Past Forward- A Serial Novel: Volume 2

by Chautona Havig

  “Very funny.”

  “Just a little punny.”

  Her eye cocked at him as she left a message for Clyde. The moment she slid her phone shut, she quipped. “‘No more rhymes now, I mean it.’“

  “‘Anybody want a peanut?’”

  Chad found himself on the beat after all. A call from home sent Joe from town, and he drew the short straw. Six o’clock would never come. He was tired, cold, hungry, and all he could think of was the chili he’d heard Willow mention. Venison chili. She’d complained about having to use beef in her chili. She liked it best with venison.

  After confiscating Aiden Cox’s skateboard, again, he trudged to the station, dialing Willow’s number as he went. “Hey, did I hear you mention chili?”

  “Yep, you coming?”

  Chad passed Confections and grinned. “I’ll bring cheesecake.”

  “I’ll wait for you. What time do you get off? You can name the new goat too.”

  As she clicked the phone shut, Willow groaned. “What on earth could cheesecake taste like? That just sounds disgusting! Maybe it’s Swiss cheese…”

  She glanced at the table, realizing she’d have to clear it off before he came. The clock chimed four-thirty. She still had time to finish screwing in the cup hooks before she put it all away. Once finished, Willow scooped up her dollhouse family and wrapped them in a kitchen towel. Shivering in the attic, she slipped them under the plastic that now covered the dollhouse and hurried back downstairs. A glance at the old ticking fabric showed definite faded spots. She poked at it and found it too weak to be worth saving, so she tossed it into the stove. A second glance at the foam sent her outside to the incinerator. Toxic fumes weren’t worth avoiding shivers.

  With a small smile of satisfaction, Willow hung the flies from the hooks to see how they’d look. Ten flies to go. It was a large display case, but it was worth it. Chad would be both pleased and surprised. She ran a finger along the smooth oak of the case. Doubt crept into her heart. Mother had given it to her for her eighteenth birthday. Could she give it away without regret?

  Chad’s empty bland apartment filled her mind. She knew he’d never made it a home because he’d never planned to stay, but recent conversations sounded as if he now planned to stay in Fairbury, and if he did, he’d need a homier feeling apartment. The case would be practical and beautiful. He’d appreciate that, and she wanted to give him something that truly was hers—a gift that cost her something.

  She stashed Mother’s shadow box, the completed flies, and the gift box she’d created in the craft room, hidden under a pile of fabric. She left the tie vise on the table and checked the clock. There was time to finish the fly she’d been making that morning. Midway through a second tie, she glanced at the clock. He’d be leaving work soon!

  Cornbread. Time to make cornbread. With unnecessary speed, Willow whipped an apron over her head, tying it on as she hurried to grab a mixing bowl. The pantry, colder than most of the house, gave her the shivers as she hurried in to retrieve cornmeal and flour. Chad entered the kitchen just as she slipped her cast iron frying pan into the oven.

  “Ok, this is incredibly domestic. I feel like I should call out, ‘Hi honey, I’m home!’”

  Feeling as blank as her expression probably looked, she stared at him. “Why?”

  “Well, um—never mind. Milked the new goat yet?”

  “Yes,” she answered absently, as she checked the coals in the stove and added a stick. “But you could go see if you have a name for her.”

  Chad felt trapped in a strange time warp. The room, toasty thanks to the heat of the stove, looked ripped from one of the prairie novels his cousins had loved as teens. Willow, on the other hand, wearing jeans, a flannel shirt, and hair tied in braids on each side of her head, looked too modern as she frowned at her cell phone and shoved it back in her pocket.

  “Lee likes to send nonsensical text messages.”

  “Most people just call them texts.”

  She shrugged. “Whatever they’re called, she likes them.”

  “For example?”

  “She just sent one that said, ‘Ever have a margarita?’”

  That wasn’t something he’d ever considered. “Have you?”

  “No. Alcohol, right? Salt on glasses?”

  “Yep.” Chad wondered why Lee would ask. “Does Lee want to take you out for drinks or something?”

