Since moving into her new house in early November, she’d been stripping the walls. Now, in the first week of December, the second-floor walls were bare, ready for paint. She’d also finished the living room and downstairs half-bath and had just started on the dining room which had at least six layers of paper. The steamer she’d rented was some help but for the most part she had to resort to a scraper, working with care, trying not to damage the plaster that lay underneath.
As she scraped away now, her eyes went repeatedly to the windows and the white world beyond. The house felt as if it were wrapped in thick layers of cotton; all sound was muffled except for the wind causing puff-backs in the fireplace, and howling like something alive that wanted to push its way through any slight crevice and get inside.
Hayward struggled up the inclined driveway, near-blinded by the snow. Guided by the amber glow of light from the uncurtained windows, he made his way through the accumulating drifts toward the porch that extended across the front of the house. In the past couple of months, he’d noticed in his travels up and down the road that someone had, at last, had the sense to buy the battered old beauty. He’d long admired the house. He just hoped the new owners didn’t ruin it with their efforts to renovate. He’d seen a lot of men at work on various parts of the house, their radios battling for ascendancy – a blaring level of discordant sound that made him wince as he’d gone past. Reaching the shelter of the front porch, he hoped now that he didn’t scare the bejesus out of whoever was inside.
He knew the impression he made on first sight: a hefty, long-haired, bearded guy in old camouflage gear who might be the neighborhood weirdo or a visiting serial killer. Add the snow caked in his hair and beard and coating his down jacket and he’d probably have the door slammed in his face. He knocked, then waited, hearing footsteps approach.
The door opened and for several seconds Hayward couldn’t speak. Standing there, gazing at him with no evidence of apprehension whatsoever, was the loveliest-looking woman he’d ever seen. Glossy black hair pulled into a loose ponytail, fine, fair skin and deeply sorrowful dark blue eyes; slim and medium height, she had on Levi’s, a navy Shetland V-neck over a white T-shirt, and best of all, red high-tops. The high-tops made him want to smile, but he kept his expression neutral. One hand on the door, the woman waited calmly for him to explain his presence. The wonderful look of her made his knees want to buckle with pure pleasure. He’d felt this way a few times in his life about paintings he’d seen, or a spectacular view from a hilltop, or some exhilarating piece of music he’d heard. She was a living high-contrast work of art.
At last, realizing his silence could be construed as creepy in the extreme, he said, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you but my truck went off the road at the bottom of the hill down there.’ He looked over his shoulder as if he could see it through the wall of blowing snow, then turned back to her. ‘The thing is, there’s no chance of getting a tow in this.’ He indicated the snow with a lift of his hand. ‘So I was wondering if you’d mind me bunking down in your garage until morning when this blows by and I can get someone up here to tow me out of the ditch. I’ve got a sleeping bag back in the truck.’
‘There’s no heat in the garage. You’d freeze to death. Come in,’ she said in a rich, low voice, stepping away from the door.
His brows drew together. ‘Are you sure? Most people around here are scared to death of me.’
‘Do they know you?’ she asked seriously.
‘Only by sight.’
‘So they’re scared by the look of you.’
‘That’s about it.’
‘Should I be afraid of you?’
‘No,’ he said, amused, risking a smile. ‘I’m utterly harmless.’
‘Then come inside,’ she said. ‘I was about to put on coffee and make some lunch. Are you hungry?’ she asked, going into a bathroom off the hall and returning with a towel.
‘Thanks a lot. I’m sorry to trouble you,’ he said again, accepting the towel as she went off toward the kitchen. He was having difficulty accepting the fact that he’d been invited in. He’d always wanted to see the inside of this house but could never have imagined this scenario, couldn’t have conceived of this woman.
‘I was going to break for lunch now anyway,’ she said, without turning, on her way down the hall to the kitchen.
