They embraced. Hank felt the slight shaking in the old man’s shoulders give way to that rarest of events: male emotion. A nurse pushed an old woman in a wheelchair down the corridor, her plastic IV bottle swinging from its metal arm. The nurse holding Reed had her transfixed by dangling a set of car keys. Outside it was a typical Southern California day, suffused with sunlight. Hank patted his father’s shoulder. “Let’s go,” he said softly, and his father nodded.
Iris lay still on what had been her last earthly bed. Someone had thoughtfully removed her IVs. Her silver hair was loose against the pillow, and her lips were slightly parted. Henry sat down in the chair and took her hand. Hank took a long look at the two of them, trying to recall every good deed his parents had done. His father had read him Treasure Island, and his mother, when called upon, would energetically act out the voice of the parrot. He laughed to himself, remembering. He hoped that during all those vacations he had spent with his grandmother in Arizona, these two had enjoyed some kind of holiday from it all. How hard it must have been to drum up enthusiasm for one child when you had lost your first. Someday he would sit Reed down and explain that absolutely it wasn’t fair, but it was a fact that grief caused people to do the strangest things. How in periods of profound sorrow, it sometimes made perfect sense to give up the most prolonged and sustaining happiness. That people clung to what they knew how to do, even if it hurt, because sometimes the fear of opening one’s heart to further pain was paralyzing. Maybe Reed would comprehend a glimmer of the grandmother who was afraid to allow her last five months to be penetrated by the hope of this child continuing on without her. Maybe he would, too. Or not, and together they would find some way to shoulder the ache. For himself he looked harder, more selfishly, indulging a heart that could only cave in on itself now that something so fundamental and basic was ended. He kissed his mother good-bye on the lips, then left the room so his father could be alone with his wife.
The following day he booked his flight. Henry insisted he was fine, that there was nothing more he needed Hank to do here. Iris had stipulated cremation in her will, no funeral, asked that her ashes be distributed near the cabin, which made sense to Hank, since that was where she had scattered Annie’s. Hank told his father, “There’s no hurry. Give a call when you’re ready. You can come out here, or if you’d rather, send them along and I can do it myself.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“Well, then.” Hank picked up their luggage and headed to the rental car.
His father followed him out the door. “Son? Can you spare me a moment?”
Hank set the luggage down, hoisted Reed on his hip. “Sure, Dad.”
Henry senior reached into his pocket and handed over a passbook.
“What is this?”
“It was your mother’s doing. I found it in with her things.”
Hank thumbed open the blue cover. The balance was in the mid five figures, and the account had been issued in the name of Reed Morgan Oliver, with Hank Oliver listed as beneficiary. He shut the passbook and held it in his fingers. “I appreciate the gesture, Dad. It’s lamentable our best communication always seems to be conducted through institutions. I hope we can work on changing that.”
Henry looked away. “You’d better get along or you’ll get stuck in traffic. Who knows? Maybe the next time you visit, they’ll have converted El Toro into a commercial flight operation.”
They made their connections, flew north in unremarkable weather, and now he was breathing Flagstaff’s pine-scented air and strapping Reed into her car seat in the back of the Honda, its windows dusty from sitting in the long-term parking lot.
Hank drove north, passing the Big Tree swap meet, Mary’s Café, the Horsemen’s Lodge, the fledgling bait shops again starting to do a decent business now that fishing weather was upon them. There was the saloon Hannah had run away to. It was miraculous she hadn’t been killed crossing the highway. He no longer experienced a sense of heart-stopping awe at the sight of the San Francisco peaks, or rage at the red rock being quarried out of hillsides in order to pave the roads. Things were the way they were, and that was all there was to it. Everything that had happened here had earned him the right to own those mountains. Likewise, he was part of the problem when it came to the road resurfacing. Coconino was his county. He was no longer a newcomer, but he wasn’t so arrogant as to assume he would ever be called a local. His grandmother had given him a gift: Hank Oliver was a little boy who had returned to the place he loved as a child in order to grow into a man.
