by Donna Ball
The scowl deepened. “You want me to help you build this thing or not?”
She squinted up at him, the sun in her eyes. “You’re just a kid. You’ll screw it up.”
“You’re just a girl. You’ll screw it up worse.”
Her eyes narrowed further. “I’m the one with the Am-Ex card.”
“Yeah, well.” He rocked back on his heels. “I can make it look like the picture.”
She studied him for a time. “Can you really?”
“I drew it, didn’t I?”
She thought about it another minute, and then stood, brushing off her hands. “Okay, you can help,” she decided. “But I’m in charge. Is that clear?”
“Sure.” He grinned. “Now, how is it you mix cement again?”
She glared at him. “Just shut up and get the garden hose.”
Carrie explained earnestly, “It’s really not so hard to understand how something like this might have happened, although I’m awfully sorry it did. Noah and his father only moved here ten years or so ago, and he told everyone his wife was dead. We had no reason to suspect otherwise. And Noah never really came into the system formally—through proper channels, I mean. When his dad died last winter, you ladies were kind enough to take him in, and the Reverend Holland asked us to expedite the paperwork, so . . .” She spread her hands helplessly and leaned back in her chair. “We did. It’s not an excuse, and I suppose the fault does lie with this office to a certain extent, but this is a small town and it’s not the first time we’ve cut through a little red tape for the well-being of a child.”
Cici said, “We’re not blaming anyone. It’s just . . .” She gave a shake of her head, as though trying to clear a fog. “How can his mother be alive?”
“Are you sure you have the right woman?”
Lindsay just looked stunned.
Carrie smiled sympathetically. “We’re sure. The state office has been working on this, and they were finally able to contact her last week. I really don’t know the details, but it’s definitely the right woman.”
She sorted through some papers on her desk until she came up with the right one, then slipped on a pair of black-framed glasses. “According to our records, Noah Clete was born in Charlottesville to Amanda and Robert Clete. Shortly after his birth, the mother, Amanda, left her husband. The child lived with his maternal grandmother until her death four years later. That was when Robert Clete moved with Noah to this county. He worked as a handyman off and on and . . . well, you know the rest.”
Lindsay nodded slowly. “His father was an alcoholic whose only contact with Noah was to beat him. He couldn’t be bothered to make sure he went to school or had warm clothes or regular meals. He—”
Bridget laid a quieting hand atop Lindsay’s. “I don’t understand,” she said firmly, “why no one tried to find his mother—or even knew about her—until now.”
Cici, who had opened her mouth to speak, closed it again and gave Bridget an approving nod.
“Well, that’s just it, isn’t it?” Carrie replied apologetically. “No one knew about her. No abandonment charges were ever filed, there was no child support to pursue, no reason for the state to get involved . . . and when the grandmother died, the child went back to live with his father, which was, for all intents and purposes, as it should have been.” She removed the glasses. “Noah was so young when they moved here I doubt he would have even known where he was from if we had interviewed him. And I’m sure he believes his mother died when he was a baby, just like everyone else did.”
“And the mother?” demanded Cici. “What’s her excuse? She’s been living in Richmond all this time and she never once thought to inquire about her son?”
“Apparently,” Carrie said, “when the grandmother died and Robert took over custody, he moved around a good bit before he settled here. She simply lost track. She looked for Noah, but she couldn’t find him.” She glanced again at her notes. “She’s only been in Richmond a few years. She’s a resident counselor at a privately owned halfway house for recovering substance abusers.”
Lindsay blew out a long slow breath. “Wow,” she said. And again, “Wow.” The expression on her face was reminiscent of someone who had just run into a plate glass window. “What do you know about that?” she said. “Noah ends up with a mother after all—even if it’s not me. Things sure have a way of working themselves out.” Then she looked back at Carrie. “I guess someone should tell him.”
