The Buffalo Soldier (25 page)

VERONICA ROWE (FORMERLY POPPING TREES),

WPA INTERVIEW,

MARCH 1938

*

Terry

Monday afternoon he switched on his lights and his siren and pressed hard on the accelerator, savoring the fact that he was on the long straightaway just north of New Haven Junction on 7 and the snow and the ice had been cleared from the road. He would be at sixty-five, seventy miles an hour in an instant, and he glanced briefly down at his speedometer to watch the angular digits climb higher. The snow in the fields on both sides of the two-lane road was still pretty fresh, and the world around him became a white blur: He was going too fast to take note of the few houses and antique stores on this stretch, or the odd motel that dotted the landscape.

He didn't think the accident would be bad, because the dispatcher had said everyone was outside of their vehicles. But half the equation was a tractor-trailer--its cab was nose-down in the snow in a ditch, and the mass of the truck was blocking most of both lanes--so he wouldn't know for sure until he got to the scene. The other half of the equation was a county van that took seniors grocery shopping. Fortunately, the driver had just dropped the group off when he and the truck had their run-in, so he didn't have any passengers, frail or otherwise, in the van with him.

The accident was in Ferrisburgh. Six miles north, and still he'd be there in five minutes--five and a half if some self-absorbed moron didn't pull over in time and he had to slow down.

He came up over a ridge, and in the valley before him he saw the water tower and the opera house that marked Vergennes, once the self-proclaimed smallest city in the country, and Lake Champlain just to the west. Not frozen yet. Maybe never this year, because every cold snap seemed to be followed by a warm spell. The ground sloped steeply below him, and in the distance at the base of the hill he saw a neon blue SUV coming south and a small conga line--a pickup, an Escort, a UPS truck--heading north, and gingerly they all pulled over into the plowed muck on their separate sides of the road. They heard him, they saw him, and the waves were starting to part.

FORTUNATELY, ALL HE would have to do with this mess was conduct a few roadside interviews, fill out some accident report forms--granted they would include both the long form he loathed and a commercial vehicle supplement--and stand in the cold directing traffic. But no one was hurt, and neither driver was even badly shaken up. The van had hit a patch of black ice and careened across the yellow line, dinging the side of the tractor-trailer before skidding off the road forty yards further south. The tractor-trailer, trying to avoid the van, had slid away into the ditch.

And so while the tow truck pulled the van from the snowdrifts and they waited for a heavy-duty wrecker from Bridport to hoist the tractor-trailer back onto the road, he stood on the pavement and helped the cars snake their way through the thin strip of asphalt that remained between the rear of the truck and the piles of snow off to the side. At this stage in his career the work demanded only minimal concentration, and--as usual--his mind wandered. It wandered first to Sunday night, the day after his in-laws had left, and how Laura--sweet, sweet Laura--had tried like hell to draw him out during dinner, and though there was nothing he needed more than to be drawn out, he couldn't do it. He just couldn't bring himself to reach back across that divide--no chasm, this, the divide was really no wider than the kitchen table--and accept her offer. All she wanted to do was listen, all he needed to do was talk. But he couldn't do it. He loved her, he would not forget that, he loved her. But at that moment, he knew, he wanted something--someone--else.

He realized he was thinking about Phoebe more than was healthy or right, and he wished he could go back in time to the evening he went to her store and they wound up at her friend's trailer. No, that wasn't exactly true. If he could go back in time, he decided, he needed to go back further than that: A full two years and two months was more like what was required, so he could stay home from deer camp and prevent his little girls from going anywhere near the bridge on the day of the flood. After all, if he wanted anything back, it was his life then: When he had Hillary and Megan and he wasn't married to someone who had been, for the better part of two years, an emotional wreck. When he himself wasn't crying alone in his cruiser or sobbing like a madman in the shower. When he wasn't picking up young--younger, anyway--things at deer camp.