In Cameron he stopped at the post office to pick up the mail—in case Chloe hadn’t had time to check it, he told himself, but he knew that was a stall tactic, delaying until the last possible moment the return to the cabin that might be empty. Their box was stuffed. Letter for Chloe from Kit, utility bills, circulars, that free paper with all the singles ads that suddenly didn’t seem so amusing. From the bunch he extracted an envelope addressed to him. The return address was Pima Community College down in Tucson, which meant nothing. He’d continued sending out CVs, applying to anything remotely related to his old position, only to receive in abundance tellingly thin envelopes all saying no. Hardly paid to waste the stamps, he thought. He tucked it into his pocket to feel bad about later.
The usual smattering of tourist cars filled the lot of the Trading Post, as well as a couple of news vans. More Grand Canyon flooding business? Hank wondered as technicians lugged cables across the lot into the building. Please, let this be about artwork, not accidents, he prayed. Oscar Johnson came out the front door with a FedEx box in his hands, and Hank whistled to get his attention, then waved. Oscar set the box down and motioned with both hands for Hank to hurry over. Regretting his enthusiasm, Hank lifted Reed out of her car seat. He wasn’t up to polite chatter when so much weighed on his mind, but Oscar was a good friend, and for a friend he could muster a smile.
“Hank, you the man,” Oscar said excitedly. “Can’t say you got excellent timing because these reporter dudes been camped out here two days annoying the crap out of Corrine, but there’ll be dancing aplenty once I drag your butt inside. Come on, you got to get your picture took.”
“I’m in the dark as to why anyone needs my photograph, Oscar, not to mention kind of tired. Can we do whatever this is another time?”
Oscar shook his head, grinning. “You didn’t hear, did you?”
“I guess not.”
“Hank, that New York time-zone girl did some story on your class, man. The deal with the rocks, you know?” He slapped his shoulder. “Freakin’ New York Times, it’s a newspaper. The phone’s been ringing off the hook. Everybody in America wants to buy a ‘Mysterious and Keepsake’ rock to raise money for the library. Letters coming every day. They send checks. I ain’t shitting you, man, they gonna want pictures. Now come on, let’s go. I want to watch you smile for the camera.”
“Really?”
“Enit, man.”
Hank let himself be led inside. He could sense without actually knowing that here came the moment, the one that would return to him over and over in his life, hovering on the edge of dreams, intervening in stressful times when his faith wavered, this moment would step in to sustain him when Reed left home for college and he wasn’t sure how he was going to let her go without falling apart himself. Its message was simple: The effort put forth in trying to do a good thing mattered a hell of a lot more than its aftermath, but sometimes, once or even twice if you were lucky, what you’d struggled for panned out, and even got noticed. He walked into the Post and heard the rush of voices, blinked at the flashing cameras, saw Walter “Dog” Johnson, former geek, son of the errant Junior Whitebear, beam excitedly as he demonstrated the correct etching technique, then elbow Chuey Alberto, who was making faces for the camera, out of the way, notice him and stop and point. Like riding a horse in bad weather, when the wind and rain assault the back of your neck, things came about, and what had been cold and chased him was now as invigorating as clean rain against his fa
ce. The rush of energy directed itself Hank’s way as Dog said, “That’s him.”
Chuey added, “Best bilagáana teacher in the whole of Ganado El, third grade. My teacher.”
“Our teacher,” Dog corrected him, and for a few seconds there it seemed that a fistfight might be in the making. If it happened, Hank was laying his money down on Dog Johnson.
There were questions to be answered, requests for interviews; checks and donations to be counted, acknowledged with thank-you letters; everyone speaking at once. Hank stood in the middle of it all remembering something his grandmother had once told him, when his terrarium full of precious lizards had bought the proverbial farm. For everything you lose, for all that hurts, there is something equally important waiting to take its place. Hank understood she was telling the truth, and he prayed that Ganado Elementary wouldn’t gain its library if it meant he had to lose Chloe Morgan.
He saw her bags packed, sitting on the floor, waiting. She was on the phone.
“Why did you have to come back?” she was saying. “Why now, when I finally don’t need you?”
