Words Get In the Way (2 page)

Callie finally drifted off, but it seemed like it was only moments before she awakened to the sound of crying. In the early morning light she found Henry rocking back and forth on the floor. She scooped him up, felt him shiver in her arms, and pulled the blanket around him. He continued to whimper, and she whispered softly into his tousled hair, “It’s okay, Hen-Ben, everything’s going to be okay.” Her words of reassurance were as much for herself as they were for him.

She glanced around the room at the pile of boxes and sighed. She knew the unfamiliar surroundings weren’t helping Henry, but there was nothing else she could do. Without childcare she was unable to work, and she had no money left. In the half light of dawn she stared at a box labeled “Henry / LEGOs” and relived the last few months.

During that time she’d noticed a change in Henry but she’d convinced herself it was nothing to worry about.
He’s just quiet, that’s all. Some boys just develop more slowly than others and, besides, Henry knows how to use words... . He already started to.
Callie tried to remember the last time Henry had actually spoken.
That’s okay,
she had told herself,
he’ll learn when he’s ready
. All of Callie’s self-reassuring, however, had gone right out the window when Mrs. Cooper had voiced her concern too.

Mrs. Cooper was the matriarch of the daycare near the college—the daycare where Callie had been leaving Henry since he was six months old. After he was born, she’d been unable to continue her studies and had instead taken a job in the financial aid office. She’d always felt blessed and thankful to have found such a wonderful home away from home for Henry, and she could still see the faded green carpet and the pattern of shadows from the windows that crisscrossed the floor of the large playroom every afternoon when she picked him up. On that last afternoon Callie had been waiting for him by the door when Mrs. Cooper had taken her aside. She remembered the concern in her voice as she’d quietly told her that she’d been watching Henry for several weeks and been praying for a positive sign.

“Henry is so quiet,” she’d said, “and often he just seems lost. Lately, he shows no interest in playing with other children. Instead, he just stands at the rice table and pours rice from one cup to another or lets the rice pour through his hands. If another child interrupts him or borrows one of his cups, he becomes very agitated. Just today, another boy took the cup he was using and gave him a different one. Henry became very upset and erupted into an inconsolable tantrum. He threw all the toys that were on the rice table as well as handfuls of Legos. When he finally calmed down,” Mrs. Cooper continued, “I asked him to join our reading group, but he refused and just sat in the corner, rocking back and forth. I’m so sorry, Callie, I wanted to be sure before I said anything.”

Callie had been staring at the pattern on the carpet when a passing cloud drifted in front of the sun. She’d nodded slowly, tears stinging her eyes. “I think you need to have Henry tested, dear,” Mrs. Cooper had said kindly, giving her a hug. “Please let us know how you make out. We will be keeping both of you in our prayers.” Callie realized then that Mrs. Cooper was saying she would no longer be able to look after Henry.

Callie pressed her cheek into Henry’s wispy hair and realized he’d fallen asleep. She laid him down and tucked the soft blanket around him. As tired as she was, there was no point in going back to bed. Besides, she could get so much done if he kept sleeping so she slipped quietly from the room that had once been hers, left the door open a crack, and shuffled barefoot to the kitchen to see if her dad had any coffee. She opened the cabinet next to the sink where her parents had always kept it, and there it was, in the same spot as always, a dark blue can of Maxwell House. The sight of the familiar can in its proper place gave Callie an odd feeling of comfort. As she reached for it, though, she became acutely aware of the emptiness of her parents’ house. The people she loved most in the world were no longer there and never would be again, to make coffee, to cradle warm cups in their hands, to chat over breakfast, to talk about the day ahead, and then hurry out the door to school, to work, with a kiss and a promise... .
Love you! Keep the faith! See you tonight!
Their lovely voices echoed through her mind. Callie looked out the kitchen window of her childhood home and tears filled her eyes. She had never felt more alone.

