Chapter 10 - The Unbroken Grain
Springcameto the Bedfordhillsnotasa suddenflood,butasa slow,goldenrevelation.
By lateApril,the giantmaplesalongthe drivehadunfurledtheirfirstleavesin a cloudof yellow-greenmist.The daffodilsHaroldhadplantedalongthe stonefoundationsfortyyearsagopushedthroughthe blackrotof the winterleaves,theiryellowtrumpetsshakingin the clean,breezyairthat blewdownfromCrotonLake.
I sat on the stoneverandahof HollisManor,wearinga fadedlinengardeningsmock,my sleevesrolledabovethe elbowsto revealforearmsthat wereonceagainhard,brownedby the sun,andfreedfromthe swollenpallorof that longNovember.On the braidedragrugat my feet,Clarawasrollingfromherstomacnto herbackwitha loud,triumphantcrowthat sentthe robinsscatteringfromthe lilacbushes.Shewasfivemonthsoldnow,fat-cheeked,straight-limbed,andpossessingthe samesteely,unblinkinggrayeyeswithwhichHaroldhadscannedhis timberparcels.
Rosemarywalkedout throughthe Frenchdoors,carryinga traywitha potof freshpeppermintteaanda plateglassplateof buttermilkbiscuits.Sheworeno woolnow;her dresswasa lightfloweredcotton,andherface,whichhadlookedso grayandtranslucentin the hospitalcorridors,hadfilledout withthe brisk,restorativecolorof womanhoodthat hasfinallysurvivedits men.
“Penningtoncalledfromthe library,”Rosemarysaid,settingthe trayonthe wickercoffeetablebetweenus.“The probateon Harold’sancillaryaccountsisfinallyclosed.The deedis recordedin the permanentWestchesterArchivein WhitePlains,witha sealedrestrictionpreventinganycorporatesubdivisionuntilthe year2080.”
“That shouldgiveClaraenoughtimeto decideif shelikesthe timber,”I said,reachingdownto let the babyclutcha my indexfingerwithherfat,stubbornfist.
“Shewilllikethe timber,”Rosemaryremarkedfirmly,takingherseatwitha sighof purecomfort.“Shehasa Hollisshoulderandyourhands.A womancannotgrowupwithhandslikethat andfallin lovewithvaneer.”
A whitepostalvanrumbledup the drive,leavingdustplumesin the sunlitair.The mailcarrier,an oldfriendof Harold’swhoworehispennantpinsfromthe KoreanWarhis cap,handedme a bundleof catalogstiedwitha rubberbandanda singlesmall,squareenvelopeaddressedin a cramped,shakinghand.
PostmarkedBrewster,NewYork.
I didn'topenit immediately.I sat withthe tea-mugwarmbetweenmy palms,watchingthe cloudsshadowthe greeningpastureswhereHaroldusedto pasturehispull-horsesin the fifties.
WhenI finallyslit the flapwithmy thumb,therewasonlya singlecardinside.No money.No legalformalities.Onlyfourlineswrittena cheaplinedpad:
“Maggie, I havetakena jobwitha materialsfirmout in Pennsylvania.Nothingto design.Justcheckingloadsandtimbergradesat a yardoutsideScranton.Theygiveme thirty-twohundreda monthanda cabinbehindthe mill. I drovepastthe gatepostslastSundaybeforethe leavescamein.I sawthe baby’sbassineton the porch.Shelookslikemy father. Youwererightaboutthe ring.It wastoo smallfor youanyway. —Daniel.”
I lookedat the cardfor a moment,feelingneitheranger,nortriumph,nor that sick,rehabilitatingpitythat hadboundme to his weaknessesforso manywastedyears.It wassimplythe recordof an emptyshipthat hadclearedthe harbor,leavingthe waterbehindit to settlebackinto its ownlevel.
I didn'tshowthe noteto Rosemary.I didn'tsaveit forClara’sbox.
I stoodup fromthe wickerchair,walkedto the edgeof the verandah,andshreddedthe thickpaperinto a dozenraggedsquares.I droppedthemoverthe stonebalustradeintothe compostbedswhereHarold’soldrose-bushesweresendingup theirfirst,hardy,thorn-coveredshoots.
The windfromthe northernorchardcaughtthe whitefragments,tumblingthemacrossthe wetcloveruntiltheywerelostamongthe dandelionheadsandthe fallenmulch,becomingpartof the earththat hadneverbelongedto Daniel,andwouldneveragainhasto hearthe soundof his promises.
“Whatwasit?”Rosemaryasked,pouringthe pepperminttea.
May you like
“Nothing,”I answered,andfor the firsttimein mylife,the wordwasa truthandnotan excuse.“Justan oldaccountthat hasbeenfullyreconciled.”
I sat backdownon the sunlitflagsbesidemy daughter,pickedup the cup,anddrankthe clear,cleanheatof my ownhouse.