Carrie held up a staying hand. “I wish you’d hold off on that for a day or two. Amanda, his mother, will be here Wednesday, and I thought the best thing to do would be for all of us to meet, and try to figure out the best way to explain things to Noah. This will be a shock, and he’s bound to have questions. It might be best if his mother was actually here to answer them.”
Lindsay released another breath, which seemed almost to deflate her. She sagged a little in her chair, and there were lines around her mouth and her eyes that had not been there when she walked into the office. “Do you, um, do you think she’ll want to take him back with her on Wednesday? That’s not a lot of time to, well, prepare.”
“I think we can come up with a better plan than that,” Carrie said gently. “I haven’t actually spoken to the woman, you know, but I’m sure she’ll understand it will take Noah a little time to adjust to the news. There’s no need to have his things packed until after we’ve all talked.”
And that was it. They agreed to come back to the office on Wednesday morning at nine. They agreed that nothing would be said to Noah about his change in circumstances. They gathered up their things, they murmured thanks, they left the office. And no one said much of anything on the way home.
16
Making Adjustments
Although lunch was usually an informal affair, with everyone grabbing whatever they could whenever they had time to eat it, Ida Mae was a little stricter with the young people’s diets. Promptly at noon she called Noah and Lori in to feast on ham sandwiches made from thick homemade bread, with deviled eggs and bread-and-butter pickles on the side.
“I love the week after Easter,” Lori declared, letting the screen door bang behind her. “Ham sandwiches every day!”
“Take off those muddy boots before you come tramping through my kitchen,” Ida Mae told her, casting a critical eye over the rest of her outfit. “Those overalls don’t look fit to bring to the table, either.” She raised her voice as Noah appeared at the door. “If you bang that door again, young man, I’ll take a strip out of your hide.”
Lori kicked off her boots and left them by the door as Noah closed the screen door with exaggerated care. “I’ll change after lunch,” she told Ida Mae. “I have to go into town as soon as Mom gets back with the car keys.”
Ida Mae grumbled about people running hither and yon, wasting time and gasoline, as Lori slid into her place and took a bite out of her sandwich. “Isn’t there anything to drink besides milk?” Noah complained. “I hate milk.”
“You’ll drink it and be grateful for it,” Ida Mae returned. “Did you wash your hands?”
“Outside,” he assured her around a mouthful of sandwich.
Ignoring them, Lori reached for the book that had been lying on the table and flipped it open. “Say, there’s some stuff in here about Blackwell Farms. That’s what this place used to be called!”
Ida Mae set her own plate on the table, and lowered herself into a chair. “Does your mama allow you to read at the table?”
“Only at lunch,” murmured Lori absently, turning pages. “Look!” She held up the book, open to a photograph, and turned it to each of them. “A picture of this house, way back in the sixties. We’re famous!”
Neither one of them seemed very interested, and Lori returned to her reading. “It says here they used to make cheese in that very dairy where Aunt Lindsay has her art studio, and they aged it in caves. Imagine that! I didn’t know there were any caves around here.”
Noah gave a derisive snort. “Everybody
knows about the tourist caves down the road. Where’re you from, anyhow?”
Lori looked at him, uncomprehending, for a moment, and then made a dismissive face. “Oh, you must mean the Luray Caverns. I don’t think the Blackwells aged cheese there. Where did they age the cheese, Ida Mae? It would have to be on this property somewhere, wouldn’t it?”
Ida Mae, chewing, didn’t reply.
“Well, I guess it makes sense though,” Lori commented, mostly to herself, as she turned back to the book. “Where there are caverns, there’d have to be caves.”
“Soldiers stored ammunition there during the Civil War,” Ida Mae said.
Lori looked up excitedly. “Here? In our cheese caves?”
And Noah said, “No kidding? Betcha there’s some old can nonballs and stuff still lying around. Might be worth looking around for.”
“Won’t do you no good,” returned Ida Mae smugly. “They ain’t around here.”
