“And what better shelter than her own house?”
“You are skinny, Swenson. So thin, when you stand sideways, nobody can see you.”
“And your nose is so ugly, no woman will marry you.”
“I know. And that's a worry.”
At twenty past two, Jonah is on his sixth cup of coffee. The blue checks on the plastic tablecloth are gone on the spot where he drums his fingers. He jumps when Coral Kay slams open the kitchen door.
“Zion's here!”
Out she runs. The door bangs. Jonah sits straight but not stiff. When Coral comes back in, towing Zion by the hand, although he has been anticipating this moment all day, he leaps out his chair, as if surprised by a limb off the sycamore tree blowing into the house.
Anticipating a handshake, he rubs his palms on his jeans. No overalls today, and his shirt is the wool one with the subtle plaid, the L.L. Bean article he saves for special occasions.
“Sit, sit…” He sounds like a dog trainer. He yanks out the ladder-back chair closest to her.
“Coffee? Tea? Cheese and crackers?”
“Just water.” She makes a gesture Jonah interprets to mean, “You are too much. Please calm down.”
Jonah walks calmly over to the sink, retrieves a glass from the cupboard, a clean one. He calmly fills it with water, then walks it over to this princess. He would have handed it to her, but she isn't looking, so he sets it down on the table.
He sits down at the far end, takes a sip of coffee. It's lukewarm, but he figures if he gets up for a refill, it will be too much. A spark of anger zings his cheek. How long is he going to have to tiptoe around this poor battered thing? He didn't sock her. He is a kind, moral man. But he might as well be a hatrack for all the notice she is giving him. Her gaze is first on Coral, then the glass; probably afraid to drink the water.
“Look,” he says, laying a strong hand on the table. “No need to waste your time beating around any bushes. My house is your castle.” Slap of palm to forehead! “Er—your house is your castle. Coral Kay and I will move out to the cottage. We can put all our crap in the basement, the stuff that won't fit.”
“Cottage?” She looks genuinely bewildered.
“There—” Jonah half rises out of his chair and points. It's in plain sight, over eight hundred square feet, obvious as a tank parked in a daisy patch. Completely furnished with God only knew what. He hasn't looked inside since Jo died. Though it's small, the cottage is better looking than the house. White stucco, red tile roof, and half-moon windows. Jo called it her conceit.
“It was Jo's studio,” he says. “Maybe you didn't know she painted.”
“I knew. I forgot.”
“She didn't want it turned into a rental. Maybe you remember that, too. There's a minor problem. Electricity, gas, water aren't hooked up. Take a few days for that to happen. By next Wednesday, I figure, Friday at the latest. Then we can—”
She's crying again. Touching a dainty knuckle to the corners of her eyes. And Coral who is standing right here, taking it all in, looks cloudy enough to rain herself. That woman-empathy thing in action. Jonah puts a gentle hand on Coral's shoulder and whispers, “Why don't you go find the Paws?” The cat, he figures, is down the road at the McNalley's, courting Tuxedo, so the kid will be busy for at least ten minutes, long enough for him to get the woman over her weepy spell.
“No way!” she says loudly. “I'm going to show Zion my other Barbies!” Coral got up at the crack of dawn, her father knows by the haze over her green eyes. Hell, she might have stayed up all night. He wants her to like the woman, not worship her.
“Then go clean up your room, Sugar Punkin,” he says in a whisper with teeth. “Can't let her see the mess—what'll she think?”
“Nuthin',” is his darling daughter's sullen reply.
“Yes, she will; she'll think something. Now—” he nudges her. “Go.” She backs up, her eyes promising he will pay for this, then down the hall she runs, yelling, “Tell me when he's done, Zion!”
“Kids,” he remarks with a smile.
Zion is into her purse, pulls out a tissue, dabs her eyes. The perfume she is wearing smells like spiced heather, an annoyance to the business mind Jonah is trying to maintain.
“Look…” He doesn't know whether to address her as Zion or Mrs. Cromwell. “Mrs. Cromwell, I'm sure we can—”
Her demeanor changes like the snap of a rubber band. She sits up straight. Her eyes widen. “I'm not married anymore. I was divorced yesterday morning.”