In a way, he realized, the last thing he wanted was to go back a mere two or three months. Was he any worse off now than he was, say, on Halloween? Arguably, he wasn't. If he didn't want to, he never had to see Phoebe again. That was pretty clear. On the other hand, if he desired such a thing, there was a beautiful woman just waiting for him to leave his wife, a woman who was already carrying his child: his second chance at a family. There inside Phoebe was the baby he could help to raise right, as he had his own daughters, not some kid who was so screwed up by the time he was brought into his and Laura's life that he was incapable of communicating properly with his foster parents but quite willing to steal from them. Unbelievable. He hated to imagine what else the kid might try, especially if he ever had a gun and a horse at his disposal.

He made a mental note to ask Paul what was in that book about the buffalo soldiers he and Emily had given the boy, and that had now grown to interest him so. Certainly it was meant as a harmless gift, but he knew nothing about what the buffalo soldiers actually did, and the last thing the boy needed right now was to have all kinds of renegade ideas put into his head.

He waved for an oncoming pickup to slow down to a crawl, and decided the woman behind the wheel looked a bit like Laura had when they first met. Slightly darker hair, he decided when the truck got close enough for him to see, but she was even wearing the sort of beret that his sister had given her one Christmas soon after they got married, and Laura had worn for a couple of years when the weather was right.

Leaving Laura, of course, was just a dark fantasy: He didn't think he ever would or could do such a thing. He didn't believe he was capable of that kind of cruelty.

But if she left him? Well, that was another story. He knew he wasn't always an easy person to live with, especially right now, and one just never knew.

No, if he could go back in time, it would have to be two-plus years, not merely two months. There was still no doubt in his mind that what he had done with Phoebe was wrong, absolutely wrong. But he decided he no longer regretted it.

HE STOOD BEFORE the pay phone at the general store in the center of Orwell, wavering. He knew he shouldn't touch it. He should just return to his cruiser and resume running the roads. But there was an odd symmetry here, and that alone caused him to remain: It was, after all, the pay phone at another general store--hours and hours to the northeast--that had first brought him to Phoebe. And so he did reach for the receiver, and then like a teenager he hung it up. Then he grabbed it again. He wasn't sure how many times he had done this--three, four, did it matter?--when he finally kept it in his gloved hand and called her. He heard her move with the cordless phone away from the cash register when she heard it was him, and he could tell that she wasn't alone in the store. There was someone else working with her, a man, bantering with the customers as they arrived and paid for their groceries.

For a few minutes they talked about their lives--she told him she had broken the news to her family that she was pregnant, he told her his in-laws had come and gone--and then, unsure how she would respond to his honesty, he told her he wanted to see her.

She was quiet for a moment, before murmuring, That wouldn't be a good idea. He was just about to agree and hang up--perhaps that would be that--but she continued, Of course, I remember you telling me once that none of this was a good idea. Montpelier, again?

That was indeed what he had pictured. But when he envisioned his cruiser parked once more in the parking lot behind the hotel on Main Street, as it had been on Christmas Eve afternoon, he knew instantly he didn't like that image very much. The thing was, a state police cruiser stood out like a palm tree in Vermont. Especially one in a hotel parking lot. He'd gotten away with it before, and he could probably get away with it again. But why test fate? Why go anyplace in Montpelier? The reality was that anyplace he parked outside of his district could become a problem if someone--a storekeeper, a building owner, or (worst of all) another police officer or trooper--asked him why he was there. Or made a phone call to see why a cruiser was parked on the street.

The truth was, if they were going to meet again, they should find a location that was not merely equidistant but appropriate. Logical. One that made sense. He wished it were the middle of March, when he was scheduled to be teaching for two days in Pittsford at the academy. He could spend the night away from home, and maybe...

He pulled the thought back. Just because he didn't regret what he'd done didn't mean that he was prepared to do it again.

How about Waterbury? he offered instead. I worry about what people think when they see a cruiser in a new spot.

Waterbury?

Headquarters are there. Someone from the barracks is going to need to visit the quartermaster in the next week or so, anyway, to pick up a couple new uniforms and some campaign hats. They may be ready right now, for all I know. I'll offer to go.

He heard her laugh on the phone. Well, I can't think of a better place for us to have a clandestine little conversation than the headquarters for the Vermont State Police.

We won't talk there.

Oh, we'll only have sex?

I didn't mean that, I--

She giggled. I know what you meant. We'll just meet there and go someplace else. In my car, I suppose?

If you don't mind.