“But I thought you said—” Lori broke off at the sound of tires on the drive. “Oh good, they’re back.” She finished the last bite of her sandwich and washed it down with milk. “Thanks, Ida Mae, that was delicious.” She hurried from the table, taking the book with her.
“Hey, Mom.” She met the three women in the front entrance, her hand out. “I need the car keys.”
Cici fumbled distractedly in her purse and came up with the keys. “Have a good time,” she said as she handed them over.
Lori gave her a confused look and started to say something, but Bridget interrupted. “Oh, honey, if you’re going out, do you mind taking that book back to the library for me? It’s overdue.” She too started searching in her purse. “I have the fine here somewhere.”
“Hey, Teach.” Noah came in from the kitchen. “We having school today or what?”
For the longest time, Lindsay said nothing. Then she smiled. “Actually, Noah,” she said brightly, “I have some good news for you.”
Both Bridget and Cici looked at her sharply.
“That idea you had about applying for a license to keep wildlife,” she went on, “was a good one. I talked to the game warden and it looks as though we’re going to be able to keep Bambi after all.”
“Hey,” said Noah, his face brightening.
Lori lifted an eyebrow at him. “Your idea?”
“So,” Lindsay went on, “in honor of that, I thought we’d take the day off. Everyone else gets spring holidays, and, besides, I have some things I need to get done today.”
“You got no argument from me,” said Noah, heading for the door.
The three of them watched him go. Then Cici said, “Well, I’d better change into my chicken coop-building clothes.”
“Yes,” said Lindsay, turning away from the door as though with an effort. “I’ll help you. Build the thing, that is. Whatever.”
“Me, too,” said Bridget.
Lori said, “You guys are acting weird.”
But no one seemed to hear her, and the three of them went upstairs.
Lori, shrugging, started to follow them, and then something caught her eye. She looked at the display on the entrance wall: the framed collage of historic newspaper scraps, the charcoal drawing of the house that Noah had given Lindsay for Christmas, an old-fashioned invitation, the faded scrap of paper with a child’s drawing on it that Lindsay had found in the guest room woodbin. She frowned, and opened the book, flipping through pages until she found it. She looked. And looked again.
“Holy cow,” she said. She turned toward the stairs and started to call “Hey!” but she stopped herself. Then she looked back at the book. “Holy cow,” she repeated, and the amazement on her face slowly turned into a big and satisfied smile.
She hurried to the door and saw Noah crossing the lawn. “Hey, kid!” she called. “You still want that ride into town?”
“I think this is a good thing,” Lindsay pronounced. The certainty in her voice seemed a little forced. “Of course it is.”
“No doubt about it. How big do you think a chicken coop is supposed to be, anyway?”
“I think it depends on the number of chickens, Cici,” Bridget said.
“They should each have their own nest.”
Cici stared at Lindsay. “This isn’t the Hilton, you know. Besides, they’re only three inches tall. If we make it too big, they won’t be able to keep warm at night.”
They had decided on a sunny spot behind the barn, and had brought a measuring tape, level, string, and dowels to mark the spot. Bridget handed over the tape to Cici. “Of course it’s a good thing. Every child should have a chance to know his mother.”
“I think the most important thing is to have a yard that’s big enough for them all to roam around in. We’ll have to enclose it in chicken wire.”
An hour later, as she took her turn wrestling the posthole diggers into the ground while Cici ran the power saw on an extension cord from the barn, Lindsay added, “I just hope she’ll encourage him to keep up with his art.”
“He could be going to a wonderful new life,” Bridget offered. She was panting as she dragged a two-by-four fence post across the ground. “Who knows what this could mean for him?”
“Definitely the best thing that could have happened.” Sweat rolled down Lindsay’s face and she grunted with effort as she stabbed the blades of the tool into the ground again.
Two hours later the three women examined the framework of what was roughly a six-by-eight-foot structure. The back was dramatically lower than the front; the left side seemed longer than the right; and the whole resembled a lopsided doghouse more than a building meant to house fowl.