  “I doubt it. I think she enjoys seeing what I do and don’t know. I’m a sideshow at a carnival to a lot of people.”

  He started to protest. It wasn’t fair to say something like that, but Chad knew there was more truth to it than he wanted to think about. Eager for a distraction, he glanced at the table and pointed to the vice. “Been tying flies again?”

  “A few. What do you think?”

  Her nonchalance almost convinced him that he’d seen nothing amiss earlier. “I like it. Those wings are amazing.”

  Without another word, and before she could say anything to trip him, Chad hustled back out into the yard and over to the goat pen. A sweet faced doe blinked at him with wide eyes as he hung over the pen gate. Her coloring was similar to a dun and white paint pony and made him think of Apache braves chasing antelope or other game on their ponies.

  “You look like a painted lady to me, but I don’t think Willow will go for Brothelette. Maybe Gomer.”

  Reaching for the kitchen switch, Chad accidentally snapped on the floodlights. The yard lit up like a football stadium. The garden had been covered with mulch and a new area roped off for a new patch the next year. The chicken coop had been rotated for reasons that Chad didn’t understand. The mulch pile was covered and another square roped off—for what he didn’t know. A sliding door into the barn left room for the goat to come in out of the cold and, to his surprise, the clothesline had no ropes.

  Out of curiosity, he peeked around the front of the house and saw the porch swing down. The front porch looked awkward without the friendly swing swaying in the breeze. He bent low, and poked at the dirt in the flowerbed. After two more, he determined that likely all of the flowerbeds were heavily mulched and ready for the first snow. The sheer magnitude of work overwhelmed him. How can people get the erroneous idea that housewives just lie around all day eating bonbons and watching soap operas? One look at Willow’s work list and he wanted a nap.

  “Chad! Dinner’s ready.”

  “Coming!” His response was as natural as her call. He dashed into the barn, snapped off the light, and closed the doors behind him. Inside the house, he hurried to wash his hands. “Hey, you’ve got the place all buttoned down for winter. Where’d you put the swing?”

  “It’s in the barn hanging from the center beam. Butter?”

  As they ate, Chad told her about his day, about how Wayne had officially pulled in the daisy-barrow that day, and how he’d missed the attempted robbery of the convenience store. “I couldn’t believe it when Joe told me. They got a call from the pay phone. The guy said, ‘Do not call the cops. This is a hold-up. Put all your cash in a bag, bring it out to pump seven, put it on the ground, and go straight back into the building.’“

  “Really? Why would they do that? What is the inducement?”

  “Well that’s just the thing,” Chad explained. “There is none. By time he was done talking, Joe was in his car, and by the time the attendant brought out a bag full of trash and set it outside the pump, Joe had a gun on the perp.”

  Shaking her head, she passed Chad the cornbread basket. “More?”

  “Save room for cheesecake.”

  Her eyebrow rose. “Just what is in cheesecake other than, I assume, cheese?”

  “You’ve never had cheesecake?”

  “Umm obviously not…”

  Chad shoved back his chair and motioned for her to stay. “I’ll be right back. Right back. This is going to be so great.”

  She sighed. Something about the idea seemed fishy. Maybe it was like caviar or escargot. Maybe it was raw yak curds or something equally di
sgusting. Surely someone like Chad wouldn’t be adventuresome like that. It sounded more like a Bill kind of food.

  The back door burst open and Chad whipped it shut with his foot as he entered. “You just sit there. I’ll cut it. I can’t believe you’ve never had cheesecake. It’s like the prince of desserts!”

  The piece of cake he placed in front of her looked like a pie. It had a crust like a pie, was thin like a pie, and unlike most cakes, had no frosting or icing. She grabbed her fork and took a bite. Putting it off wasn’t going to do her any good. She would either take a bite or she wouldn’t, and since he bought it for her, there was no way she wouldn’t.

  Chad’s face nearly exploded in anticipation. “Well?”

  “That is delicious. What kind of cheese is it?”

  “Cream cheese.”

  “I’ve never heard of that kind. Mother brought home cheddar sometimes—and Swiss, but she never mentioned cream cheese. I wonder if I could make it?”