Hell, I don't care. I kind of like the idea of having a state trooper trapped in my car beside me. Will you keep your hat on?

Excuse me?

In a mock whisper, she said, Can't let anyone see I have Smokey Bear in the passenger seat, now can I? Every trucker in the state will get reckless if they know I have you otherwise engaged in my car.

I see. He smiled and suddenly, without warning, gave out a little puff of laughter, a tiny yelp of percolating happiness. Yes, I will take my hat off.

And anything else I request?

We can talk about--

I'm teasing you, Terry. This is not a clothes-optional rendezvous.

I agree.

They decided they'd meet Wednesday and have lunch at one of the restaurants in the town.

You know, I used to work in Waterbury, she said.

I remember.

Aren't you worried we'll run into someone I know?

I guess. Maybe we'll have to head up 100. Find a restaurant in Stowe, instead.

All these logistics for a little lunch, Sergeant Sheldon. You must really want to see me.

A couple of teenagers emerged from the Orwell store and eyed him nervously--most people did--and then climbed into a blue pickup with some major dents on one side, and the massive off-road tires he despised. He knew the kids were going to try to keep the car quiet when they turned over the ignition, and he knew also it was going to roar like a jet.

He sighed. Yes, I do, Phoebe Danvers. I want to see you very much.

"Rule number six: They have to exercise themselves as well as their horses."

SERGEANT GEORGE ROWE,

TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,

LETTER TO HIS BROTHER IN PHILADELPHIA,

NOVEMBER 18, 1873

*

Laura

Here was this woman named Louise before her once again, this time at her kitchen table, the ladder-back chair between them filled by her little boy--the little boy in her care, she corrected herself quickly; she shouldn't be so bold as to consider him hers, especially since it was clear that this social worker was in her house now because something was amiss (perhaps even troubling her) and she wanted to discuss it. The three of them were sipping hot chocolate (real hot chocolate, made from real milk, not the weak stuff that was concocted from warm tap water and a mix that came in a foil packet), and she knew this amiable conversation was going nowhere good.

In so many ways, things had been going well, so very, very well. She should have known it couldn't last.

The young social worker (too young, Laura decided, to be knowledgeable or experienced or familiar with pain on a personal level) was saying something about how the horse had come right up to the stall guard (she said she had learned that term from Alfred) the instant they opened the barn door and he said her name. She was saying she thought the horse was a very good thing for Alfred, and asking Alfred if he agreed.

He nodded, but he looked nervous to Laura as he stared down at the marshmallows that floated at the top of his mug.

Anyway, I was hoping I could come back later this week and watch him ride, since I didn't get to today. Maybe have dinner with the three of you, she went on.

The three of us, Laura said, and for a very brief moment she wondered if Louise actually meant that she wanted to have dinner with her and the boy and the horse. But then she understood that Louise was including Terry in the group--she wanted to have dinner with her husband and her and the boy--and almost reflexively she added, Terry and Alfred and me.

Yes. If that would be all right. Forgive me, Ms. Sheldon, I don't usually invite myself places for dinner, but I just think it would be so much fun to see Alfred up on that animal, and then get the chance to, I don't know, just connect with you and Sergeant Sheldon.

When?

When? Oh, I was thinking Wednesday, maybe. I'll be in this part of the county early that afternoon, anyway, and I could rearrange my evening easily enough and drop in here--that is, if it's okay with you.

It's fine, she said.

And you wouldn't mind my dropping in again, right, Alfred?

He shrugged--no, he wouldn't mind--without looking up from his hot chocolate, and she could see that his fingers were wrapped tightly around the mug.

If it was all right with you, I'd arrive here about three-thirty, maybe quarter to four, and that would give me a chance to see Alfred up on the horse before the sun sets.

And then we'd have an early dinner, Laura said.

Well, we can eat whenever you normally would--whenever Sergeant Sheldon gets home.

I believe he'll be home his normal time Wednesday night. We can probably eat around six-thirty or seven.

Good. Let me bring some bread or something from that nice bakery in Durham. I could do that, at least.

You could, but you needn't, Laura said. It's our pleasure to have you.

Well, thank you. In the meantime, there was something I was hoping you could...help me with. Maybe help me smooth over.

