exit on I-10, and then those two come roaring down and picked me up. Down here from someplace up northeast is my guess. Some city or other. I couldn’t believe my eyes when they stopped. I thought women never gave rides to hitchhikers. Though, she did ask me if I had a gun.” A grin lit his face as he remembered the encounter.

  His dad chuckled as he finished off his beer and crushed the can again. “What did she expect you to say? ‘Yes, ma’am, and I plan to rob and shoot the both of you?’”

  “I think she was joking. I think…I think the other one, the daughter, didn’t want to stop. She was sort of bitchy-like, angry. One helluva looker, though. Don’t usually like short hair on women but, my lord, she had eyes like saucers and a real little pixie face.” He smiled. “Da
mn cute little thing. Staying over at the Lone Star.”

  “The Lone Star? What the heck are they doing there?”

  “The mom’s a writer—Carrie Bennett—writes romance or something.”

  His father’s forehead wrinkled. “Oh, heck. I know who she is. Leigh Anne used to read her stuff. Well, you can always take a ride over to visit Doris there. I’m sure she’d be glad to see you back.”

  “Ah, no. I got enough people to see.”

  “Want to go have a ride ’round the ranch? I can saddle up Devil and Brady and we can go out, get some fresh air.”

  “Maybe. A bit later maybe. How’re we doing anyway? How’s the hunting side goin’?”

  “Goin’ well, real well, both the horses and the hunting. Got a lot of corporate contracts this year from firms up in Dallas wanting to give their execs some fun. Mark Shandler’s taken over managing the horses for me, and I still got Larry Gruhl in the office doing the hunting. Got several good guides, a decent cook for the guests and made some improvements to the lodge over yonder.” There was a pause. “You think about what you want to do now? Though it’s early days yet. I don’t want to rush you into anything. You might want to go back to finish school.”

  Jake sighed, though he appreciated his father’s interest. “What I want to do, Dad? What I want to do is go find Grant and Toby and the rest of my friends, go on over to Luckenbach or maybe up to the Cowboy Bar or Arky’s at Bandera and get as fried as one of Mabel’s hushpuppies. A regular Friday night, only it’s Thursday. Then maybe, just maybe, I’ll think about the ranch or school or any other dang thing.” He got up and stretched, stifling a yawn before bending to pick up his bag. “The mother wasn’t bad lookin’, either. Maybe you should go on over and say ‘howdy’ to Doris?”

  His father chuckled a bit and picked a loose thread from the seam of his jeans before Jake moved to go down the hall.

  “Welcome home, son,” he said quietly. “Welcome home.”

  ****

  Paige shoved the cabin door open with her shoulder, clutching a box of groceries to her chest and hauling a suitcase. She let the screen door swing closed behind her, not really on purpose but with little consideration as to it hitting her mother, who followed with a laptop and her own case. Her mom’s foot went out just in time to stop the door. Paige didn’t help as her mother turned her back to push it open once more, dropping the handle of her case.

  “Was that absolutely necessary?”

  “Was what necessary?” She frowned and dumped the groceries on a small countertop.

  A lengthy sigh signified indulgence while the older features softened into acceptance. “Never mind.”

  Paige could get away with virtually anything these days.

  She started to investigate the cabin: a small living area with a kitchenette, a bedroom with two queen beds, a wardrobe and dresser, a bathroom off the bedroom.

  “Early Salvation Army, your grandmother would have called this.”

  “Isn’t this what you expected?” She made an effort to keep impatience out of her voice; after all, her mother had chosen the place. She must have known what she was getting into, and could have chosen some fancy hotel instead.

  “Pretty much. It’s homey, I guess you could say. Rustic. Actually, it’s sort of similar to the ranches we used to go to up in Colorado and Wyoming when you were small—patchwork quilts and well-worn furniture.”

  “‘Well-loved,’ I think is the expression.” Paige busied herself finding places for the groceries as unpacking commenced in the bedroom. “But the air is different. It’s not that mountain air. It hasn’t got a chill in it.”

  “No.” There was a hesitation in her mother’s voice as she held a pair of jeans in mid-air. “I’m glad you came. I like it when you come on my research trips. It gives me a different perspective on things, another view.”

  “But that wasn’t the reason you invited me,” Paige retorted, shoving her own case aside as she went into the bathroom and slammed the door. Alone for three minutes. She needed this.

  “Are you all right? Paige?”

  Her mother would be standing there, listening. It was obvious she worried, would not leave her be. It annoyed her, irritated her beyond reason. “Oh, for goodness sake. Can’t I even take a pee without you watching me?”

  “Sorry.” The word was mumbled, barely audibly. “I’m worried about you,” came through in a louder voice. “Can’t a mother worry?”

