The Longest Ride (19 page)

“It was a good summer for him,” Ruth agrees. “By then, he was managing the factory, so the days were not so hard on him, and it was the first time in years that we had enough money to go on holiday. Most of all, he was ecstatic at the thought of teaching again.”

“And your mother was happy.”

“My father’s good spirits were infectious.” Ruth pauses for a moment. “And, like me… she had grown to like it here. Greensboro would never be Vienna, but she had learned the language and made some friends. She had also grown to appreciate the warmth and generosity of the people here. In a way, I think she had finally begun to think of North Carolina as her home.”

Outside the car, the wind blows clumps of snow from the branches. None of them hits the car, but somehow it is enough to remind me again of exactly where I am. But it does not matter, not right now.

“Do you remember how clear the sky was when we ate dinner?” I say. “There were so many stars.”

“That is because it was so dark. No lights from the city. My father noted the same thing.”

“I’ve always loved the Outer Banks. We should have gone every year,” I say.

“I think it would have lost its magic if we went every year,” she responds. “Every few years was perfect – like we did. Because every time we went back, it felt new and untamed and fresh again. Besides, when would we have gone? We were always traveling in the summers. New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Chicago, even California. And always, Black Mountain. We had the chance to see this country in a way that most people never could, and what could be better?”

Nothing, I think to myself, knowing in my heart that she is right. My home is filled with keepsakes from those trips. Strangely, though, aside from a seashell we found the following morning, I had nothing to remind me of this place, and yet the memory never dimmed.

“I always enjoyed having dinner with your parents. Your father seemed to know something about everything.”

“He did,” she says. “His father had been a teacher, his brother was a teacher. His uncles were teachers. My father came from a family of scholars. But you were interesting to my father, too – he was fascinated by your work as a navigator during the war, despite your reluctance to speak of it. I think it increased his respect for you.”

“But your mother felt differently.”

Ruth pauses and I know she is trying to choose her words carefully. She toys with a windblown strand of hair, inspecting it before going on. “At that time, she was still worried about me. All she knew was that you had broken my heart only a few months earlier, and that even though we were seeing each other again, there was still something troubling me.”

Ruth was talking about the consequences of my bout with mumps and what it would likely mean for our future. It was something she would tell her mother only years later, when her mother’s puzzlement turned to sadness and anxiety over the fact that she hadn’t become a grandmother. Ruth gently revealed that we couldn’t have children, careful not to place the blame entirely on me, though she could easily have done so. Another of her kindnesses, for which I’ve always been thankful.

“She didn’t say much at dinner, but afterwards, I was relieved that she smiled at me.”

“She appreciated the fact that you offered to do the dishes.”

“It was the least I could do. To this day, that was the best meal I’ve ever had.”

“It was good, yes?” Ruth reminisces. “Earlier, my mother had found a roadside stand with fresh vegetables, and she had baked bread. My father turned out to be a natural with the grill.”

“And after we finished the dishes, we went for a walk.”

“Yes,” she says. “You were very bold that night.”

“I wasn’t acting bold. I simply asked for a bottle of wine and a pair of glasses.”

“Yes, but this was new for you. My mother had never seen that side of you. It made her nervous.”

“But we were adults.”

“That was the problem. You were a man and she knew that men have urges.”

“And women don’t?”

“Yes, of course. But unlike men, women are not controlled by their urges. Women are civilized.”

“Did your mother tell you that?” My voice is skeptical.

“I did not need my mother to tell me. It was clear to me what you wanted. Your eyes were full of lust.”

“If I recall correctly,” I say with crisp propriety, “I was a perfect gentleman that night.”

“Yes, but it was still exciting for me, watching you try to control your urges. Especially when you spread your jacket and we sat in the sand and drank the wine. The ocean seemed to absorb the moonlight and I could feel that you wanted me, even if you were trying not to show it. You put your arm around me and we talked and kissed and talked some more and I was a little tipsy…”

“And it was perfect,” I finally offer.

“Yes,” she agrees. “It was perfect.” Her expression is nostalgic and a little sad. “I knew I wanted to marry you and I knew for certain we would always be happy together.”

I pause, fully aware of what she was thinking, even then. “You were still hopeful that the doctor might be wrong.”

“I think that I said that whatever happened would be in God’s hands.”

“That’s the same thing, isn’t it?”

“Maybe,” she answers, then shakes her head. “What I do know is that when I was sitting with you that night, I felt like God was telling me that I was doing the right thing.”