Here comes the hammer blow, Laura thought to herself, here comes the beginning of the hurt. The first piece of news that something is wrong, direly wrong, and I have managed to miss all the signs. No, it will be worse than that: I will have seen the indications and I will have to live with the reality that I saw them and chose to ignore them. She wondered if it would have something to do with the horse and her willingness to allow the boy to ride without formal lessons--maybe that fall and the bump on his head--but then she decided it wouldn't be that because Louise seemed so pleased with Alfred's involvement with Mesa. The hurt would begin someplace else.

Yes? she asked simply when the woman paused, waiting for her to say something.

Louise turned to the boy as he was putting down his mug of hot chocolate on the place mat and said, I think Alfred wants to tell you about it.

Clearly this was the last thing in the world that Alfred wanted to do, and he sat there without saying a word.

Alfred? Laura asked, but he ignored her as he had ignored Louise, and stared out the window at the sky and the skeletal-looking branches on the trees near their house.

Remember what we agreed, Louise said. You need to be a grown-up here, you need to take some responsibility. I can help, but you need to get the ball rolling.

She could almost see the conflict on the boy's face: There was something he wanted desperately to tell her, but there was something even more powerful that was compelling him to remain silent. He wouldn't look at either of the women, and he wouldn't look away from the window.

Go ahead, Alfred, Laura said to him at last. You know the last thing I want is for us to have secrets.

Slowly he turned to meet her eyes, and for a second she thought he was going to open up and explain to her what was troubling him--what was troubling Louise--but then he pressed his palms flat on the armrests on the chair, pushed himself to his feet, and walked right past her and the social worker, across the kitchen floor, and then up the stairs to his room.

Laura started to stand up to go after him, but Louise shook her head, and so--despite her faith that she knew what was best for the boy and that meant going to him that very moment--she sat back in her chair and waited for this other woman to speak.

WHEN HE HAD shut the door and it had been completely quiet upstairs for easily a minute or a minute and a half, she asked Louise, What is it you want him to tell me? What's happened?

The younger woman widened her eyes and started to push her dark hair back behind her ears, her thumbs bouncing over the silver balls there like they were a line of speed bumps on the road. Well, it's your husband. I need to get in the middle of this, and I'm not happy about that, but not getting in the middle would be worse. It would--

What's happened?

This morning, it seems, Sergeant Sheldon--

Terry, please. Call him Terry, and call me Laura.

You know, I do that with Alfred. Around Alfred, you're both just Terry and Laura. I mean that as a compliment.

Go on.

This morning, before he left for work, Terry and Alfred had a bit of a misunderstanding. You don't know this about Alfred, but he's a bit of a food hoarder.

A what?

A food hoarder. He hoards food. You know, hides it. A lot of foster kids do, it's actually pretty common. It usually only happens the first time a child leaves his biologic home, especially when there's been some serious privation. But there are also the kids like Alfred, kids who've had some real bad luck over the years and been shuttled around more than anyone deserves. They squirrel away snacks, too, so when they have to go someplace new, they have some comfort food with them to help them get through the first couple of days.

A few times this fall I thought things had disappeared, but I assumed it was just me, she heard herself saying, and she remembered vividly opening the box of Twinkies one morning in October when she was making Alfred his lunch before school, and seeing there was only one wrapped cake remaining when she was quite sure that the night before there'd been two or even three. And then there was the afternoon she'd spent easily ten or fifteen minutes in search of the can opener with the white handle--the one she reserved solely for cat food cans--before finally giving up and deciding it wasn't a big deal if the family used the same can opener for refried beans and pineapple slices that they used for the seafood supper she fed to the cats.

It's never a lot, Louise continued. But Alfred has taken a little. You know, things like Hostess cupcakes. Canned peaches, I think he said. And the only reason it's a problem--

You can't believe either Terry or I would care if he took some canned peaches!

No, of course not. But there was a misunderstanding. This morning Alfred had the small things he'd procured (she smiled for Laura when she used the word) spread out on the floor in his bedroom when Sergeant Shel--Terry--walked in. And Terry saw the food and Alfred's backpack, and he suspected the worst.

The worst? What exactly would that be?

He thought Alfred was going to run away.