The towel was thick and soft and he glanced around as he dried his face and hair. Then, the towel draped over his arm, he unlaced his boots, pushed them off and placed them on the rubber mat by the door, before removing his parka and hanging it over the closet doorknob so that it dripped onto the mat.
Straightening, he looked at the woman in the kitchen, the sight of her like something that might heal the sick or produce stigmata in believers. She really wasn’t the least bit frightened of him. Beautiful, plain-spoken, and unafraid. He didn’t know what to make of her and wondered if maybe he was actually still in the truck, succumbing to hypothermia. But no, he could move and he could see, noting that the living room had a good fire going. There was a TV set and a stereo system, both on the floor, but no actual furniture except for a couple of oversized pillows and a low table. None of the interior walls had been taken down, which was a good sign. The paneling, though, had been painted at some point in time, and he shook his head at the sight of it. There was probably beautiful wood under that yellowed, flaking paint. The idiotic things people did never failed to dismay him – destroying natural beauty, creating wars to boost a flagging economy . . . Don’t go there! With another shake of his head he proceeded down the hall, pausing to return the towel to the rail in the bathroom.
In the kitchen doorway, he said, ‘My name’s Hayward Baines. People call me Hay. This is very kind of you.’ Very brave, too, he added silently.
‘It’s not kind, it’s practical. How would I explain a frozen corpse in my garage?’ she said without the hint of a smile.
‘I can see how that would be a problem,’ he said wryly, reminded of the children he’d seen in Viet Nam, their painful gravity. ‘I’m used to the cold,’ he explained, ‘and my sleeping bag is down-filled, good up to twenty below zero. Anything I can do to help?’ His hands were stinging as they thawed.
‘Have a seat. The coffee won’t take long and you look as if you could use some.’
‘I could. You’re kind of short on furniture,’ he observed, easing into one of the two chairs at a table that could have come from the Goodwill or had maybe been picked up from the side of the road. In this part of the world, when people didn’t want things, they left them out, and in no time at all they were gone. It was an efficient system, all things considered. He’d picked up some useful items that way.
‘My things are due in another week,’ she said. ‘The moving van is en route.’
‘I guess you’ll be glad of that. Nice job on the kitchen,’ he said, taking in the bright white appliances and near-empty glass-fronted cabinets, the new oak floor and butcher block counters.
‘Yes,’ she said vaguely, scooping aromatic coffee into a paper filter seated in a holder. ‘This and the bathrooms are the only rooms that are finished. The interior painting still needs to be done but I wanted to get the major exterior work finished first, before winter set in: the roof and siding, the windows. And the interior necessities,’ she added. ‘Furnace, water heater, new plumbing, all that.’ She slid the holder into place in the coffee maker, pressed the ON switch, then turned to look at him.
‘Do you live nearby?’ she asked, able to see why people would be frightened by him, with the wild red-brown hair to his shoulders and shapeless bushy beard, the shabby clothes. His eyes, though, were gray-green, clear and direct, not the eyes of someone intent on harm. She’d seen killer eyes in prison: they were flat and dull, bereft of curiosity, dead. This man’s eyes reflected intelligence and curiosity. And his soft-spoken, apologetic manner spoke of education and a gentle nature.
‘My place is about a half-mile past here,’ he answered, ‘at the top of the big hill.’ He po
inted at an upward angle and she pictured the hill that crested behind her property.
‘Why were you out in the middle of a storm, Mr Baines?’
‘Hay,’ he corrected. ‘Would it bother you if I smoke?’
‘No, it wouldn’t.’ She turned and got a saucer from the cabinet, placing it on the battered table. Then she watched as he pulled a pouch from his pocket and efficiently rolled a cigarette. It took her back and, without thinking, she said, ‘Joe Seven Moons used to roll his own.’
‘Seven Moons?’ Hayward asked.
‘He was Paiute-Shoshone. He and his wife Alba managed my grandmother’s ranch.’
‘You’re from out west?’
She nodded, her black hair gleaming with reflected light, then turned away to busy herself taking paper-wrapped packages of cold cuts from the refrigerator.