“And then we saw the shooting star.”

“It blazed all the way across the sky,” she says. Her voice, even now, is filled with wonder. “It was the first time I had ever seen one like that.”

“I told you to make a wish,” I said.

“I did,” she says, meeting my eyes. “And my wish came true only a few hours later.”

 

 

Though it was late by the time Ruth and I got back to the house, her mother was still awake. She sat reading near the window, and as soon as we walked in the door, I felt her eyes sweep over us, looking for an untucked or improperly buttoned shirt, sand in our hair. Her relief was apparent as she rose to greet us, though she did her best to disguise it.

She chatted with Ruth while I went back to the car to retrieve my suitcase. Like many of the cottages along this stretch of the beach, the house had two floors. Ruth and her parents had rooms on the lower level, while the room Ruth’s mother showed me to was directly off the kitchen on the main floor. The three of us spent a few minutes visiting in the kitchen before Ruth began to yawn. Her mother began to yawn as well, signaling the end of the evening. Ruth did not kiss me in front of her mother – at that point, it wasn’t something we’d yet done – and after Ruth wandered off, her mother soon followed.

I turned out the lights and retreated to the back porch, soothed by the moonlit water and the breeze in my hair. I sat outside for a long time as the temperature cooled, my thoughts wandering from Ruth and me, to Joe Torrey, to my parents.

I tried to imagine my father and mother in a place like this, but I couldn’t. Never once had we gone on vacation – the shop had always anchored us in place – but even if it had been possible, it wouldn’t have been a holiday like this. I could no more imagine my father grilling with a glass of wine in hand than I could imagine him atop Mt. Everest, and somehow the thought made me sad. My father, I realized, had no idea how to relax; he seemed to lead his life preoccupied by work and worry. Ruth’s parents, on the other hand, seemed to enjoy each moment for what it was. I was struck by how differently Ruth and her parents reacted to the war. While my mother and father seemed to recede into the past – albeit in different ways – her parents embraced the future, as though seizing hold of their chance at life. They opted to make the most of their fortunate fates and never lost a sense of gratitude for what they had.

The house was silent when I finally came in. Tempted by the thought of Ruth, I tiptoed down the stairs. There was a room on either side of the hallway, but because the doors were closed, I did not know which was Ruth’s. I stood waiting, looking from one to the other, then finally turned around and went back the way I’d come.

Once in my room, I undressed and crawled into bed. Moonlight streamed through the windows, turning the room silver. I could hear the rolling sound of the waves, soothing in its monotony, and after a few minutes, I felt myself drifting off.

Sometime later, and though I thought at first that I was imagining it, I heard the door open. I had always been a light sleeper – even more so since the war – and though only shadows were visible at first, I knew it was Ruth. Disoriented, I sat up in the bed as she stepped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. She was wearing a robe, and as she approached the bed, she undid the knot in a single fluid motion and the robe slipped to the floor.

A moment later, she was in the bed. As she slid toward me, her skin seemed to radiate a crackling electricity. Our mouths came together and I felt her tongue push against my own as my fingers traced through her hair and down her back. We knew enough not to make a sound, the silence making everything even more exciting, and I rolled her onto her back. I kissed her cheek and trailed feverish kisses across and down her neck and then back to her mouth, lost in her beauty and in the moment.

We made love, then made love again an hour later. In between, I spooned her against my body, whispering into her ear how much I loved her and that there would never be another. Through it all, Ruth said little, but in her eyes and her touch I felt the echo of my words. Just before dawn, she kissed me tenderly and slipped back into her robe. As she opened the door, she turned to face me.

“I love you, too, Ira,” she whispered. And with that, she was gone.

I lay in bed awake until the sky began to lighten, reliving the hours we’d just spent together. I wondered whether Ruth was sleeping or whether she, too, was lying awake. I wondered whether she was thinking of me. Through the window, I watched the sun rise as if being heaved from the ocean, and in all my life, I have never witnessed a more spectacular dawn. I did not leave my room when I heard low voices in the kitchen, her parents trying not to wake me. Finally I heard Ruth come into the kitchen, and still I waited for a little while before putting on my clothes and opening the door.

Ruth’s mother stood at the counter, pouring a cup of coffee, while Ruth and her father were at the table. Ruth’s mother turned to me with a smile.

“Sleep well?”