He stood just out of her line of vision, listening to his worst fears being realized. Then her tack changed.
“I know. I want to see you, too,” she was saying. “I want to belong to you. I’m just afraid. You’ll have to be patient with me. There’s a lot of things we need to work through.”
Well, it wasn’t unexpected. They were adults here, and if they put Reed first, somehow they would manage to get through this. He stepped into the living room and stood before her. In his heart he knew Chloe was talking to Junior, finalizing plans. She had just been waiting to catch the baby and then she would be gone. Chloe’s cheeks flushed the same way they colored after making love. She was barefoot. Under her sweatshirt she wasn’t wearing any bra; her nipples were erect and poking at the fabric. Any other time he would have pressed his palm there, just gone ahead and claimed the pleasure. He didn’t think he could force enough air into his lungs to speak. Surprised, caught off balance, she gestured to the receiver and motioned for him to wait. What else was he supposed to do?
Chloe swiped the tears from her eyes and looked at Reed and smiled. “You don’t just have a daughter, Belle, you’ve got a granddaughter, too. Listen, I’m going to have to call you back. Hank’s home, and we need to talk.”
She hung up the phone and made her way across the room a little unsteadily, scooping Reed out of his arms. “Look at you, you big girl. How on earth did you grow so much in only five days? Did you miss me? I sure missed you.”
Hank arm’s were empty, and the feeling was frightening. His head still spun from the encounter with the news crews. He shut his eyes and felt his mouth fill with salt. All he could tell for certain was that the room was filled with the distinct odor of horses.
Outside, Hannah was whining, scratching at the door, barking for attention. Chloe danced across the room holding her daughter, chattering in baby talk. With one hand she pulled the rocking chair away from the dog door, and Hannah came rushing in.
“I had to shut her out, Hank, she was driving me crazy.”
Hank figured who in hell needed a dog around when you’re trying to conduct a passionate liaison? Had they done it in his very bed, for God’s sake? Who was Belle? “Why is that?”
“Because I was talking to my mother,” Chloe said. “It’s only our second conversation, and well, sometimes things get a little emotional, and I raise my voice, and you know how much Hannah likes me getting upset.”
“Belle is your mother?”
Chloe nodded. She set Reed down on the couch and handed her the silver rattle. “As stories go, this is a long one. But it can keep while you come on over here and tell me everything that happened. I don’t want you to leave anything out.”
He set his luggage down next to hers, more uncertain now than ever, afraid to ask whether she was coming or going. In the kitchen he poured himself a glass of water and forced himself to drink it down. His throat felt sore again; he could feel his voice retreating. “My mother died the day before yesterday,” he said. What else was there? “She opened a bank account for Reed a long time ago. Like a college fund. Do those suitcases mean you’re leaving me for Junior Whitebear?”
Chloe looked up from their daughter. Her brown, guileless eyes regarded him with honesty and soreness. “Why on earth would you ask me that?”
The confession was unnecessary. Just by looking, Hank knew she had slept with him, and that somehow the act had cost her dearly. He knew it as well as he knew his own broken heart. He sighed. “I understand why you did it, Chloe, but I sure wish you hadn’t.”
“Hank, listen,” she started to say, but he interrupted her.
“No, you listen to me. I’ve given this a lot of thought. The only way things will work is if you do what’s right for you. Don’t pity me, and don’t lie. The only thing I ask is that you don’t cut Reed out of my life. I’m telling you, Chloe, that I could not bear.” He set the water glass down. “If it comes down to it, I’ll fight you both for her. I swear I will.”
She laughed, and the sound of it was jagged, bitter in her throat. “Well, isn’t that just you and me all over the map? Hitch the cart before the horse, and dog-cuss the animal for not moving fast enough. Cut directly through the preliminaries. Sleep together on the first date, have a baby before we can decide to get married.”
“It was never me having trouble with that last part.”
“I know. I never intended to lie to you, Hank. I meant to tell you right away. I haven’t got a clue what’s going to happen. All I know is I love you, I’m here, and there isn’t anywhere else I want to be at the moment, except maybe down in Patagonia visiting my mother, which is where I was planning to go when you got back.”