Hay lit his cigarette and looked over at the window, the view almost entirely obscured by the snow. ‘I was on my way home from an emergency repair job,’ he at last answered her question. ‘Thought I could get back in time.’
‘A repair job?’
‘I’m what I guess people call a handyman.’ He shrugged and took a drag on his cigarette. ‘I get odd jobs here and there, and I work in the kitchen at The Farm.’
‘The Farm?’
‘It’s a retreat just outside of town. Pretty famous in this part of the world.’
‘A retreat,’ she repeated. ‘For what?’
‘For people dealing with alcoholism.’
‘Oh!’ She nodded again as she began preparing sandwiches. ‘What sort of handy work do you do?’
‘Some carpentry, some electrical. This morning it was a plumbing problem: had to replace the ballcock valve on an overflowing toilet. Mind if I ask your name?’
She turned, saying, ‘I’m sorry. My name is Tally,’ and made a mental note: remember to introduce yourself.
‘Interesting name. Short for something?’ he asked, before taking another drag on his cigarette.
‘Natalie.’ With a slight frown, she said, ‘I didn’t think there were any houses at the top of the hill.’
‘There aren’t. I’ve got a campsite with a shed I put together from bits and pieces.’
‘Are you a squatter, Mr Baines?’
He smiled. ‘I might be,’ he admitted. ‘As far as I know, I’m on state land. But I could well be a squatter.’ He thought about the track he’d created over time – undoubtedly illegal – that ran off the main road and took him to the top of the hill where a turnaround, worn into the ground from repeated use, allowed him to park and reverse back onto the track. A hundred years earlier he’d have been considered a homesteader; nothing illegal about his actions.
‘Have you been up there long?’ she asked.
‘A few years, four or five.’
‘I can see how appealing it might be for most of the year, but it must be rough in the winter.’
‘It can be tricky but I’ve managed so far. I’ve picked up things here and there, so the shed’s well insulated and I’ve got a kerosene heater.’
‘What do you do if you get snowed in?’ she asked, curious. ‘And how do people reach you when they require your services?’
‘I read, mainly,’ he said. ‘Oil lamps. And I’ve got a battery-operated radio-cassette player. As for reaching me, I’ve got a CB radio hooked up to a little generator that powers a few necessities in the shed, and another CB in the truck.’
‘It sounds like an efficient set-up,’ she said, reaching for two mugs. ‘How do you take your coffee?’
‘Cream or milk and two sugars. You sure I can’t help?’
‘No, thank you. Coffee and sandwiches are within my skill range. I plan to try my hand at a stew later.’ She waved at an assortment of winter vegetables on the countertop as she brought a mug over to the table.
Again he was silenced for several seconds by the way she looked, and covered by busying himself putting out his cigarette. Then he took a sip of the best coffee he’d had in a very long time. ‘Coffee is definitely within your skill range,’ he said. ‘This is a fine brew.’
‘It is good,’ she agreed. ‘I’ve been trying out a lot of different blends but I think I’ll stick with this one.’ She finished assembling the sandwiches, sliced them diagonally and brought the plates and two napkins to the table. Sliding into the chair opposite, she looked briefly over at the window.
Seeing her wedding ring, he asked, ‘Your husband caught in the storm?’
She looked at him blankly, then saw his gaze fixed on her hand and said, ‘I’m a widow.’
‘Oh, man, I’m sorry.’
‘This is my first snowstorm,’ she said, changing the subject. ‘It’s nothing like I imagined it would be.’
‘What did you imagine?’
‘Something more cinematic,’ she said with the faintest of smiles, holding her mug with both hands, ‘with better visibility.’
He smiled, showing good teeth, and she wondered how he could maintain any kind of hygiene living in a shack, even with a generator.
‘The higher up you are in this part of the world, the less visibility you’re going to have in a genuine nor’easter, which is what we’re having right now,’ he explained.