  Chad shrugged and took a bite of his slice of cake. “No idea, but isn’t it good?”

  Willow nodded but she no longer noticed the flavor, texture, or even the existence of her cake. Her thoughts were delightfully engaged in the realization that Chad didn’t suggest that she just buy the cheese. Chad accepted, at first suggestion, the idea that making cream cheese was something she might like to do.

  Chapter Forty-Nine

  Thanksgiving Eve, Chad sat at her table, telling her what they’d learned about the man with the botched robbery. “It’s kind of sad. I guess his kid needed a prescription filled and they’re living paycheck to paycheck—no money to fill an eighty dollar prescription.”

  Willow dropped her flour sifter and reached for the teapot on the hutch. A wad of money appeared on the table before him before he knew what she’d done. “Make sure he gets that. How long will he be in jail? Does his wife need money to make up for work he’ll miss?”

  His eyes flitted from the roll of bills and sink where she washed her hands before returning to her dough. “He’s not going to jail.”

  She paused before grabbing the bowl of activated yeast and pouring it into the bowl. “That’s wrong. He tried to rob a store.”

  “Yes, but the owner refused to press charges. We can’t make anything stick without his testimony, so the chief let Clay go.”

  She stopped, her hand buried in the dough as she stared at him. “He broke the law.”

  “Yes.”

  “He should be charged with a crime.”

  “Yes, but if we won’t be able to prove to a jury that it happened, he will get off. That costs taxpayers a lot of money. So, the chief gave him a warning and let him go. I don’t think he’ll try anything like that again.”

  Mixing resumed, but Chad sensed that her opinion wasn’t changed. Only Willow would dump money to help a man while expecting him incarcerated for an attempted crime. Her voice broke through his thoughts. “You told him if he needed help, that you’d cover it, didn’t you?”

  He should have known she’d guess it. “Well…”

  Strips of fabric were piled on the table. He found himself winding them around his fingers. The roll of bills taunted him. He pushed back the chair, grabbing it and carrying it to the hutch, but Willow’s voice stopped him. “Take it to him.”

  “We covered it. The kid has her medicine, and everything is good.”

  “Until the next thing happens to upset their budget. If they get ahead a bit, maybe eighty dollars won’t drive him to desperation.” His hesitation prompted another comment. “If you don’t shove that in your pocket, I will.”

  Chad cleared his throat. She couldn’t possibly know how wrong that sounded. Thank you, Jesus, he moaned inwardly. Desperate to change the subject, he stuffed the money in his jacket pocket and then realized that it was likely the pocket she meant. Fool. Aloud he said, “I spoke to Chuck. He’s going to come straight to my house after something at church in Brunswick, unless you want him to come here and get you.”

  “Do you think it would be rude if I didn’t?”

  He knew she didn’t like riding with Chuck. “Not at all.”

  “Good! Then I’ll ride with you.”

  Chad heard the happiness in her voice and was grateful for Chuck’s church plans. He glanced at her, curious about her opinion of something that had troubled him of late. “I’ve been wondering. Do you think Chuck really knows the Lord? He’s been going church all these years, he’s very faithful in his attendance, but he is so self-centered.”

  Her voice dropped. “I don’t know,” she began. Her hands kneaded the bread expertly as they talked. “I can’t tell if he just hasn’t been taught or what. I do know that he needs someone who believes in him. Maybe he doesn’t realize that Jesus believes in him.”

  “Don’t you think you have that a little backwards?”

  Willow’s laughter sounded forced. “Not really. I think we forget that Jesus is there rooting for us. He’s our advocate.”

  Chad stopped playing with the pieces of fabric she’d been using to make her rug. “What is it? I can see it. What’s wrong?”

  “Anger,” she gasped. “It’s welling up inside me again. I can feel it. I hate the feeling and last time—”

  Torn between conflicting ideas of how to handle this part of her grieving, Chad watched as she squeezed the dough into her fists and then slammed it back down on the counter. “I have an idea. I’ll be right back.”

  “Don’t you have to be at work soon?”

  “I think I have time,” he assured her glancing at his watch.

