Black Heart on the Appalachian Trail (11 page)

Dalton is not surprised conversation started without exchanging names. There are no strangers when a child is lost.

“We're forming another search party this afternoon,” the man says. “We could use the help.”

“I can't. I have to get back home, have some things I have to do.”

He slides into his sedan, waits for the truck to drive off, continues his stuttering crawl through the mountains. Stopping. Calling. Listening.

Three miles along, a fox—red tail flowing—minces through a
hemlock grove, raises its hind leg, and marks a boulder. Dalton's mind drifts away from the mountain, to a sunlit meadow. Honeysuckle scent floats in the air, and bees fat as jellybeans dart between wildflowers. Deirdre's face is turned toward the sun, and she wears a dress loosely over her mounded belly. They come to a blueberry bush and he tastes the fruit. It's sweet and juicy; a blue sky on his fingers.
The baby is kicking
, she whispers. He wraps his arms around her and moves his palm over her stomach.
We did this
, he says.
You and I. We did this
—

Whirling blades, hard chop of metal against air, and a helicopter flies over the ridge. The gravity of the search yanks him back to reality, and he is embarrassed about using the lost girl to fuel his fantasy. He gets out and calls one last time, then, remembering Deirdre's request to come home in time for lunch, turns the sedan around and drives down the mountain.

*   *   *

“Not now,” Deirdre says, and opens the refrigerator. Although Dalton shares cooking chores—Latino-style breakfasts are his specialty—the kitchen is distinctly his wife's, and like the fox on the mountain, she marks her territory. Her notes in tiny, cursive lettering hang on every cupboard door. Things like:

SHATTER THE GLASS CEILING, SISTER.

I THINK, THEREFORE I CAN.

I AM WOMAN, HEAR ME ROAR!

The first six years of their marriage, Dalton did not begrudge this selfish tone. Only recently has he wondered if she believes her career is more important than his happiness.

“I haven't even said anything,” he says. “I haven't even brought it up.”

“I'm tired of it, understand?”

Her attitude needles Dalton. If anyone should be irritated, it's him. He came home early to hear lunch has been canceled, that Cloyse and Poppy Rue are coming for an afternoon visit instead. Dalton sniffs the faint odor circulating over the counter.

“Don't get mad at me,” he says. “It's not my fault the tofu is getting cold.”

“I'm thinking of serving chicken wings instead.” Deirdre, in blouse and tights, house slippers whispering over the floor, shuts the refrigerator and clatters through the utensil drawer.

“Maybe we should open some wine?” He taps her shoulder, a boyish move that appears out of nowhere.

“Dalton.”

“What?”

“I want you to promise me you'll engage in conversation.” She opens the dishwasher. “Have you seen that blue bowl? The one with the gold leaves etched on the rim?”

“Are you saying I'm a stick in the mud? Because if you are, I'm not.”

“I just want this to go well, okay?”

“Why don't you serve those cream cheese balls, the ones with celery and carrots on the side.”

“Dalton?”

“Deirdre.”

“Don't you have a brilliantly designed table in the works? Or something?”

“I'm going,” he says. “You don't have to be rude.”

In his study, he turns on the computer and watches a chair
revolve against a black background. Deirdre wants him to open a retail outlet in Roanoke, but he thinks he might open a woodworking shop instead, an idea that began in California, where—between sales calls, employee problems, and shuttling cheap furniture out the door at
AMAZING LOW PRICES WITH NO PAYMENTS FOR THE FIRST SIX MONTHS
—he spent a few minutes each day handcrafting dining room sets. The intimacy of bringing a design to life gave him a satisfaction the bulging cash register never did.

Deirdre pokes her head into the room and asks him to grab a log from the woodpile. Oak, she says, will burn longer. He waits until she leaves, shrugs into a windbreaker, and heads outside. The acre behind the ranch house has been cleared, grass planted. The woodpile is adjacent to a barbed-wire fence that runs the southern edge of the property line. On the far side of the clearing, oaks, hickories, and pines rise above ferns and form a dense forest. Above the treetops, a mountain blocks the western sky. Devoid of trees along its crown, the mountain reminds him of a balding, old man.

The window in his study opens, and he feels Deirdre's gaze on his back. A keen sound comes through the screen—steady at first—then escalating into shrieks that crash over his ears. He walks into the house, to the study where Deirdre stirs white cream in a blue bowl. The source of the screaming sits on the keyboard. The doll, a boy in sailor overalls, appeared a month into their marriage, precisely three days after Dalton brought up having a baby. Deirdre, who apparently spent a healthy sum for express delivery, named the doll Psychological Prophylactic, shortened it to PP. That first night she turned the little screamer on high and locked it in the closet so Dalton couldn't
get to the control switch. The next morning, with more delight than he thought was necessary, Deirdre introduced him to each accessory, and, in less than an hour, the doll vomited a whitish liquid on Dalton's collar, defecated a gelatinous substance into a cotton diaper, and urinated a vinegary stream that splashed his forehead.

Now, Dalton's fingers find the switch between the doll's shoulder blades, and the sobbing subsides.

“Pulling out all stops?” he says.

Deirdre holds a spoon to his lips.

“Taste this,” she says.

“Maybe too much basil.”

“You can't hold them like that,” she says.

Dalton has PP by his straw-man hair.

“It's a doll,” he says.

“Do me a favor and change out of those clothes. Change into that white cardigan, okay?”

“Hear me out,” he says.

“For the last time, I don't want a baby.”

“I don't mind at all staying at home while you pursue your career,” he says, but it is too late, she's out of the room and down the hall. He pats PP's plastic bottom. “Daddy Dalton,” he says under his breath. He says it again—louder—but not so loud that she can hear it.

