Words Get In the Way (3 page)

She dressed quietly, pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail, peeked in on Henry, and took her cup of coffee outside. Standing in the garage doorway, she contemplated the pile of boxes that were waiting in the back of her dad’s pickup truck and sighed. For someone with so little money she had certainly accumulated a lot of stuff. She started the truck, pulled it out into the sun, and began to unload.

Henry opened his eyes and quickly shut them again. Each time he opened them, he hoped he would see a wooden bookcase in front of a blue wall. On the shelf of the bookcase, which had a long scratch on one side, should be six books lined up in order of height and, next to the books, a model of a truck that he’d made from LEGOs and, beside that, a small Model M John Deere tractor. But each time he opened his eyes, he quickly shut them again because what he expected to see wasn’t there. He really needed to pee too. Finally, unable to hold it in any longer, he just lay there and let it stream out. At first it felt warm but, after a while, it felt cold and he began to cry.

Callie carried the last box inside. As she put it on the kitchen counter she heard a muffled sound, hurried down the hall, and found Henry sitting on the floor in wet underpants with his arms around his knees. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry.” She helped him stand and guided him across the hall. “Why didn’t you look for the bathroom?” Henry rubbed his eyes and, at her suggestion, looked around.

She continued to talk to him as she filled the tub with warm water. She bathed him quickly and, since the water seemed to calm him, let him play for a few minutes while she went to pull the wet sheets off the bed. When she returned to lift him out, though, he kicked and screamed. Callie set him down again, disappeared, and returned with a toy truck, hoping the distraction would work. While Henry inspected the truck, she lifted him out again and gently dried him with the soft towel. Then she rinsed the tub and headed down the hall to look for a box of clothes. Wearing the towel caped over his shoulders and clutching the truck in his hands, Henry traipsed down the hall after her.

“Did you know this used to be Mommy’s room?” she asked as she rummaged through one of the boxes. Henry solemnly furrowed his brow as he looked around the small, simply furnished room. He pointed to the pine bureau, and she turned to see what had caught his eye. Lined up in front of her mirror were several old trophies. Callie tugged clean underwear, shorts, and a T-shirt from a bulging box of clothes; tucked them under her arm; picked up one of the trophies; and knelt down in front of him. Henry traced his finger lightly over the figure of a girl shooting a basketball and left a shiny gold trail through the years of settled dust. Callie handed the trophy to him to hold while she pulled on his shorts, and Henry put his free hand on her shoulder as he lifted each leg. When she pulled his T-shirt over his head, he put the trophy down and slipped his arms through. Once he was dressed, he picked the trophy up again and ran his finger over the engraved nameplate. “Let’s see which one you have,” she said, pausing to read the inscription. “ ‘Most Dedicated.’ Seems like forever ago.” Henry pointed to the trophy of a girl kicking a soccer ball and then one of a girl swinging a bat. Callie patiently handed all of her high school trophies to him and watched as he carefully lined them up in order of height. “You’re a funny guy,” she said with a gentle smile. Henry looked up and pointed to a medal that was hanging from the corner of the mirror. As Callie reached for it she noticed a faded photo tucked into the mirror’s frame. She handed the medal to Henry, slipped out the photo, and sat down next to him. While Henry examined his new treasure, Callie looked at the tall, slender boy in the photo and recalled a long-ago summer day.

It had been the last day before they’d headed off to different colleges, a decision his parents had pressed hard for. That morning, she’d finally started getting her things together when he’d surprised her by stopping by to see if she wanted to go hiking. He’d even packed a picnic lunch. She had surveyed the piles of clothes on her bed and then the look on his face, and had reluctantly given in.

The New Hampshire air had whispered of autumn, and Callie remembered thinking that she’d never seen a sky so blue. They’d hiked to the summit of Monadnock, and after lunch he’d stood to find the mountain’s benchmark. Callie had slipped her camera out of her pack and called to him, and he’d looked over his shoulder. Seeing the camera, he’d mustered a half smile. In the photo his chestnut hair was streaked from the sun and windblown from hiking and his face was tan, but the camera had also captured a measure of sadness in his eyes.

Henry reached up and put the medal around Callie’s neck and then pointed at the boy in the picture. Callie smiled wistfully and whispered, “Linden.”