2

L
inden Finch rolled up the windows of his old Ford pickup and climbed out. He was late getting home, but the summer storm that the weatherman had promised was right on time. A sudden gust of wind swayed the trees ominously and hastened his step. Two yellow Labs that had been chasing squirrels and lazing on the porch all day spied his arrival, rose from their slumber, stretched, and trotted happily across the yard to greet him. Linden knelt down to say hello. “How was your day?” he asked softly. They responded by wiggling all around him, licking his face, and beating his head with their tails. A rumble in the distance caused Linden to stand and look at the wall of threatening clouds that was forming across the meadow. As he did, a ragged streak of hot white light divided the sky. Out of a boyhood habit, he began to silently count the seconds from light to sound but only reached “one-Mississippi” when he heard the rumble again. He hurried to the barn and clicked the latch for two Randall cows that were lowing impatiently at the gate. They nudged their warm noses into his chest as they trundled by into the safety of their stalls and then continued their expectant lowing. A little mule followed them and moseyed into its own stall. Linden flipped up the switch inside the door, and the barn filled with a warm, cheerful light. The dogs plowed their snouts through the hay on the floor while Linden fed and watered the cows and the little mule, talking softly to them the whole time. The younger dog lifted his nose onto a bale of hay and snorted at Maude, the orange tiger cat that was slumbering peacefully there. She opened one eye and studied him indifferently while Harold, her silky dark gray counterpart, yawned and stretched on the bale above her. Linden hurried outside to check the henhouse. As usual, all of the ladies were already nestled down for the night, so he quietly closed the door and latched it.

Fat drops of rain began to splatter on the dry earth as he ducked back into the barn. He looked up into the rafters at the old speckled owl, and it blinked back at him. Linden switched off the light and called the dogs to his side, and together they peered out into the yard. As if on cue, the skies opened up. Linden quickly calculated the distance between the barn and the porch
and
how wet they were going to get. “Let’s go!” he shouted, and dashed across the yard. The dogs followed gleefully, splashing through every puddle they could find along the way.

In the shelter of the kitchen Linden pulled off his wet shirt, hung it over the back of a chair, reached for a dish towel, dried his hair with it, and then toweled off the two dogs that were still wiggling around him. He threw the towel on the washer, opened the fridge, grabbed a beer, and headed for the pantry in the back of the kitchen. The dogs followed and plopped down obediently as he measured a cup of kibble into each of their bowls. Linden hesitated, and Springer stared longingly at his food while Kat watched Linden. He nodded to her and, for Springer’s sake, said the word, “Okay!” Springer lunged at his bowl as if he hadn’t eaten in a week, but Kat made a vain attempt to be more ladylike. Linden shook his head. He slipped the beer bottle into the metal bottle opener mounted on the doorjamb, pulled on it, caught the cap, and stepped back out onto the porch to watch the storm. He dropped into one of the old wicker chairs, ran his hand through his wet hair, and breathed in the rain-soaked air. As the storm rumbled by, he remembered seeing the lights on in the Wyeth place and wondered if something had happened. Mr. Wyeth had been in a nursing home for six months now, but Linden had recently heard that his health had taken a turn for the worse.

The storm passed quickly, and Linden realized that the dogs were peering out through the screen door. He pulled himself from the chair and, when he opened the door, they greeted him again as if he were a long-lost friend, and then followed him happily into the kitchen to see what
he
was going to have for supper. Linden put a small frying pan on the stovetop to heat up leftover spaghetti and washed and sliced an early tomato. He dropped a juicy chunk in his mouth, sifted through his mail, and discovered a check for a job he’d finished two months earlier. After dinner, he washed the dishes, let the dogs out, gave them each a treat, shut off the lights, and headed for bed.

In the half darkness, he threw his jeans over the back of a chair and his T-shirt onto a growing pile of laundry in the hamper. He pushed his bedroom window up and listened to the familiar call of a barred owl. He recognized it as the voice of his faithful barn dweller, and then, somewhere in the distance, he heard a haunting reply of interest. A cool breeze rustled the curtains as Linden lay back on his bed and, for the first time in a long time, he allowed an image of Callie to slip into his mind. It was the same image that always came to him, when he let it, like a favorite photograph his mind kept under glass.