“Did you leave room for windows?” Lindsay asked critically, tilting her head to one side.
Cici whipped off the sweatband that held back her perspiration-darkened hair and mopped her face with it. “Chickens don’t need windows. If they want fresh air, they can walk through the door.”
“You can’t leave the door open at night,” Lindsay said in alarm. “Foxes will come in!”
“That’s why we’re building a fence,” explained Cici patiently.
“Oh. Right.”
Bridget circled the entire structure, from front to back, before venturing an opinion. “I don’t see how we’re going to get in to collect the eggs. It seems a little . . . short.”
“They’re chickens, not giraffes,” returned Cici testily. “You’ll just have to bend down.”
“You don’t think it seems . . . I don’t know. Lopsided?”
“Someone”—Cici looked meaningfully at Bridget, who had been in charge of marking the boards before they were cut—“might have measured wrong.”
They regarded their handiwork for a moment longer. Then Bridget ventured, “Cici, do you have any idea how to build a chicken coop?”
“Not a clue.”
And so began the process of tearing down, re-measuring, and starting again. By five o’clock they were sweaty, bug-bitten, and sunburned. Four fence posts were set into the ground, and the chicken coop consisted of a square of two-by-fours arranged on the ground. The women stepped back to survey their work and agreed as one that it would not hurt the chickens to spend one more night in the sunroom.
Lori and Noah had returned from town, and were making a great deal of noise unloading something on the other side of the house. As the women started wearily toward home, Lindsay’s eyes turned toward the sound of their voices. “I know it’s the best thing that could possibly have happened,” she said. “But . . .”
Suddenly both her friends put their arms around her waist.
And Cici added, “We hate it, too.”
As the days lengthened, and spring settled firmly into place, twilight lingered until after eight o’clock. The ladies sat on the porch and watched as the lacework of emerald leaves patterning the lavender sky turned to black. Then, illuminated only by the faint glow of stars, they sat and rocked, weighed down by exhaustion and their own thoughts.
“There should be a law against people our a
ge working this hard,” Bridget said, stifling a groan as she stretched out her legs.
“You should never take on a physical job like that when you’re angry.”
Lindsay glanced at Cici. “I thought working hard was supposed to make you feel better when you’re upset.”
“Nope. It just makes you tired.”
They were silent for a while. “She’s right, you know,” Bridget said. “Whenever I’m upset I start cleaning the house, and the more I clean the more I find to do until it’s really just a vicious cycle.”
“I used to go to the gym,” Lindsay admitted, “and work that treadmill until the trainers started giving me dirty looks because people were waiting to use the equipment.”
“It’s what women do. Instead of picking fights in bars or whipping out small caliber handguns when someone cuts them off in traffic.”
Bridget rubbed her shoulder. “I don’t know. I think we might need to take another look at our coping mechanisms.”
“Those kids sure are working hard, whatever they’re up to,” Lindsay commented.
Lori and Noah had barely paused long enough to gulp their dinner, then returned to work until daylight faded.
“I don’t know what Lori used to bribe Noah into helping her. But it must have been good.”
“I think he suspects something is going on. He was awfully quiet at dinner.”
“He was exhausted,” Cici said.
“Noah never does anything halfway,” Bridget said fondly. And the smile in her voice faded as she added, “I’m going to miss him so much.”
They were quiet for a moment. Dusky clouds settled over the mountains, silhouetted against a deep purple sky. A cricket shrilled in a nearby bush, and was joined in a moment by his mate. The chorus, breaking the silence, sounded like a cacophony.
Then Lindsay said softly, “You know what’s funny? I never wanted children. Not even once, not even a little bit. I mean, I loved teaching and I loved the kids I taught, but as far as wanting one of my own—I just didn’t have the urge. I always felt as though other women—other mothers—thought I was strange, or in denial, or maybe something was wrong with me. But there wasn’t. I just wasn’t interested.”