She nodded, and allowed the notion to seep in.

He said he wasn't, and I believe him, Louise went on. He has no history of running away.

Except that Saturday a couple months ago when he just upped and went to Burlington to see that little Vietnamese girl.

No, that wasn't running away, and I think you know that. That was just a...a badly planned and executed play date or visit.

How did you hear about this? Was it Alfred who said something, or did Terry call you this morning?

Your husband? He didn't call me. He and Alfred had an exchange, and--

And Alfred told you about it.

Yes.

And not me.

It isn't like that, there were--there are--circumstances.

She resolved that she would not sink into that place where she wanted (no, needed, there'd been a time when she'd needed) to curl up in her nightgown in bed, unmoving, the sheets around her pulled up to her face and her ears. But it was getting harder. Everyone around her these days had information for her: her husband with his news that he had had a drink with some tramp in a bar, Emily with her belief that something was bothering Terry, and now this social worker with the reconnaissance that something was going on between Terry and Alfred, and neither had chosen to tell her. If only the world could be just her and the boy--no, she didn't mean that, she loved Terry and didn't want to lose him--if only the world could be just her and the boy and her husband and the time they spent alone as a family. She and Alfred looking at photos. Using a dime-store loom to make a Kwanzaa mat. All three of them getting the Christmas tree that still stood in the den.

The thing is, Louise was explaining, and she turned her attention as best she could back to the younger woman, Terry thinks you're fragile. That's pretty clear. He made Alfred swear not to tell you what happened. That's why neither of the men in your life mentioned their squabble this morning.

Squabble. I can't tell whether you're trying to make this more or less of an issue with that word. Tell me, please, exactly what Alfred told you.

Okay, Louise said, and the caseworker proceeded to construct for Laura a short motion picture, beginning with the instant when Terry surprised Alfred in his bedroom, to the moment when he had the boy empty his pockets and accused him of stealing money. She tried to sit perfectly still as Louise spoke, unmoving, afraid if she did more than breathe, the reality of what she was hearing would cause her to flinch and then she would be undone. And she would not allow that to happen, not in front of this person who worked for the state. So long as she merely listened, however, not even nodding, she knew she could remain poised and concerned: A good foster mother. A good mom.

Anyway, Louise said as she finished, I don't believe Alfred would have told me if Terry hadn't thought he'd been taking dollar bills from your purse and whatever cookie jar you keep in this kitchen. The only reason the story even slipped out is because Alfred has plenty of money right now from the time he spends taking care of your neighbors' horse.

So he didn't...confide in you, she said, regretting the words the moment they had escaped her mouth because she thought they made her sound pathetic: jealous, perhaps, of this woman a mere fourteen or fifteen years older than Alfred.

No, it wasn't like that. It was like, Hey, I'm making a lot of money here, so why would Terry accuse me of taking some? Oops. The minute he said it, he knew he'd made a mistake of monster proportions.

How do you think Terry wants to handle it now?

She raised her eyebrows and offered Laura a small smile. You know, he's your husband. I should ask you that. But here's what does seem pretty clear. He doesn't want to tell you, at least not right now. And, like I said, he didn't call me this morning, so he probably isn't planning on telling me. The fact is, he's never called me, so I tend to doubt I'm tops on his list of people he would even think of talking to.

But he might talk to Alfred some more.

He might. He might also just opt for more discipline. In the meantime, somehow I want to get this out into the open so it doesn't get any worse. But you can't bring it up without getting Alfred in trouble with Terry, and I probably can't--

Why not? she interrupted. Why can't you just tell Terry--maybe Terry and me together--the way you just told me? You said yourself it just slipped out. Alfred hadn't planned to mention it to anybody.

Maybe. But Terry and Alfred don't have, you know, one of those father-son relationships for the ages. Terry might not believe that's exactly the way it happened--

Their relationship isn't that bad!

No, of course not. But it isn't great. That doesn't mean it couldn't become great. It could. But it isn't right now, that's just how it is. And so if I don't do this right, I could really screw things up. I guess that's why I want to have us all together in one room so we can deal with this honestly, clear it up, and then--she tossed her hand over her shoulder, as if she were tossing a ball behind her back--put it behind us.