Hearth Song

by Lois Greiman

  Pulling carefully into the parking lot, Vura killed the engine. Maybe the pavement tilted a little as she stepped onto it, but that could be just as much a result of too little food as too much beer, she thought, and decided she’d better fuel up soon.

  The elevator ride to the third floor was a little daunting. Her head spun some, but by the time she reached room 375 she was back on her game.

  It was when she opened the door and saw Tonkiaishawien bowed over her grandfather’s body that things got a little crazy.

  Chapter 14

  “No!” Vura rasped, and streaking across the floor, grabbed Tonk’s upraised arm. Their gazes clashed, steel on stone.

  The world froze in petrified shock; then, “Bravura?” Her grandfather’s voice sounded scratchy and weak from the bed beside her.

  “Gamps!” she gasped, still holding Tonk’s arm in a desperate grasp. “I won’t let him hurt you!”

  “What are you doing, girl?”

  “What am I doing? What’s he doing with that”—she jerked her gaze to his raised hand—“knife?” she said, but suddenly it didn’t look so much like a blade as a smoldering bundle of weeds.

  Tonk’s brows rose the slightest degree. “Are you intoxicated?” he asked.

  “Intoxicated! No, I’m not—” He’d spoken of quality of life rather than number of days as if he thought her grandfather’s life might just as well end. Still, maybe she had been a little quick to jump to conclusions. One more glance at the weeds in his hand had them morphing into a braided bundle of sweetgrass. Its vanilla scent wafted kindly into the silent room. “I’m not,” she repeated, but she wasn’t entirely positive now.

  “Vura …” Gamps said, “have you been drinking?” Her grandfather’s words pulled her gaze to his pillow, forced her fingers to open, her arm to drop disgracefully to her side.

  The old man’s face looked parchment white, his lips nearly as pale. She winced, twisted fully toward him, and resisted wriggling like a teenager caught with a stink bomb. Her father’s father had always been her champion, but champions came in a hundred varied forms and this one had never been an advocate of excessive coddling.

  “I just …” She felt silly suddenly, and inordinately young, as if she had taken several shaky steps back into childhood. “I just had a couple of beers with the men.”

  “What men?” Despite his deteriorating health, Gamps’s voice was as sharp as a hacksaw. She resisted closing her eyes at her own stupidity.

  “My crew. We …” Her head spun a little, and she allowed herself to sink slowly onto the side of his bed. “We finished Mrs. Washburn’s kitchen today. Thought we’d celebrate a little.”

  The old man scowled and nodded. The motion was weak. “That’s right. Colley’s kitchen.”

  Did he say the name with a modicum of affection? she wondered. Could there be a shred of truth to old Hip’s story of pinup girls and subsequent inspiration? “Yeah, Colleen Washburn.” She smoothed out the blanket that rested over his ribby chest. “Have you known her a long time?”

  “I’m a hundred years old,” he huffed, but some of the gruffness had left his tone. “I’ve known everyone a long time.”

  “You’re not a hundred,” she said, and smiled at him, though he looked weaker than he had during her last visit. “Barely any older than Colley.” It felt funny using such a girly nickname.

  He harrumphed as if Mrs. Colleen Washburn, feisty octogenarian that she was, was as fresh as a spring blossom. “So you finished her big kitchen project?”

  “Just a few hours ago.”

  “Was she pleased with the results?”

  “She was,” Vura said, and couldn’t quite contain the surprise she still felt.

  “Well then, I suppose you got cause to celebrate,” Gamps said. “But remember, Bravura Marie, there’s never a reason to overindulge.”

  And suddenly she felt even younger, like a toddler who had neglected to finish her greens. She squirmed a little. “I know, Gamps,” she said, and felt his gaze scour her face.

  “Good. Good.” He patted her hand. “You’ve always been a fine girl, Bravura.”

  “Thank you,” she said, and resisted the urge to glance up to gauge Tonk’s reaction. She would be an imbecile to care what he thought. And she wasn’t imbecilic … usually. Never, in fact. Almost.