I did my best not to look at Ruth, but from the corner of my eye, I thought I saw the tiniest of smiles flash across her lips.

“Like a dream,” I answered.

A
t Knoxville’s arena, where Luke had last ridden six years ago, the bleachers were already nearly full. Luke was in the chute, experiencing the familiar rush of adrenaline, the world suddenly compressed. Only vaguely could he hear the announcer laying out the highs and lows of his career, even when the crowd grew silent.

Luke didn’t feel ready. His hands had trembled earlier, and he could feel the fear bubbling up, making it hard to concentrate. Beneath him, a bull named Crosshairs thrashed and reared, forcing him to focus on the immediate. The rope beneath the bull was held taut by other cowboys, and Luke adjusted his wrap. It was the same suicide wrap he’d used for as long as he’d been riding, the one he’d used on Big Ugly Critter. As he finished adjusting the wrap, Crosshairs wedged his leg against the rails, leaning hard. The cowboys who’d helped tighten the rope pushed back against the bull. Crosshairs shifted and Luke quickly jammed his leg into position. He oriented himself, and as soon as he was ready, he said simply, “Let’s go.”

The chute gate swung open and the bull lunged forward with a savage buck, his head plunging down, hind legs reaching for the sky. Luke worked on staying centered, his arm held out as Crosshairs began to spin to the left. Luke cut with him, anticipating the move, and the bull bucked again before suddenly shifting direction. That move Luke didn’t anticipate and he went off center, his balance shifting slightly, but even then he stayed on. His forearms strained as he tried to right himself, holding on with everything he had. Crosshairs bucked once more and began to spin again just as the buzzer sounded. Luke reached for the wrap, freeing himself in the same instant he leapt from the bull. He landed on all fours and got quickly to his feet, heading toward the arena fence without turning around. When he reached the top, Crosshairs was already on his way out of the arena. Luke took a seat on the rails, waiting for his score as the adrenaline slowly drained from his system. The crowd roared when it was announced that he’d scored an 81 – not good enough for the top four, but good enough to keep him in contention.

Yet even after he’d recovered, he spent a few minutes unsure whether he’d be able to ride again, the fear coming back hard. The next bull sensed his tension, and in the second round, he was tossed only halfway into the ride. While in the air, he felt a surge of panic. He landed on one knee and felt something twist sharply before he toppled to the side. He went dizzy for a second, but he was operating on instinct by then and again escaped without harm.

His first score was barely enough to keep him in the top fifteen, and in the short go, the final round, he rode again, finishing ninth overall.

Afterward, he didn’t wait around. After texting his mom, he started the truck and peeled out of the parking lot, making it back to the ranch a little after four a.m. Seeing the lights on in the main house, he surmised that his mom had either risen early or, more likely, hadn’t gone to bed.

He texted her again after turning off the engine, not expecting a reply.

As usual, he didn’t get one.

 

 

In the morning, after two hours of fitful sleep, Luke hobbled into the farmhouse just as his mom was finishing up at the stove. Eggs over medium, sausage links, and pancakes, the flavorful aroma filling the kitchen.

“Hey, Mom,” he said, reaching for a cup. He hid the limp as best he could as he moved to the coffeepot, thinking he’d end up needing a lot more than a cup or two to wash down the ibuprofen he clutched in his hand.

His mom studied him as he poured. “You’re hurt,” she said, sounding less angry than he’d expected. More concerned.

“It’s not too bad,” he said, leaning on the counter, trying not to wince. “My knee swelled up a bit on the drive home, that’s all. It just needs to loosen up.”

She brought her lips together, obviously wondering whether she should believe him, before finally nodding. “Okay,” she said, and after shifting the frying pan to a cold burner, she enveloped him in a hug, the first in weeks. The embrace lasted a beat longer than usual, as if she were trying to make up for lost time. When she pulled back, he noticed the bags under her eyes and he knew she was operating on as little sleep as he was. She patted him on the chest. “Go ahead and have a seat,” she said. “I’ll bring over your breakfast.”

He moved slowly, taking care not to spill his coffee. By the time he’d straightened his leg beneath the table in an attempt to get comfortable, his mom had set the plate in front of him. She put the coffeepot on the table, then took a seat beside him. Her plate had exactly half the amount of food she’d put on his.

“I knew you’d be late getting in, so I went ahead and fed the animals and checked the cattle this morning.”

That she didn’t admit to waiting up didn’t surprise him, nor would she complain about it.