  He returned within half an hour, carrying several boxes into the barn. Once he had his plan set up, he called to her. She stood on the back porch until he beckoned her into the barn.

  “What?”

  “Open the box.”

  A newspaper-wrapped plate emerged, and Willow unwrapped it as she pulled it from the box. “A plate?”

  “Next time you want to lash out at someone, you just come out here, unwrap as many plates as you need, and smash them in the barrel.”

  Her eyebrows drew together as she tried to understand. “What a waste—”

  “No more waste than sitting in my closet. I have like a dozen sets of dishes in there.”

  “How’d you get so many—why?”

  “When I moved here, everyone and their brother gave me some. Aunts, old ladies at church…” Chad shrugged. “Fairbury doesn’t have a thrift store, so they just sat in my storage unit.

  She eyed the plate contemplatively. “Do you really think destroying a plate is going to help?” she challenged.

  “Yep.”

  To his surprise, she raised the plate over her head with both hands and slammed it into the bottom of the barrel with all the force she could muster. Shards flew everywhere and a couple managed to shoot out of the barrel, causing her to jump backwards protectively. Chad reached for a pair of goggles. “Maybe these would be a good idea, just in case.”

  To his amusement, Willow shoved them on her head and over her eyes before grabbing another plate and smashing it into the barrel. After the third plate, Chad patted her back and murmured something about going to work, but she was too intent on unwrapping the next plate to notice. He jogged past the house, remembered the bread, and hurried inside.

  The bread had risen—but whether high enough, he didn’t know. Two greased bread pans sat waiting for use. Unsure if it was the right thing to do, but unwilling to interrupt Willow now, Chad washed his hands, divided the bread, shaped it into clumsy looking loaves, and covered the pans with a towel as he’d seen his mother do.

  Willow didn’t even hear his truck start. On her eighth plate, tears running down her face, she systematically smashed plates and ground out her grief in deep guttural moans that only she and the Lord understood. The “whys” of her loss finally broke the surface of her grief, sending her to her knees, clutching a plate. “I just want my mother back, Lord! I just want a mother again.”

  Thanksgiving -

&n
bsp; Today seems like my first real Thanksgiving here. That first year, I was busy ripping out wires and sanding down floors. Last year, I froze, trying to chop wood faster than I burned it. But this year, it feels like I have something to be thankful for. That is very wrong of me. I’ve always had reasons to feel gratitude. In the beginning, I had a safe place to live. I was near enough family that if something went terribly wrong I could have appealed to them for help. I had the money to keep us alive, and the intelligence to figure out how. Last year I kept warm by chopping! I had wood to chop. Of course the first logs weren’t much use. Oh how they smoked. I’m glad I found a few dead trees, or I would have had to order wood from somewhere.

  I tried singing Over the River to Willow, but I couldn’t do it. She’ll never go to grandmother’s house for a holiday. I decided that I must make our holidays treasured events. I have made pumpkin pies all week. It feels so wrong, but after a bite of each, I tossed them in the incinerator. I wanted to enjoy pie on Thanksgiving, so once I mastered pies in that cook stove, I moved to roasting chicken. I have enough frozen chicken for meals to last me a month—or two, but I have learned how to roast the perfect chicken. It’s utterly delicious. However, my cranberry sauce failed. I finally walked to town with Willow strapped to my back and bought two cans. So, dinner was simple—chicken instead of turkey, corn (Willow ate all five kernels too), stuffing, rolls, gravy, and cranberry sauce. We’re both full to bursting, but isn’t that part of why we’re thankful? I distinctly remember Miss Graves talking about “bounty” and “gratitude” in regards to Thanksgiving. She used bounty in every form it can possibly be used.

  I read her the books I purchased on Thanksgiving. I know she doesn’t understand half what I’m reading, but I decided to read them aloud to her anyway. I have a feeling I’ll be doing a lot of that. She loved Five Kernels of Corn. I’ve never seen anything like it. She sat still as a cat waiting to pounce, and every time I said “five kernels of corn,” she bounced like I’d told her we were having ice cream!