  “But when I’m gone …” He tightened his grip on her hand, bony fingers digging like talons. “You’ve got to be strong … for that baby of yours, if not for yourself.”

  “Gamps …” She leaned toward him. “Don’t talk like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like you’re going to …” Her throat tightened up. She cleared it with an effort. “Like you’re going to be leaving us.”

  “Bravura—” His tone was a tired meld of frustration and tenderness. But she stopped him.

  “We need you,” she said, and fisted her hand beneath his. “Lily and I. We still have so much to learn.” She forced a smile. It hurt her face. “I always use too much flux on the fittings. And you promised to teach me to weld.”

  Worry flickered through his ancient eyes, and then his gaze drifted sideways as if he were seeing things beyond her scope. His fingers felt cool and weightless against the back of her hand.

  “Gamps?”

  “She’s proud of you, Bravura.”

  “What?” She turned her hand in his so as to grip his fingers. “Who?”

  “Rosie.” He said the name softly, then smiled with a soft reverence that shook her soul. “Your grandmother’s proud of you.”

  “That’s nice,” she said, though honest to God, he was scaring the living daylights out of her. Grandma Murrell had been gone since before Lily’s birth. It had always been a throbbing source of pain to think how the most important woman in her life would have reacted to the news of her unwed pregnancy.

  “Very proud,” he said and, eyes clearing a little, squeezed her fingers. “So am I. Always have been. But I’ve earned some rest, haven’t I, honey?”

  “Rest?” She felt selfish suddenly and oddly disoriented. Was he talking about a catnap or was he, maybe, thinking about something much more final? She nodded, though now that she was here, she didn’t want to leave. Didn’t want to release his hand. “Of course. Of course you have. I just … I love you, that’s all and I …” She resisted yet again glancing at Tonk. “I just kind of wanted your opinion on a job I’m bidding.”

  “Oh?” He had always taken an interest in her work, had always been inordinately proud of her abilities, though it was unconventional at best for a woman to be in her line of work. Now, however, barely a flash of curiosity shone in his faded eyes. “What job is that?”

  She tried to stifle her fears. “Kenny Walters wants a cabin built on the river.”

  The old man shook his head weakly. “Kenny always would spend a dollar if he had a dime.”

  Randall Murrell, on the other hand, could pinch a penny until it begged for mercy, but maybe that’s what happened when you survived the Great Depression and skipped over a bunch of lesser ones like they were no more significant than a bump in the road.

  “He wants it move-in ready by the Fourth of July.” She grinned. “Wants copper piping throughout so you’re not gonna have much time to lollygag about.”

  His gaze wandered away.

  “Gamps?”

  It seemed to take forever for his attention to filter back to her, and when it did, his expression was solemn. “She’s waiting, Bravura.”

  “Who?” She actually glanced behind her, but the doorway was empty. “Who’s waiting?”

  He smiled, seemed to come back to her, patted her arm with his free hand. “You don’t need an old man like me, honey. I want to go home.”

  “Home? Okay.” She nodded, eager to help, to do. “We’ll get you out of here as soon as we can. Find someone to help out. Mrs. Ketterling maybe. Or …” she began, but his eyes had fallen closed. “Gamps?” Her voice was little-girl desperate, but a woman spoke up before
she could shake him awake.

  “He needs to rest now.”

  Vura jumped at the words, turned her head, blinked back tears. But there was no ghost behind her. Instead, Linda Binder had stepped into the room. She hadn’t changed much since she had made her bid for Quinton Murrell’s affections twelve years before. She smiled now, expression gentle.

  “Come on, honey,” she said and, stepping forward, placed a soft hand on her shoulder.

  Vura rose to her feet.

  “You doing okay?” The older woman slipped Tonk a tolerant smile before shifting her attention back to Vura.

  She nodded, but truly she didn’t know how she was doing and remembered her earlier buzz with nostalgic fondness. Sobriety sucked.

  They stood beside the bed. Perhaps at one time there had been some friction between them. As a girl, Vura had been fiercely protective of her father. She wondered now if she’d been unfair. Somehow she had never considered the fact that he could have been lonely; in her mind he was invincible, a superhero with a miter box.