“Thanks,” he said. “How many people came by yesterday?”

“Maybe two hundred, but it rained a while in the afternoon, so there’ll probably be more people today.”

“Do I need to restock?”

She nodded. “José got some of it done before he went home, but we probably need some more pumpkins.”

He ate a few bites in silence. “I got thrown,” he said. “That’s how I hurt my knee. I landed wrong.”

She tapped her fork against her plate. “I know,” she said.

“How would you know?”

“Liz, the gal from the arena office, called,” she said. “She gave me a rundown on your rides. She and I go back a long way, remember?”

He hadn’t expected that, and at first, he wasn’t sure what to say. Instead, he speared a piece of the sausage and chewed, eager to change the subject.

“Before I left, I mentioned that Sophia will be coming by, right?”

“For dinner,” she said. “I was thinking of blueberry pie for dessert.”

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I already did,” she said, pointing with her fork toward the counter. In the corner, beneath the cabinets, he spotted her favorite ceramic pie dish, rivulets of blueberry juice seared onto its sides.

“When did you do that?”

“Last night,” she said. “I had some time after we finished up with the customers. Do you want me to toss together a stew?”

“No, that’s okay,” he said. “I was thinking I’d grill some steaks.”

“So mashed potatoes, then,” she added, already thinking ahead. “And green beans. I’ll make a salad, too.”

“You don’t have to do all that.”

“Of course I do. She’s a guest. Besides, I’ve tried your mashed potatoes, and if you want her to come back, it’s better if I make them.”

He grinned. Only then did he realize that – in addition to baking the pie – she’d tidied up around the kitchen. Probably the house as well.

“Thanks,” he said. “But don’t be too hard on her.”

“I’m not hard on anybody. And sit up straight when you’re talking to me.”

He laughed. “I take it you’ve finally forgiven me, huh?”

“Not at all,” she said. “I’m still angry that you competed in those events, but I can’t do anything about it now. And besides, the season’s over. I figure you’ll come to your senses before January. You might act dumb sometimes, but I’d like to think I raised you better than to act dumb all the time.”

He said nothing, reluctant to start an argument. “You’ll like Sophia,” he said, changing the subject.

“I should think so. Since she’s the first girl you’ve ever invited over.”

“Angie used to come over.”

“She’s married to someone else now. And besides, you were a kid. It doesn’t count.”

“I wasn’t a kid. I was a senior in high school.”

“Same thing.”

He cut another piece of pancake and swirled it in the syrup. “Even if I think you’re wrong, I’m glad we’re talking again.”

She forked a piece of egg. “Me too.”

 

 

For Luke, the rest of the day took on a strange cast. Ordinarily, after breakfast he’d immediately start work, doing his best to cross items off the to-do list and always prioritizing. Some things had to be taken care of immediately – like getting the pumpkins ready before the customers started rolling in or checking on an injured animal.

As a rule, time passed quickly. He’d move from one project to the next, and before he knew it, it would be time for a quick lunch. The same thing would happen in the afternoons. Most days, feeling a little frustrated that he hadn’t quite finished a given task, he’d find himself walking into the farmhouse just as dinner was about to be served, wondering how the hours had escaped him.

Today promised to be no different, and as his mom had predicted, it was even busier than it had been on Saturday. Cars and trucks and minivans lined both sides of the drive, nearly back to the main road, and kids were everywhere. Despite the lingering soreness in his knee, he carried pumpkins, helped parents locate their kids in the maze, and filled hundreds of balloons with helium. The balloons were new this year, as were the hot dogs and chips and soda, at a table manned by his mom. But as he moved from one duty to the next, he would find himself thinking about Sophia. From time to time he checked his watch, sure that hours had passed, only to realize it had been a mere twenty minutes.

He wanted to see her again. He’d talked to her on the phone on Friday and Saturday, and each time he’d called her, he’d been nervous before she picked up. He knew how he felt about her; the problem was that he had no idea whether she felt the same way. Before dialing, he found it all too easy to imagine that she’d answer with only tepid enthusiasm. Even though she had been both cheerful and chatty, after hanging up, he’d replay the conversation, plagued by doubts about her true feelings.

It was just about the oddest thing he’d ever experienced. He wasn’t some giddy, obsessive teenager. He’d never been like that, and for the first time in his life, he wasn’t sure what to do. All he really knew for certain was that he wanted to spend time with her and that dinner couldn’t come soon enough.