A
I left Bobbie at the JCPenney’s jewelry counter and fought the traffic up North Reserve to get back to work. The afternoon went quickly with me helping travelers find lost bags and doing paperwork.
It was late when I left the airport. The low fuel light started flashing on my dash as soon as I pulled out of the parking lot. I turned into a little gas station nearby and pulled up to the pump. Music blared from the loudspeaker as I put the hose into my tank. The acrid smell of evaporating gas filled my nostrils. I stood in the blue-white light under the gas station awning and pulled my jacket collar up against the chill air. My eyes rested on the bar across the street. I took in the torn awning, the glowing Bud Light sign, and the totem-pole figure of a bear sitting by the window.
The weathered wooden door opened with a creak, and an old man in a John Deere cap shuffled out, then wandered up the street. The storefront was like many others I had seen as a child, and it brought back bitter memories.
I must have been about nine years old. It was summer, muggy and heavy, with the scent of steaming grass and car exhaust that filtered through the cracked window. Angry voices escalated in the front seat of the car. Watching broken-down storefronts slide past the window, I sat in the back seat and hugged my teddy bear. I hummed to myself and tried not to think about what was happening. I was trying not to listen. Neon signs with letters missing flashed erratically in my eyes.
“I didn’t say that.” My mother gripped the steering wheel, white knuckled, bracing herself. She knew what would come next and so did I.
“Yes, you did!” The car veered a little when he struck her shoulder.
“I did not!” my mother spat back.
The boyfriend swore violently. He yanked his ball cap from his head and slammed it on the dash. “I am sick of your belly aching. You can’t say this is my fault. The foreman had it in for me from the beginning. It was just a matter of time.”
“Can’t you ask your brother for money?” my mother pleaded. “He owes you.”
The man scoffed. “Why? Just so you can spend more money on your hair and nails? I need a drink. Stop here,” he said pointing to a run-down bar. “Now!”
Brakes squealed and the car lurched as tires ground against the curb. The seat belt clenched my shoulder painfully. My mother’s face, lined with tension, appeared over the back of the seat. “Stay here. Don’t get out,” she said angrily. She grabbed her purse and followed the dark form of the man walking into the bar, her short skirt swinging with her steps.
I sat in the car, pressing my cheek into the soft fur of my teddy bear. A grim despair settled into my belly. It was starting to get cold and I was hungry. I realized dismally there was nothing to do but wait.
A
It was a long time ago, but the memory of it—and others like it—lingered, cold and gray in the cellars of my mind. I heaved a sigh, discharging years of childhood anxiety into the fall air. Across the street, a middle-aged couple emerged from the bar. The beat of a drum and the sound of clinking glass poured out behind them.
I replaced the gas cap, slid behind the wheel, and drove home.
Chapter 4
dc
The next day, I was leaving a meeting in the superintendent’s office when I saw Lily, a coworker, headed in my direction, a harried look on her face. She was leading a pigtailed child with one hand and toting an overstuffed, hot pink Barbie backpack in the other.
“Oh, Jenna, I have a problem,” Lily said, catching her breath. “That last flight delayed her plane’s departure and I am supposed to help another passenger with special needs right now. Can you take care of it for me?”
I smiled at the little girl. She stood on one foot and stroked the ends of her fluffy purple boa against her chin.
“Sure, I have some time,” I reached for the clipboard in Lily’s hand. “Who’s next?”
Lily handed me the paperwork. “Mitchell Harrison. Ninety-seven years old, but very sharp, I hear. Just has some balance problems. He’s in a wheelchair in the waiting room across from the service counter.”
I took the papers. “Got it.” I winked at the little girl who grinned back, an empty space between her teeth punctuating her smile.
The pair continued on down the hall, the girl’s pigtails bobbing and red lights flashing in her tennis shoes as they touched the floor.
Downstairs in the lobby, I passed under the display of stuffed animals, a trio of elk, deer, and antelope, their glassy eyes fixed in surprise at finding themselves overlooking the steady stream of travelers wheeling their bags across the brick floor. A neon sign in the miniature real estate office said “Montana, the Last Best Place!” Beautifully colored brochures of the Bitterroot Valley and surrounding areas enticed tourists to stake their claim and stay.
From the check-in counter, I saw Harrison in the waiting area. He leaned forward in his wheelchair, a slim hand on one knee. His paper- thin complexion was brushed to life by the red flush in his cheeks. A model of an antique plane was spotlighted over his head and the brightness from the display effused into his white hair. He was engaged in a lively conversation with a young man in dreadlocks wearing a rumpled blue shirt and a gleaming pair of Nikes. Harrison illustrated his story by gently waving his mahogany cane. The young man’s magazine lay idle on his lap, his bearded jaw hung open slightly. His eyes followed the arc of the old man’s cane.
Behind Harrison, a woman with dark hair fussed with a carry-on bag that hung at his side.
I went to the desk and checked the computer for the flight’s arrival time and found it was running behind schedule. Better late than never, I thought. I crossed to the waiting room.