  “He’s a good man,” Linda said, and smiled fondly at her patient’s tranquil features.

  Vura nodded again.

  “Like your father.”

  Odd, so very odd, but despite all the years that had passed, Vura still bristled at the other woman’s interest; Quinton Murrell was hers, she thought, and realized with some clarity that there was truly something wrong with her.

  She cleared her throat. “Yes, thank you,” she said. “He is. They both are,” she rushed to add and forced herself to turn from the narrow bed. “How are you doing, Linda?”

  “Well enough.” She smiled a little. “I have a new grandbaby.”

  “Do you?” She flickered her gaze to Tonk, who watched them with amusement in his muddy-water eyes. She had to force away her scowl. “That’s wonderful.” They moved in tandem out of the room. “A boy or a girl?”

  “A girl. Three months old. As cute as a duckling. I’d bore you with pictures”—she shifted her gaze to Tonk—“but you’ve got other things on your mind. Take it easy now,” she said and, touching Vura’s arm, made her way on crepe-soled feet to some distant room.

  Silence echoed like death in the hall, but Vura could feel Tonk’s attention on the back of her neck. The questions that bounced from his brain were as loud as a jackhammer.

  “What?” she asked, and turned toward him.

  One brow lifted; humor danced mischievously over his dark Native features. “I believe your father is old enough to fight his own battles.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She seems quite nice,” he said, and fell silent, challenging her to argue.

  “So?”

  “So perhaps he did not need you to scare her off.”

  She scowled, disconcerted by how closely his words matched her thoughts of only moments before. “Yeah, well … what do you know about it?” Now she sounded like a confrontational nine-year-old. But she was on a roll. “And what were you doing in there anyway?” she asked and, pivoting just a little too sharply to make her equilibrium happy, stumbled toward the closest exit. Suddenly the air felt too close, the quiet too oppressive.

  He turned with her. “Purifying the air.”

  She would have liked to scoff, but she had always been fascinated by Native traditions. “Oh,” was about all she could manage.

  “Our culture believes that smudging, burning the earth’s sacred herbs, in the seven directions can bring healing and peace.”

  “That’s …” She would have liked to tell him it was all rubbish, but even her currently atrocious mood wouldn’t allow it. “That’s kind of nice, actually.”

  They were silent for a while, no sound but the ding of the elevator, the crisp click of their boots on the sidewalk.

  Up ahead, Vura’s truck looked old and strangely lonely in the mostly forsaken lot. She fumbled in her overalls pocket when she reached the door and lifted the fob to click the locks.

  “Well …” She considered an apology. But why try something so drastic? “Thank you.”

  He remained silent, insisting, as usual, on making things difficult.

  She jittered a knee. “For”—she gritted her teeth, nodded toward the building—“what you were doing in there.”

  His gaze was steady on hers, rattling her nerves, eroding any lingering sense of peace.

  “It was a nice thing to do.” She glanced toward Fifth Street, remembering the coolness of her grandfather’s hands, the distance in his eyes. Her throat closed up, locking back tears. “Well … I’d better get going before—”

  “All will be well,” Tonk said.

  She snapped her gaze to his. Logic told her that he was just a man. But something in her longed to believe, just this once, that he somehow knew things she did not. “You think so?” She breathed the words.

  “I know it,” he said, and stood very still, watching her. “Your grandfather, he has lived a good life. You’ve no need to worry.”

  She glanced back toward Cathedral Street. Across the boulevard, the church looked more like a factory than a place of God. Vura stuffed her hands in the pockets of her Carhartts. Overhead, the wild geese were returning from warmer climes. She could hear the soft whish of their wings in the darkness. “He looked so pale. So … old … and I …” Her voice cracked, and though she tried to stop herself, she pushed her gaze hopefully back to Tonk’s. “You really think he’ll recover?”

  She could sense his tension immediately. His brows dipped. Regret was sharp in his burnt-umber eyes. “I did not say that, Bravura.”