“You were in court yesterday morning?” Jonah doubts this. It's six hours to Pueblo with no stops. That would put her in court, six o'clock in the morning.
“That wasn't necessary,” she says. “I signed papers that released me. They were illegal papers, but I have learned that illegal papers often prove to be the most effective. In this case, I'm certain justice was served. Jonah? Do you think three thousand dollars will last me a year?”
He sucks in a deep breath. Looks at the ceiling, as if her question requires heavy deliberation. “If you eat only hot dogs.”
“Wouldn't rice be more nutritional?”
She is serious.
“For that, you need a rice cooker. You have one?”
She shakes her head.
“Hot dogs, you can just stick in the microwave.”
“I don't have one of those, either.”
He points over his shoulder. “You are welcome to use ours. Conveniently, it occupies the house you own.”
“Thank you,” she says.
There is a paragraph missing in her response. A page, a chapter, a whole manuscript, a long story behind that simple thank you.
“My name is Zion Rose now,” she announces.
“Ahhh…too many letters in Vanderbond.”
“Vanderbond was never my real name. That was the result of illegal papers, too. It worked very well. I will secure papers now in the name of Rose.”
“You have, uh, documentation to the effect of, uh…”
“The papers I secure will be the documentation,” she explains.
“You may run into a little trouble,” Jonah says, working strenuously to keep a straight face.
“Will you help me with that?”
“I…uh, sure.” Um-hmmmm!
Jonah decides she isn't Miss America-model-movie star beautiful. Her looks are more devastating. He suddenly solves the mystery. Her mother is Venus, her father, the North Star.
“What were you saying about Jo's studio?” she asks.
“Coral and I have lived in worse places—not that it's bad, just small. We pack the stuff we don't need day-to-day in the basement, we always ask before coming in, to go to the basement, I mean. We should all get along just fine. Coral and I are very adaptable.”
The sun just stopped shining on her face. “What are you talking about?”
“Who lives where!” He tries to hide his exasperation. It's been a long day. And he just told a lie. He's not that adaptable anymore. He has come to feel this is his home. He knew the risks. Convinced himself it would be years before something like this happened. He expected a little warning. She had his telephone number but never called. Maybe she wised up about money. Maybe she now sees the house as an investment property. (Will three thousand dollars last me a year?) Okay, not that, but of course she'll want privacy.
“I came here because I had no place else to go,” she says quietly.
She's looking straight at him. Her eyes are wide and questioning. Jonah has a feeling he has misconstrued everything.
“Of course, you would come here. This is your house. Jo gave it to you. We expected you to come home. That's why she made the provision.”
“I don't wish to be an inconvenience,” she says. “I will live in the studio.”
Jonah shakes his head about ten times. “No, no, that wouldn't be right. You own the house, Zion. I'm only the caretaker. Today you're just looking for shelter, but on your feet, you begin to notice the man who doesn't even pay rent h
as all this space—” he sweeps his arm.
“May I see it?”
“Pardon?”
“The studio.”
Jonah looks at her for a long moment. She looks right back. “Well.” He stands up, shakes his jeans down his legs. “The studio,” he says, as if announcing a segment on Days of Our Lives.
Chapter I (9)
Jonah strides over to the cottage, opens the door, sticks in his head, gulps. Two years of neglect, crap piled on the bed, boxes everywhere, stuff he should've sorted through and carted to the dump, or the women's shelter. Dust, dirt, cobwebs…and dog turds? When did Thunder let a dog in here?
Behind him, Zion sneezes. So maybe allergies are a problem. Stepping aside, he allows her to take a look.
“How soon did you say it could be ready?”
“Wednesday, at the earli—” He thinks she's going to cry again, “tomorrow?”
Hugging herself, she walks away, head down. She stops at the edge of the weed patch that used to be a garden. She sits down on a stump that used to be an elm tree, to contemplate her doom.
He follows her. “Must be a shock, coming home to find the place in less than tiptop shape. If I'd known you were coming, I would have cleaned everything up.”