“Excuse me, Mr. Harrison?”
He turned crystal blue eyes on me, and I felt as if I had stepped into a clear summer morning. “Well, now,” he said, settling back into his wheelchair, “here you are. What is your name, miss?” His smile was warm and his voice was the hush of wind through trees.
Remembering that the wheelchair-bound are more comfortable being spoken to than spoken over, I stooped in front of him and smiled in return. “I’m Jenna Clark. I’m here to assist you this morning. How are you getting along?”
“Well, this young man was just entertaining me.” He gestured toward the man, who smiled sheepishly. He looked as if he had been caught awakening from a pleasant dream in a public place. Clearing his throat, he focused again on his hiking magazine.
The hand Harrison extended to me was gnarled and flecked with chestnut, but unexpectedly warm and strong.
The woman who accompanied him stepped forward. “Hi, I’m Betty Jacobs,” she said. “This is my grandfather. We hate to have him travel alone, but my husband is ill and I can’t get away to go on the flight.”
“Now, Betty,” he said, reaching up to touch her sleeve. “I’ll be just fine. California is nothing but a hop and a skip away.”
“Don’t worry about him,” I reassured her. “He will be in the best of hands the whole way and someone can call you when he reaches his destination.”
“We’ll take good care of you, Mr. Harrison,” I added, speaking to the man, who nodded, patting his cane.
“I’m afraid it will be about an hour before you can board. Can I get you anything while you wait?”
“Well, in that case,” he patted his brown, woolen jacket with the dignified gesture of a maître d’ in a fine restaurant, “I will need to take my medication.” He smiled. “I keep telling my doctor that he needs this medicine more than I do, but I’m afraid his word carries more weight than mine.”
Betty looked at her watch. “Grandpa, I need to pick Becky up from her dance lesson. Will you be OK if I go?”
“I’ll take him down to the restaurant,” I offered. “He can take his medicine and get something to eat, if he would like.”
The old man nodded congenially and relaxed into his chair. “Fine, fine,” he said. Betty rummaged in her large yellow bag for a scrap of paper and wrote her cell number down in case we needed
to call her. She pressed the paper into my hand, hugged her grandfather tenderly, and left the waiting room.
I carefully arranged his cane across his lap and hung the small brown bag on the back of the wheelchair. A vague scent of cloves and new leather surrounded him.
“So, you are headed to California?” I asked as we rolled toward the restaurant.
He replied that a great-granddaughter was getting married. He would soon be among dozens of family members from seven states and one foreign country. He lamented that he had not been asked to give the bride away. “I guess she didn’t want to be harnessed up to a three-legged horse,” he jested, indicating his cane. “I can walk, you know,” he insisted as we dodged a lady in a bright orange T-shirt that said, “If it’s not chocolate, why bother?”
“If it’s easier, I can walk beside you. I don’t want to wear you out pushing this thing, and I do well with this cane,” he said, patting the handle, “I just need it for balance.”
“We’re doing fine,” I reassured him. “I need to build up my biceps anyway.” The last thing I wanted was for him to fall on the slick marble floor.
I wheeled the chair onto the quiet carpet of the restaurant. The smell of freshly brewed coffee and bacon greeted us. The place was mostly vacant at that time of day, and we worked our way across the red carpet and around tables and chairs to a secluded corner. The plump waitress snapped to attention, apparently grateful for something to do to pass the time.
Harrison ordered a glass of juice and one of the restaurant’s oversized cookies. Checking my watch, I realized I wouldn’t be needed back at the counter for a while, so I sat at the table beside him.
“Now tell me about yourself,” the old man said, lacing his fingers together and leaning forward in his chair. “You are such a lovely girl. Those pretty green eyes. I’ll bet you have a sweetheart.”
I could feel the blood rise from my neck and spread to my face as I blushed. Whenever I am the least bit embarrassed, it’s like a neon sign that betrays my feelings. My flaming cheeks were often a source of never-ending torment when I was in grade school.
Sweetheart, I thought. Not a word that seemed to fit Derek. To be truthful, sweet was not a word I would use for any of the guys I had hung out with before him either. They were arrogant, perhaps, maybe self-centered. They were easy to get to know and, unfortunately, easy to forget. My reluctance—and theirs—to reach deep into the heart made things less painful for me when the relationships evaporated, as they inevitably would.
“I’m afraid I wasn’t meant to have a ‘sweetheart,’” I said with a wry smile.
He looked dismayed and placed a lean hand on his chest. “Now then, that can’t be so … surely?” His voice was low and filled with genuine concern.
“Well, let’s just say it’s not in my genes … or in my roots … or something.” The words escaped before I caught them. I was surprised that I felt inclined to share my feelings with this stranger. His kindness, his self-assured calm, seemed a peaceful place in a chaotic world.
The waitress placed a frosty glass of orange juice on the table along with a still-warm cookie, chocolate chips puddling into fragrant goo. The interruption gave me a chance to avoid his gaze.