  Panic splashed up. “You said everything would be okay.” She felt a little breathless suddenly. The day of her grandmother’s funeral had been the worst day of her life. She didn’t need a repeat performance to prove what family meant to her. “You said I have nothing to worry about.”

  “That is because he is at peace. Ready to leave this realm for another.”

  “Leave this …” She forced a laugh. “Well, it just so happens that that’s not okay,” she said, and slammed the palm of her hand against the driver’s door of her unoffending vehicle. “It’s not okay at all.”

  He nodded. “It’s all right to be angry.”

  “I’m not angry! I just don’t want to be lied to anymore!”

  “Lied to …” He shook his head, but she was already jerking open her door. He caught her arm. “I have never lied to you, Bravura.”

  She froze, feeling the warmth of his fingers, the truth of his words. But she snatched her arm away and slid onto the cold comfort of the Chevy’s cracked leather seats. “I’ve heard that before,” she said and, slamming the door, roared away with Walt riding shotgun.

  Chapter 15

  “Vura,” Dane said and, rising rapidly, shoved his cell phone into the pocket of his artfully distressed jeans. “I was just calling you.”

  “My phone didn’t ring.”

  “Reception’s terrible out here,” he said, and shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now.” A smile replaced the smudge of irritation that had been on his face. It was one of the first attributes that had made her fall in love with him. That quick, nothing-can-touchme grin.

  “Is something wrong?” She kept her voice quiet. She was a firm believer in letting sleeping dogs lie, and Lily was as drowsy as a puppy in her arms.

  “Can’t a guy miss his wife anymore?” he asked. “Here.” He kissed her cheek, then smiled at their daughter. “Let me take her.”

  Vura glanced at her daughter’s perfect features, the downy lashes dropped over pristine cheeks, the clover-honey skin, the cotton-caramel hair. Unconscious now, breathing softly … quiet, as she only was in sleep. Sometimes Vura felt as if she could stare at her all day, just watch her breathe, in and out like a soft, warm breeze. A little unplanned miracle, that’s what she was. But the little miracle was getting heavy. Getting bigger every day, so that Vura’s muscles strained and her back ached just carrying her from the truck to the house. Still, it was difficult
to let her go, to slip her into Dane’s outstretched arms.

  “You okay?” His gaze settled on hers, warm and supportive. Strange how such a simple thing touched her. Emotions bubbled. Tears threatened, but she nodded, holding them back.

  “Yeah. I’m fine. Thanks.”

  He nodded once, then turned toward the stairs. For a moment Vura was tempted to follow, to touch her only child one more time before being separated for the night, but she forced herself to wander into the kitchen. Dane deserved to have a moment with his daughter. Besides, she hadn’t eaten since noon, when she had still been worried about Mrs. Washburn’s reaction to what Hip called the kitchen that hell barfed up. Even so, she didn’t feel particularly hungry. Which was odd. Dad had said on more than one occasion that she could eat more than some horses and all boys. But maybe it was the memory of that god-awful kitchen that was putting her off. Still, food was a necessity, she reminded herself and opened her antiquated fridge.

  She was still scanning the dismal contents when Dane shuffled in on stocking feet.

  She turned toward him, momentarily forgetting her quest for sustenance. “Is she okay?”

  “Who? Lily?” He tossed a thumb over his shoulder and grinned, disarming as a kitten. “Didn’t you just see her a minute ago?”

  “Yeah. I know. But …” She felt silly. “Sometimes she wakes up …” She shook her head. Foolish took a sharp turn toward idiotic. “Did you put her in her own bed?”

  He lifted his brows at her. “I thought it might be a little crowded with the three of us in our double.” They had always planned on getting a king-sized mattress, but finances had been questionable from the get-go, then he had to leave for Williston and there didn’t seem to be much point. He slipped his arms around her. “Don’t you think?”

  “Yeah.” For reasons unknown, she wasn’t quite sure where to look. “It’s just that … sometimes she gets scared, and with you gone so much, I’ve gotten in the habit of letting her sleep with me.”