‘A nor’easter?’
‘This qualifies. We’re in an Arctic high-pressure system with clockwise winds. Strong northeasterly winds pull the storm up the east coast and it meets with cold Arctic air blowing down from Canada. When the two systems collide, you’ve got yourself an honest-to-God nor’easter.’
‘You sound like a schoolteacher,’ she said, with that same faint smile.
‘What I’ve got is a head full of useless facts.’
‘That wasn’t useless. It was most informative. Please eat.’
‘This is very kind of you,’ he said again.
‘Mr Baines—’
‘Hay,’ he corrected.
‘Have you eaten today, Hay?’
‘No, I have not.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘I am.’
‘Then it is a practical measure, nothing to do with kindness.’
‘Now you’re sounding like a schoolteacher,’ he said with humor in his expression.
‘I, too, have a head full of useless facts.’
‘I see you’re stripping the wallpaper in the dining room. Maybe I could lend a hand.’
‘That would be most appreciated,’ she said, biting into the turkey and Swiss with dill mustard on pumpernickel bread.
‘This is good,’ he said appreciatively.
‘It is, isn’t it,’ she agreed. ‘I’m still not used to real-world food yet.’
He studied her, trying to interpret the meaning of the sentence. She didn’t look as if she were recovering from some illness. And from the way she lowered her eyes, he had the impression she regretted having said what she had. He knew how that felt, so he let it pass. If she wanted to explain, she would. If she didn’t, she wouldn’t. Either way, he knew all too well that you couldn’t make people do one damned thing if they didn’t want to. You couldn’t change people; couldn’t force events; you just had to work the steps and try to live in the moment. And he was actually enjoying the moment.
TWELVE
It was something remembered: an activity or domestic chore performed with another person. Cohabitation had been such a brief part of her life that it was easily forgettable. But still, this time shared had a pleasant resonance, reminding her of when she was young and believed in possibility and the future. Fifteen years later, all but burnt-out synapses were sparking to life. She could no more control that process than she could the busy, swirling snow. She couldn’t will herself back into the benumbed state that had helped her survive the years in prison.
She and this burly man worked in companionable silence but for the occasional comment about the job at hand, their efforts accompanied by Paganini, then by Mendelssohn, and the remaining wallpaper came down quickly. He was easy to be around, emitting no waves of tens
ion or impatience; he seemed just to be, reminding her again of Joe Seven Moons. Some people were enviably contained, with no obviously frayed edges demanding attention, in need of mending. They finished the job in just over two hours.
‘What do you plan to do about the paneling?’ he asked, picking residual paper shreds from his scraper before depositing it in the bucket of thick, sticky water. ‘There’s probably fine wood under that nasty paint.’
She took a step back to scan the walls. ‘It is nasty,’ she agreed. ‘I hadn’t actually given it any thought. I just assumed it would be repainted.’
‘These Victorian houses have good finishes. There could be maple or walnut or even cherry under there.’
‘You’re interested in old houses?’
‘Only in passing, or historically. The historical part has to do with having grown up in a big Victorian.’
‘So did I,’ she said. ‘Hundreds of years ago.’
‘Hundreds of years,’ he repeated, noting that she hadn’t asked him where his growing-up had taken place. Most people couldn’t resist openings like that. ‘Way back, when, as the song goes,’ he said, ‘the world was young.’
‘Yes,’ she said, her eyes on the near window which was entirely snowed over. Allowing herself a bit of free association, she continued: ‘It’s like being in an exotic cave.’ She paused, gazing at the whitened expanse. Then, ‘Are you proposing to strip the wood?’ she asked, turning to look at him.
‘I was just making an observation.’
‘Would you be interested in doing the work?’ she asked, somehow knowing as she asked that he didn’t need money and wasn’t soliciting her for a job.
He had to pause and take a slow breath. She watched with interest, seeing another dimension to him – one that was a little jittery, a little injured.
Where is the Baby? Page 12