She's staring at the ground. Her shoes remind him of ballet slippers; black shoes, white stockings, jeans, and a baggy, wine-colored sweater. Blue eyes darkened by sorrows. Eyelashes so thick, feathers come to mind.
Those are tears in her eyes, dammit. From allergies or total discouragement? He removes a handkerchief from his back pocket, hands it to her. “It's clean, just wrinkled.”
“Thank you.” She blows her nose.
“It's not right for you live in that small dump. I mean, it's quaint, it's nice when it's cleaned up, but you're going to need the house, and you should have it.” He shifts his attention to the clouds gathering above the rock rim to the northwest. “Maybe you don't want us living on the property at all. I wouldn't blame you.”
“The studio is just right,” she says. “I don't need much room.”
“I'm concerned that you're happy here, Zion. That was the whole reason for the provision. Jo loved you a lot. Loves you, I want to say, because sometimes I feel she's still around, keeping an eye on things.”
“Do you?”
Her eyes telegraph such a depth of loneliness, Jonah can't bear to look at her directly. He kicks a stone. “You bet, I do. But she was always very considerate of my privacy. I'm sure she knows if she ever showed her ghost self, I would freak out!” He clutches his upper arms, shivers dramatically, evoking from her a slight smile. “That stump can't be comfortable—you wait here.”
The shed door requires a boost on the left side; it scrapes across the wood floor. He's enough of a carpenter to make a shed, but that's about all.
He swings out two lawn chairs, as if a magician conjuring silver director's chairs covered with velveteen instead of aluminum and plastic strips, not all there. He snaps them both open at the same time—almost loses one to a huff of wind—planting them with rickety finality on the rocky ground near the sweeping limbs of the apple tree. Gesturing for her to join him, he smiles cheerily to hide his feeling of inadequacy. Not a place outdoors or indoors right for setting her at ease.
She moves to the chair closest to the elm stump, sits down, crossing her arms over her chest. Crosses her legs, too.
“You chilly? Lots of sweaters and jackets inside.”
“No, I'm fine.”
“The umbrella table is in the shop. Sent it off to Morocco for repairs. That was last St. Patrick's Day. Some problem with getting the right pole to replace the one that my friend, Frame, dented when he was over here high-stepping, showing off, playing his bagpipes. ‘Just because your mother is a MacGregor doesn't give you the right to come over here and scare off all of the wildlife within a five-mile radius,' I told him. No birds in the trees for weeks after that. Thunderpaws was so inactive, gained ten pounds.”
She's scrutinizing him. Does she know he's joking? She's not like Frame, quick with a counter quip. She's not like Jo, rolling her eyes, patting her yawning mouth in mock boredom. She's not like Coral, unaware he is joking, half the time, coming back with innocent one-liners that crack him up. Come to think of it, that does describe Zion. How did Jo describe her? A mix of otherworldliness and childlike innocence…
He scans the sky. Nothing man makes rivals the beauty and majesty of nature, he muses. But why do the cloud gods have to dominate the sky today? Maybe they want to remind him there are shadows behind every pretty face.
“I don't really have an umbrella table, but unfortunately for all of us, Frame does play the pipes. I'm just trying to lift your spirits, Zion. But I guess we need to talk about some harsh realities.”
He sits down in the lawn chair to her left, and orates a vision of a speedy conversion of the property from a bachelor's roost to practically a palace with courtyard and six prancing horses. In his mind, he single-handedly builds stables for the horses, along with a great garage to house the chariot they will pull. He, the charioteer, will lead Zion, perched sidesaddle on an Appaloosa, down into town, when she needs to shop for ribbons for her bonnie black hair.
“The studio suits my needs,” she says, in response to his grandiose promises and reassurances. “All I need is a little space and quiet.”
Jonah drums his fingers on the aluminum arms of the lawn chair. “Something wrong with that picture. The owner living out in the itty, bitty cottage, while the hired hand lives—” he sweeps his arm, “in the main house.”
“You make it sound like a plantation.”