After she’d taken the photo, Linden had pulled her into his arms, and she’d tried to catch his eye but he’d looked away.

“What’s the matter?” she’d asked.

“Nothing,” he’d murmured, his eyes glistening in the sunlight.

“It doesn’t seem like nothing.”

He had looked up at the endless blue sky and stammered, “I hope you know how much I’m going to miss you.” Finally, he had turned to her and searched her eyes. “Callie, please don’t forget about us.”

“Linden, don’t you know?” she’d whispered. “I could
never
forget about us.”

Callie shook her head sadly, slipped the picture back into the mirror’s frame, and went down the hall to the linen closet to look for clean sheets. At the bottom of a neatly stacked pile she found an old threadbare set that had once been hers and a clean mattress pad. She pulled them out, went back to her room, put the mattress pad on, shook open the fitted bottom sheet, stretched it over the corners of the mattress, and recalled how she’d always begged her mom to just wash the sheets and put them back on instead of putting on different ones. Henry pointed to the figures on the faded pillowcase and Callie nodded. “Yup, Mickey and Minnie, and on the other side,” she said, turning the pillow over, “is Donald and Daisy.” Henry looked at Donald and Daisy and then turned the pillow back over so Mickey and Minnie were on top. After the bed was made, Callie took the laundry basket to the basement and threw a load in her parents’ old Kenmore, shaking out the last of the Tide from a damp box that was on the floor. She trudged back up the stairs, wondering if there was anything in the cabinet that they could have for breakfast. She found Henry lining up the kitchen chairs in a neat row, and she scooped him up. “What in the world are you doing, Hen-Ben?” she asked with a smile. But Henry squirmed and fussed, so she set him down again. She opened the cereal cabinet and found a box of stale Shredded Wheat and an old box of chocolate Carnation Instant Breakfast, neither of which would be very good without milk. She clicked off the coffeepot, picked up her dad’s Bible, turned to Henry. “We’re going to see Papa,” she announced. To her surprise, Henry left the chairs without a fuss.

After stopping at the church to pick up an
Upper Room,
Callie pulled into McDonald’s and realized they were already serving lunch. She reached into her pocket, pulled out three singles, and ordered a Happy Meal. She wasn’t very hungry, and besides, she knew she’d end up with at least one McNugget and some fries. She definitely needed to ask her dad if she could borrow some money though.

As they drove along, Callie thought about the nursing home and wondered if her dad might be able to move back home now that she was there. His care wouldn’t be easy, but it would make him so much happier. The idea bolstered her mood and gave her hope.

The air in the lobby of the nursing home was stale and old. She stopped in front of the elevator and remembered the scene Henry had made the last time they’d used it. Its close quarters or its unfamiliar movement had upset him, so, not wanting to cause another scene, she lifted him onto her hip and climbed the three flights of stairs instead. Taking two at a time, she had to stop on the second landing to tuck the Bible more tightly under her arm. On the third landing she pushed open the door, stepped into the hall, and walked quickly past the ghostly quiet rooms, trying not to notice all of the forgotten souls as they passed. It broke her heart to see so many lonely old folks, and she wondered how anyone could work there, day after day. Some patients were in wheelchairs and their heads were drooped so low that their chins rested on their chests; it was almost as if, after so many years, their heads had become too heavy to hold up. Other patients pushed walkers along slowly with no apparent destination, and one old fellow with no teeth called out, “Hey, cutie, can you give me a ride home?” Callie smiled sadly, shook her head, and continued on. As she approached her dad’s room, a nurse emerged with sheets in her arms but, seeing Callie, stopped abruptly.

“Miss Wyeth, we’ve been trying to reach you.” Callie saw the concerned look on her face and her heart began to pound.

“Is he okay?” she blurted.

“He is ...” The nurse paused and put her hand on Callie’s arm. “He had a mild stroke last night. We tried to reach you at both of the numbers we have on file, but we only got recordings saying they’ve been disconnected.”

Callie started to pull away. “Yes, I know. They turned our phone on, but it’s still not working. They’re supposed to come out next week and fix it.” She turned to go into her dad’s room, but the nurse stopped her.

“Miss Wyeth, your father isn’t here. He was rushed to the hospital last night.”