“There ya go, honey. You let me know if you need anything else.” She whirled off in the direction of a young couple just stepping up to the “Please wait to be seated” sign.
“My Margaret and I …” He folded his hands and stared into space a long moment, a faint smile lingering on his lips. “She and I were married seventy years,” he said with reverence. “What a wonderful woman. She could light up a room by merely stepping inside it. Had a voice like an angel, she did.” He paused and sighed. “I miss her every day.”
Seventy years with the same person. I was awed by the thought. What would that be like? Seventy years of waking up in the morning together. Seventy years staring across the table at a face becoming so familiar you could see every line and feature when you closed your eyes. Seventy years with the same voice calling your name.
“Congratulations. That’s a long time. How’d you do that?” My brow twisted with curiosity. The kind of magic that could bind two people together for decades both fascinated and mystified me.
He closed his eyes and rubbed the polished mahogany surface of his cane as he considered his response. “Day by day you build a life together that means something. It’s an honor to know a person that well. It’s a privilege to have them invest their life and breath in you.”
That, I thought, sounds easier said than done.
I made sure he was finished taking his medication, then said, “Let’s move upstairs, OK? There’s a quiet room near the gate. You’ll be closer when they call your flight.”
I rolled the wheelchair to the elevator, where we crowded on with two other passengers and their copious luggage. When the doors clattered open onto the second floor, we headed down the hall toward the gate. We skirted an area marked with orange cones where two men wrestled with a gray metal box on the wall. The panel popped open, exposing a wild tangle of colored wires and little black switches. We passed through the main waiting area, where several travelers were engrossed in their laptops, their faces illuminated by the glow from the screens. A large man with a square face leaned back in his chair and spoke loudly into his cell phone. “Now, you just tell them what I said. I’ll be there tomorrow. You tell them not to get their shorts in a bunch. We’ll talk about it when I get there.”
I pushed the wheelchair through the door into the smaller adjoining waiting room and parked it across from a well-dressed couple and a little girl. The man scratched furiously at his day planner and his wife was absorbed in her magazine.
The little girl played disconsolately with a floppy doll in a ruffled skirt. “Mommy, when do we get on the plane?” she asked.
“In a while, now don’t pester me,” the woman snapped. She tapped her foot nervously against her Gucci bag.
I went to the gate desk to check the flight time and make sure arrangements had been made for someone to give wheelchair assistance. When I returned, I saw Harrison leaning forward in his chair, chatting with the girl. Her ponytail bobbed up and down as she nodded, a cautious smile creeping across her face. The lights in the room suddenly flickered, then flickered again. There was little natural light to the room so the flashes were disorienting. The lights faded, then went out altogether, leaving the room ghostly in the eerie green glow of emergency lights, pierced by the red light from exit signs.
The woman threw her hand up in irritation, tossing her magazine to the floor beside her. The man grunted in disgust.
In the dim light, I could see the little girl’s face tense and then pucker, threatening tears. “It’s OK, honey,” I consoled her, touching her knee.
“I’ll see what’s going on,” I told Harrison, who nodded.
Down the hall, I found what I expected. In the dim light from the windows, I could see the two workers by the electrical box with their flashlights, frantically pulling wires. A third man, his tool belt clanking, hurried toward them. I realized there was nothing I could do to help, so I returned to the waiting room.
I walked through the doorway and was again engulfed in the strobe light effect in the room. I saw the old man rise from his wheelchair, his body erect, firmly grasping his cane. He stepped across to where the little girl sat crying, her hands covering her face. All the while, the lights flashed on and off, making his movements appear erratic, like a character in some old-time movie. He bent low and gently touched the girl’s shoulder. She uncovered her face and lifted her eyes to meet his. The white of his handkerchief was blinding in the flashing light as he wiped her tearstained cheeks. He spoke so quietly I couldn’t make out the words. He placed a small, shiny object in her hand and gently closed her fingers over it. She calmed and looked steadily into his face as he continued to talk softly.
The girl’s parents barely noticed the interchange. They scrambled about for their possessions and pulle
d them close.
The old man stood erect once again, his body dignified and strong. He turned slowly and sat in his wheelchair just as the last flash flickered and held on. The little girl’s face wore the expression of a shared secret.
“Mr. Harrison? Are you, OK?” I asked.
He nodded. “Right as rain.”
“I’m sorry that happened. They are working on the electrical system. Can I get you anything?” I looked back and forth between the man and child, puzzled.
“Not at the moment. I am content,” he said, still smiling at the little girl.
I wondered what he had given her that had calmed her. What did he say to her?
“Let’s get to our gate while we can still see where we are going,” the man across from us said huffily to his wife. The couple shouldered their carry-ons and grabbed the girl by the hand. Harrison nodded a farewell to the child, who broke into a smile and waved at him as she went out the door toward the noisy gate area.
“Well, I guess we’d better go too.” I adjusted the bag on the back of his wheelchair. “Again, sorry about the light thing. That must have been distressing for you.”
“Not really. Sometimes things happen for a reason.”
Heartbeat of the Bitterroot Page 3
