Chapter 9 - The Ghost of Timber
By ChristmasEve,the snowhadcreptup to the sillsin the parlor,formingpurewhitecounterpanesthat caughtthe bluestarlightfromthe northsky.
I walkedthroughthe emptyroomsof the eastwing,holdingClaracloseto my chestinsidea wrapslingof warmwool.The floorboardsof oldoakdidnotshriekbeneathmy stockingedfeet;theycreakedsoftly,welcomingthe weightof theirnewoccupantsliketimbersthat hadfinallyfoundthe properbalanceunderroofing.
In the oldworkshopabove the carriagehouse,wherethe sheriff’ssealhadfinallybeenremovedby courtorder,I hadspenteveryafternoonof the pastweekcleaningawaythe residueof Daniel’sfailedtenancy.The giantlaminatedboards,the sleekchromechairs,the brochureswiththeirpromissof glassplazasandvaletparking—I haddraggedthementirelyout to the drykilnbehindthe barn.
On ChristmasEvemorning,RosemaryandI hadbuiltan enormoustrashfirein the snow-coveredpit.We watchedthe render-ingscurlinto blackcinderstogether,the heatof the flamesmeltingthe icicleshangingfromthe granaryroof.Daniel’scityfantasieshadburnedwiththe smellof cheapinkandpolyurethane,leavingonlythe clean,ancientashof the Bedfordsoilbeneaththem.
Now,the workshopwasquietagain.Harold’sdraftingboardstoodclearedof allblueprints,wipeddownto its originalgrainwithmineralspirits.Alongthe southwall,his toolshungin theirplaceson the pinepegboard:the ironplanes,the draw-knives,the cross-cutswiththeirteethtallow-greasedagainstthe damp,andthe longspirit-levelshe hadusedto set the sillsof the Bedfordhighschoolin 1968.
I sat on the highstoolHaroldhadbuiltforhimselfout of hickoryscraps,lookingout throughthe roundwindowtowardthe mainhouse.The yellowlightbleedingfromthe parlorwindowslookedwarmanddeepagainstthe bluesnowdrifts.Rosemarywashummingin the kitchen,andthe smokeclimbingstraightfromthe centralbrickstackshowedthat the draftwaspure,holdingno dampnessin the flue.
A thinfamiliarformappearedat the edgeof the wood-line,twohundredyardsaway,besidethe stonegateposts.
I didn'tmove.I didn'tjump.I pulledthe edgesof the woolwraptighteraroundClara’slittleback.
ThroughHarold’soldbrassfieldglassesthat layonthe window-board,I lookeddownto the gates.
A manstoodbesidethe stonepillars,wearingan unbuttonedcoatthat flappedin the northbreeze.Hishandswerethrustdeepintohispockets,his hairblowingwildlyacrosshis face.He didn'thavea car;he hadevidentlywalkedfromthe commuterstationin BedfordVillage,threefrostymilesawayon roadsnotyetclearedfor pedestrians.
It wasDaniel.
He stoodoutside Harold’sgates,his shoesburiedto the anklesin the snowpiledby the townplow.He waslookingupat the eastwing,lookingat the lightshiningthroughthe nurserypanes,lookingat the housethat his fatherhadgivento the womanhe hadtriedto discardlikean unreadnewspaper.
He didnotreachfor the latch.He didnotstepoverthe lineof the property.Betweenhimandthe housewherehe hadgrownupliedelevenacresof unyielding,timberedground,the whitepackunbrokenby a singlefootstepof his own.
He stoodthereforfiveminutes,shiveringin the bitingair,a thin,inconsequentialfiguresilhouettedagainstthe vast,whiteforestof WestchesterCounty.Then,as the churchclockin the villagestruckthe sixthchimeof ChristmasEve,DanielHollisturnedhis backon his father’shouse,hunchedhis shouldersagainstthe northgale,andbeganthe long,solitarywalkbackdownthe roadtowardthe trainthat wouldtakehimbackto whateverroomhe couldaffordin the graymarginsof the city.
I put the fieldglassesdown.
May you like
Claramovedagainstmy ribs,lettingout a soft,contentedsighas herlittlemouthfoundthe clothof my sweater.Her breathwaswarmandmilky,carryingnoneof the terrorthat hadhauntedthishouseforalongyear.
“You’rehome,”I whisperedto the crownof herfinehair.“You'reallthe wayhome,Clara.”