She was smiling and reaching up to push back wisps of wild, wavy hair that the wind had swept across her cheeks. She was wearing a snow-white tank top over her red lifeguard suit, and her shoulders were the golden tan of summer’s end. Linden didn’t know why he always pictured Callie that way. It had been four years, but after seeing the lights on in her parents’ house, he couldn’t help but wonder if she had finally come home. With the image still in his mind he drifted to sleep.

Before dawn, he awoke to the loud racket of his squirrel-proof birdfeeder hitting the ground, followed by angry squabbling. He suddenly remembered what he’d forgotten to do: take the birdfeeder down for the night. “Damn those raccoons!” he grumbled as he kicked off his sheet, stumbled to the back door in his boxers, and turned on the light. “Get out of here!” he growled, opening and slamming the door to show them he meant business. “One of these days I will outsmart
or
shoot you!” he added. The dogs thumped their tails agreeably and looked up, wondering if it might be time for breakfast. He looked at them and immediately knew what they were thinking. “No, it’s not,” he grumbled, falling back onto his bed. But it was useless; he knew he wouldn’t be able to fall back asleep.

He got up, pulled on his worn Levis, shuffled barefoot to the kitchen, reached for an almost-empty bag of Green Mountain coffee, and turned on the radio just in time to hear the recorded chorus of songbirds that the program’s host, Robert J. Lurtsema, always played at the opening of his broadcast. Most of the time the WGBH signal wasn’t strong enough to carry all the way to New Hampshire, but on rare occasions, it came in as clear as a bell. Linden smiled and wondered if his parents, perpetually early risers, were listening in their Boston home. His mother loved classical music and, to placate her, Linden had endured eight long years of piano lessons. At one time he could play everything from Beethoven’s
Für Elise
to selections from Bach’s complex
Das Wohltemperierte Klavier,
but, just to drive her crazy, he’d also been known to launch into a rousing rendition of the theme from
Gilligan’s Island
or Elton John’s version of “Pinball Wizard.” His mother had fumed, “I knew we should have insisted on private school!” In the end, Linden had prevailed, his mother had relented, and he was allowed to give up the lessons.

Pachelbel’s Canon
drifted softly from the radio as he poured steaming coffee into the cream-colored mug he liked to use. The mug was adorned with a faded painting of a lighthouse on its side and was one of several items, including an old Chevy pickup, that the cabin’s owner and previous resident had left behind. Linden took a sip, gazed out the window at the mist rising from the north-running Contoocook River, and, in spite of everything, felt oddly content.

3

C
allie could almost hear her father’s voice.
Keep your chin up, kiddo! It’s not the end of the world!
In spite of herself, she smiled as she poured coffee into her father’s favorite mug and ran her finger over the faded U.S. Navy anchor painted on its side. She sat at the kitchen table and noticed that his Bible was tucked under some papers. She wondered why he hadn’t taken it with him. She reached for it and discovered that a copy of
The Upper Room
was still tucked between its pages. For as long as Callie could remember, her parents had faithfully taken the time every morning to read the little magazine’s suggested Bible verse and daily devotional. She had even picked up the habit for a while when she was in high school, and she’d often been surprised when the words seemed to speak to whatever challenge she was facing at the time. Afterward, when she went off to college, her mom had continued to send the magazine to her, but she’d rarely found the time to read it.

She slipped the magazine out of the Bible and glanced at the open date, January 15, two days before her dad had moved to the nursing home. She thought of the call she’d received from his attorney around that time to see if she could come home and arrange to have the house drained. He had explained that it would save on the heating bill, but Callie had never found the time. She’d visited her dad as often as she could, but she’d purposely avoided stopping by the house. If she had, she realized now, she would have found his Bible sooner. She picked it up and put it by the door. She would stop at the church to pick up a current copy of
Upper Room
and bring it when they went to visit him later.

Reaching over the sink, Callie pushed on the gray metal bracket that slid the bottom of the kitchen window out, but it was stubbornly stuck so she climbed up on the counter, as she’d done when she was little, and put all of her weight behind it. It creaked and, reluctantly, slid out, releasing a rush of fresh morning air into the musty kitchen. She moved to the living room and pushed open those windows too, and then she tugged open the heavy wooden front door and discovered she needed to locate the screen inserts for the storm door.