“Hmmm. Concept is, Jo didn't leave you just a house. She meant for this to be your home.” And did anyone think about where he and Coral were going to live, once she did come home? A minor detail everybody forgot. Well, who thought it would happen like this, her showing up with no notice, no time to ponder alternatives?
“Home,” she says tiredly, like people say…oh, God, it's Monday again. She sighs. Tucks a piece of satiny hair behind her ear. “I appreciate Jo's endowment. I am grateful. And I know you're sincere. But the physical environment itself is the least of my concerns. I can take care of myself. I just need space to work and a reasonable amount of quiet.”
“You planning on writing more books?” His tone is casual, masking the gloom he feels about her statement of needs. Will she be a shadow he'll hardly ever see? Working nights, sleeping days, slipping out at odd hours to stock up on rice and hot dogs, hanging out at the library, not caring what he and Coral do in the big house, so long as they're quiet.
“I won't be writing novels. I did that to stay sane.” She's watching him, he's sure of it. Sizing him up to see if he's worthy of her confidence. Her talk with Coral out on the back step couldn't have been the catharsis she needs, to work through the trauma of getting beat up by that son of a bitch in Colorado. Seeing her black eye, still a little puffy and bluish yellow, makes his blood boil.
“Zion…what happened?”
She heaves a great sigh.
A homeless woman has come to his door. Ironically, she owns the door, but it occurs to him that for her, this fact may be as relevant as gold coins flung over the side of a boat, where she is drowning.
“I needed experience in the world. I worked, I earned money, I married. I sought refuge in marriage like some build castles, believing them to be impervious to earthquakes, floods, fires, and plagues. But we cannot escape what we are, can we? The dark places in my soul had to be exposed to the light.”
He can't think of what to say to all that. “I meant—what happened—” He points at his own eye.
She touches her cheek. “I told Coral Kay everything.”
“She's only five years old.”
“I didn't tell her word for word. I conveyed the essence. She's a good receiver.”
He has never met anyone so adroit at avoiding answering a question directly. He's never had any patience for pulling information out of peopl
e. She wants to sit on her trauma like an egg until it cracks and pops a monster, is it his business?
“Convey the essence to me. I don't mean to pressure you. I'm interested. You're more than the landlady, Zion. Because of Jo, we're practically related.”
She purses her lips. Her eyes frown at him. “I think it was a human lesson. We see flaws in others. I knew there was violence in Drake, like a pot of water perpetually on the verge of boiling over. All it took was a turn on the switch to one degree hotter, and he erupted. I was the burner. There was violence in me, too. I never expressed my anger at him for the way he treated me. I was too good for anger.”
She looks at the sun, glowing pale yellow behind gray marsh-mallow clouds. “I didn't love him as we are taught a wife loves a husband. Shortly after we married, I knew it was a seed that would never blossom. I had water enough for both of us, but the seed fell on arid ground. I blamed him. And then I felt trapped. The truth is, I was hiding from life. He provided the means.”
Jonah huffs. “He hit you. There's no excuse for that.”
“Yes, he did.” She lifts her chin. “It jarred me back to myself. It was quick, brutal, and effective. I was then able to move out of my state of paralysis.”
“Still sounds like you're excusing his behavior. Not that it's my business. I'm just glad I don't know him. I might do something stupid like act out defending your honor. Stirs me up, I admit it.”
“You don't understand. It was a gift. It set me free. I have work to do. I couldn't do it there. I was dying inside.”
He'd better drop it. Maybe he should feel grateful she won't be going through a long, drawn-out divorce drama.
“You'll be writing something besides fiction now?”
“I'm not sure. It will come to me once I'm settled.”
She falls silent.
Something is talking to Jonah, romancing his mind, seductively whispering that his move to the Valley, and everything he's done since, was for the sole purpose of being here, having his feet solidly on the ground, so that she would have a safe place to write her books…maybe she does have some kind of divine calling. Not that he believes in divine callings with a capital D, but some people do have something to give to the world; it's just in them, like Oprah, Mother Teresa, Lady Godiva…. Whomever, it's not just her beauty; there's something special about her, something higher-worldly, like she floated down from Venus in an egg of light that burst on a cactus in the desert.
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