  “Yes, but you make a profession out of it.” Paige flushed the toilet and let the sound of the water precede her entrance into the room by several seconds. “I came because I know you hate traveling alone, hate driving around on your own—not to be molly-coddled, and worried over every five seconds.”

  “I’m sorry,” came the quiet reply. “I’ll try…to let go a bit. It’s just…I wish you would talk about it. Talk about Steven a bit mo—”

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” she yelled. “I don’t want to talk about him or anything to do with him. I’m not having that conversation. Not with you, not with anyone!”

  And that, she decided, was it. She traveled here because her mother needed her, wanted her here. Not because ‘getting away’ was good for her, a change of scenery to take her mind off her loss, make her forget. This certainly wouldn’t get her ‘out of herself.’ She was not going to enjoy this in the least; it was not going to ‘perk her up’ as various friends and relatives had suggested. This was for her mother only. This was not the end of her depression or a new beginning.

  Her mother let out a long breath. Paige matched it with her own, letting the tide of tension ebb. No doubt her mom’s heart ached with her inability to ease her pain, compensate for her loss. She must accept that, accept that it wasn’t her mother’s fault, that it had been no one’s fault, and that friends and family were trying to help her.

  Finished with unpacking, her mother started toward the kitchen area. A sudden spurt of children’s laughter wafted in an open window like the murmur of a breeze as a line of youngsters on ponies went by, led by a tall wrangler. Paige rolled her eyes, aware it hadn’t been all that long since she had been that carefree.

  “I’ll make dinner,” she pronounced.

  “All right then. I have to check my emails and get back to some people.” Her mother set her laptop on the small coffee table and opened it out.

  “Why don’t they offer dinner here? Seems strange to do breakfast and lunch but not dinner.”

  Her mother’s initial reply was a shrug. “They say people like to eat out. It doesn’t matter, does it? I need to visit the local nighttime haunts anyway.”

  Paige opened the fridge and started to lift out and arrange what she needed on the counter. “What’s the book about?”

  “Oh, it centers on two older people who meet again after many years—they’d had a college romance and broke up because their parents didn’t approve for reasons which now seem so remote. But I wanted to set it out west again, and Texas seemed like a good idea. Anyway, you never read my books, so what difference does it make?” There was humor rather than pique in her voice.

  “I do read your books. I read A Light in the Window and Little Black Dress. I can’t read them all—I was in law school you know. When do you think I had time to fit in romance novels, for goodness sake? Ah yes, ‘Torts and Romance Novels’—I forgot to take that course. Sorry.” She shook her head at her mother’s inability to conceive her workload.

  “Paige, I’ve been writing since you were four years old.”

  “Well, did you want me reading romance then?” She tried to put a light note in her voice to amuse her mother. It took a great deal of effort.

  There was another deep breath as her mom settled once more at the coffee table in the living room before reading aloud, “‘Burial Insurance?’ Do you insure against being buried? ‘Maximize Gentleman for a bigger penis size.’ I’ll take any penis I can get at this stage.”

  Paige laughed. Her mother had a routine of clicking on her
spam file first to make sure nothing of importance had gotten into the wrong folder, and the dry humor never ceased to amaze her.

  “‘Congratulations, you have been chosen!’ I bet I have. ‘Date Singles Over Fifty.’ How the hell do they know how old I am?”

  Paige started to chop vegetables.

  Her mother abruptly stood. “Don’t cut your fingers,” she warned.

  “Mother!”

  “Sorry. Let me help.”

  “No. You’re working. Get on with it.”

  Her mother remained standing. A shout outside the window caught her attention. Paige glanced through the pane as the woman who had checked them in walked by; she had been friendly enough, almost nosey, inquisitive. They probably didn’t appear the usual dude ranch types despite their jeans and boots. Or maybe it was her imagination and the woman—was her name Doris?—had just been trying to get to know her guests. She hated that interrogation, that attempt to be friendly with people you wouldn’t know in four days.

  Paige considered once more the waste of time at being here. She wasn’t her mother’s muse, nor was the trip going to lift her depression or help her come to a conclusion about returning to law school. In fact, it was nothing more than making her mom feel slightly better about the daughter who had lost a fiancé, the child whose world had changed suddenly, almost in the flash of a moment, unexpectedly and unpredictably in a nano second she hadn’t had time to see coming. That was her life now. That was what she had to deal with. And in her own way, she would deal with it.

  Her mother faced her with a weary look. “I wonder if I’ll be writing the same crap when I’m seventy, eighty,” she said almost under her breath. “Getting old sucks.”

  Paige put down the knife, a fan of zucchini circles lying on the chopping board. “What brought this on? You love writing. It’s what you do, who you are.”