4

L
inden loved stone walls, and although he understood the sentiment in Robert Frost’s poem, he took umbrage with the poet’s choice of metaphor. To Linden the act of building a stone wall was an art form, an architectural ritual, a puzzle to be solved, a time for meditation, and, quite possibly, a simple path to redemption. Linden felt at peace when he was working on a wall. He held each stone in his hands, feeling its weight and texture, tracing his fingers over its lines and moss, and thinking about the hands that had held it last; perhaps they were the tough, calloused hands of a farmer, or maybe they were the smooth, knowing hands of a Native American scout. Only the stone knew the touch that had lifted it into place or carelessly tossed it aside. And from snow cover to sunlight, from swirl of autumn leaf to relentless pelting rain, the stones had weathered the world and its storms and endured to sparkle again in the dancing shafts of sunlight that filtered through the trees. Carefully choosing each stone, Linden felt as if he became a part of its story.

The words of the poem ran through his mind as he laid the last stone on the Connors’ wall and stepped back. “Looks good,” a voice bellowed. Linden turned and saw Mr. Connor walking toward him. “Just in time too!” He held an envelope out to Linden and, in a thick Boston accent, said, “The less the govahment knows, the bettah!” He stepped back to admire Linden’s handiwork. “Very nice!” he said, clapping Linden on the shoulder. “Ahh expect to see you at the picnic this yeaah.” Linden smiled, and they both looked up as Mrs. Connor crossed the lawn with a plate in her hands. Overhearing her husband she chimed in, “The boys’ll be home, and Katie too.”

The boys
were the Connors’ twin sons, Josh and Jon, classmates of Linden’s, and now, Linden knew, well on their way to high-paying careers in finance. Katie was the youngest Connor, a strawberry-blond, freckle-faced tomboy who had never tried to hide the crush she had on Linden. He smiled at the thought of Katie. She’d always been a good sport and seemed to understand that his heart belonged to Callie.

“How is Katie?” he asked.

“Oh, fine, fine,” Mr. Connor answered, “just finished her junyaah year at Dahtmouth.”

Linden shook his head in disbelief. “She’s going to be a senior?!”

“Yup, time flies! Now, don’t go changing the subject... . Back to the Fauth. There’ll be lots of food, as always, and fireworks of course. I think the whole town is coming!”

“We invited your parents, Linden,” Mrs. Connor added, “but you know your mother. They have season tickets to the Pops, so that’s where they’ll be. It’s never the same without them. We’d love for you to come, though, and then you can take the credit for this lovely wall.”

“
And
drum up mah business!” Mr. Connor added with a smile.

“I’ll definitely try,” Linden answered, thinking that maybe he would this year.

Mr. Connor helped him load his tools in his truck, and Mrs. Connor put the plate of freshly baked chocolate chip cookies on his passenger seat. Linden thanked them both and waved as he shifted gears. He looked in his rearview mirror and, watching them walk slowly back to their house, thought of all the good times he’d had there. It had practically been his second home when he was in high school.

When he reached the end of the driveway, he hesitated, and then turned right to head up the dirt road. Clouds of dust billowed behind the truck as he drove. A short distance away, at an old cedar post marking the northern boundary of the Connor property, he pulled over and gazed out the window. Finally, he got out and started to walk down the once familiar path. He looked around, amazed to find it unchanged. The stone cairn they’d built years ago was still standing; in fact, it even looked as if more stones had been added. Other than that, the rock outcropping was untouched, and seemingly eternal, in spite of his absence.

A gentle breeze cooled Linden’s face and whispered of days gone by. He looked out across the valley and thought of the countless summer nights under the stars, the chilly autumn evenings after cross-country meets when they’d built a fire, and the sweet spring midnights after dances. Somehow they’d always ended up here, passing around a bottle of Boone’s Farm or some other intoxicant, talking, laughing, and gazing at the stars, and never imagining their carefree days would end. Back then, with his arm around Callie, the future had seemed so certain, so full of hope. He wondered if the initials he’d scratched into one of the rocks were still visible or if time and the weather had worn them away. He climbed up and, with a sad smile, lightly traced his finger over the letters: L.F. + C.W. Then he leaned back against the rocks, felt their warmth, and remembered the last time he’d stood there.