“You love me?”
“Of course I do.”
“You never said it before.”
“I have trouble with words—it’s one of my biggest failings. But you have to know I always meant it. I have a mother, Hank. Like you, I want her to meet Reed. She raises horses, can you beat that? I have a whole set of uncles and cousins, and they want to meet me, they’re excited to meet me.” She stopped a moment. “But I won’t go anyplace while you need me here. I can go there anytime. Come tell me everything that happened. Lay down here on the couch next to me and I’ll rub your shoulders. Or I can fix you something to eat if you’re hungry. God knows we’ve got plenty of bread.”
He knelt down by the couch and took hold of her, his hands roughly encircling her upper arms, holding on hard enough to leave bruises.
“Or we can put this baby to bed and shuffle down the hallway, if that’s what you need.”
“Of course that’s what I need.” He began to cry, pressing his face against her loose breasts. He could hear her heart beating. He inhaled the horse sweat and essence of woman beneath it. Her hair grew damp on the ends from his tears. He cried until he had poured out all the suspicion and anger and sorrow, just let it all spill out of himself and onto her.
Chloe stroked his hair away from his forehead and kissed his cheeks, cradling him to her breasts. “Belle’s waited thirty-odd years, she can wait a few days longer.”
“And Junior?” he managed. “How long can he wait?”
He felt her stiffen. “Well,” she said, sighing. “You’d have to ask him that, and Junior’s gone. He took off.”
“Forever?”
“He told Corrine he’d be in touch in a month or so, to pick Dog up for the summer.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m guessing he’ll survive. We all will, somehow or other, if we can forgive each other. Right now Reed is looking awful damn sleepy to me. Doesn’t she look tired to you?”
Hank looked up. Mouthing the end of the silver rattle, the baby regarded them both solemnly. “I don’t know how much good I can be to you in the bedroom.”
“Does that really matter, when you know how good I can be to you?”
She was right abo
ut that. Trouble was, Chloe’s kind of magic was so rare as to be addicting, and such powerful stuff worked on more than one man. Nevertheless he let her take him to their bed, surrendered himself, beholden to whatever she had left to give him, believed her when she said again, “I love you,” and he gratefully wrapped the words around his heart like an almighty bandage.
There are myths, and then there are miracles, Hank thought, watching the tail lights on the horse trailer ignite as Chloe braked to make the careful turn off the gravel onto the unpaved road. You awaken one day dreading having to drive to work in the rain, and this wild horse goddess charges into your life, covered in blood, baring her breasts, dismantling any notion of armor you thought you possessed. So begins the quest. Up a tree, outside a courtroom, stranded on the edge of a past civilization. And just when you think you’ve beheaded every dragon, survived the cold, dark belly of the whale, she delivers you a daughter, a most wonderful headstrong daughter who looks nothing like you and possesses—if such a thing is possible—even more will than her mother. Soldier that you are, you adapt your battle plans. You cling to this vision of raising her right, life settling down to a reasonable roar, the two of you growing old together, getting comfortable in squeaky rockers on a country porch, then along comes a handsome Indian and the New York Times and a long-lost mother, and you realize you’ve behaved like the perfect fool: The quest never ended, the journey never ends. You were simply set off course by a temporary siren call that rewrote your itinerary. You spent your money in an all-too-comfortable port, and now it’s time to put your back into work again. So how do you do that when you know perfectly well the only thing you can do is let her go? Well, I guess you believe in your heart there’s enough purchase there for her, the horse and the dog to come back to. And maybe there is Reed, bending easily between you both, braiding your lives together like the weave on a basket.
The truck and trailer were out of his sight now, the airborne dust from the tires still suspended in small clouds, taking its time settling back to earth. Hank walked around back of the cabin and shut the gate on the empty corral, fastening it to the fence post. He’d built this fence with his own two hands, and it was a steady, decent effort that would easily go several more winters.
Loving Chloe Page 33