*   *   *

Cloyse Rue raises her wineglass and takes a noisy sip. The merlot has stained her lips bluish-black, a vivid contrast to her peach-colored hair. The hem of her dress settles at her knees.

Her husband, Poppy, rests his hands on his thighs and crosses
his legs. Pants ride above shoelaces, expose knobby ankles encased in white socks. Poppy said, “Hello, pleased to meet you. . . . No, no thank you, I'll pass on the wine,” upon arriving and has not opened his mouth since.

They—Cloyse, Poppy, and Dalton—sit in the living room, an expansive area with a high ceiling and white walls, the floor a polished hardwood. Logs crackle in the fireplace, and firelight bathes the elegant sofa and the plush recliners in an orange glow. A smoky scent hangs in the air, a leftover from when Dalton lit the kindling with the louver closed.

“More wine?” Dalton says. He's in the cardigan his wife suggested.

An eyebrow lift from Poppy, a lip curl from Cloyse, and Dalton recognizes the exchange as unspoken conversation between spouses.

Cloyse thrusts her glass forward. “I'd love s'more.”

“Now, Cloyse,” Poppy says.

“A teeny-weeny little more won't hurt a thing,” Cloyse says.

Dalton fills her glass and excuses himself. In the kitchen, he watches Deirdre open the oven and poke a fork into a sizzling chicken wing. She wears a maroon dress, pumps to match, has on a string of pearls he purchased on one of their rare vacations. They had gone to Tahiti, where they ate seafood and lounged in cabanas during the heat of the day. Remembering how good she looked in a bikini stirs him and he comes up behind her and encircles her stomach with his arms. He rests his chin on her shoulder.

“Your friend is getting looped,” he says.

“Pardon me?”

“She's an alcoholic,” he says.

“She probably likes to have a good time. A little wine never hurt anyone.”

“She's a bottomless pit.” He nibbles her earlobe, traces the curve of her neck, tries to think of the last time they made love. It was back in California, before the move, a hurried coupling that was over as quickly as it began.

“No one's perfect,” she says.

“Her husband's only here because she dragged him along. He's not engaged in the conversation at all.”

“
Her
name is Cloyse and
his
is Poppy.”

“I know their names, hon. I'm only wondering about the wisdom of making friends with a couple who have these kinds of marital problems.”

Before she can reply, he grabs another wine bottle and heads to the living room. In California his wife only made friends with people who could help her career. Her supervisor Bob Thornfelt, a widower who bathed in English Leather before he attended dinner parties, was the most common invitee. He and Deirdre talked letters, stamps, and bubble wrap late into the night. The lead reporter for the local newspaper was also a frequent guest, and Dalton was not surprised to see Deirdre's rise through the postal service profiled in
Out and About Town
. He looks at Poppy and his knobby ankles, at Cloyse and her peachy hair—wonders how these two fit the master plan.

“I hear you're a furniture designer,” Cloyse says. “That's the scoop around town anyway. You know how that is. People can be so nosy.”

“I majored in ergonomics at USC.”

“Mum's the word.”

He swallows a yawn. “It's not really a secret.”

“I need a smoke,” Poppy says, and walks outside.

“Don't mind him,” Cloyse says. “He's always been a party pooper.”

Dalton settles into the couch and tugs his sweater over his belt. “I hear there's a search going on for a lost girl.”

A
haruuumphh
comes out of Cloyse. “The last time she ran away they found her in a crack house up in Waynesboro. Like to have embarrassed her momma to death. Let's see . . . this time is the sixth time in the last two years. Folks around here don't even search for her anymore, leave it to outsiders and the law.”

“I heard she got lost somewhere around—”

“She doesn't know how good she's got it. Her family's got money, loads of it. Highest producing tobacco farm in these parts.” The last of her wine swirls in the bottom of the glass. He hands her the new bottle, and she pours her own.

“So,” she says, “Deirdre tells me you're thinking of adopting.”

“What?”

She hands him a business card. “My fee is listed on the—”

“I'll be right back,” he says.

In the kitchen, Deirdre arranges chicken wings on a silver plate. The wings form a perfect circle—an inch of separation—meaty ends flared toward the edge. In the center she places a bowl filled with cheese dip. She has a deft touch, a concentrated air; attributes honed by dropping mail into thousands of slots throughout the years. Dalton wishes she would apply the same attentiveness to their marriage. Doubts she will. Theirs is an unequal love, and he is certain his is greater than hers. He measures the difference in frustration. His, of course.

“I know why you invited them,” he says, when he can no longer hold it in. “Or more precisely,
her
. I know why
she's
here.”

“Grab those napkins, will you? No, not the plain ones. Bring the ones with the little flowers. There, bring those.” She wipes her hands on a dishtowel.

“She runs an adoption agency.”

Deirdre speaks in a low, but firm voice. “I know what she does for a living.”

“You
know
?”

“I asked her to come over and talk to us. Show us some four-year-olds.”

“You did
what
?”

“It's a compromise, Dalton. I've been very clear about not wanting a baby.”

“Don't you think you should have
asked
first?”

“You would have said no.”

Deirdre picks up the platter, and he follows her into the living room. She sets the platter in front of Cloyse, who nibbles a wing and comments on the tenderness. He and his wife sit side by side on the sofa, and she takes his hand in hers. She has a warm, soft palm, and her thumb brushes his, an unspoken plea for him to at least consider possibilities.

“Please forgive the lack of political correctness,” Cloyse says, “but young white children are very hard to come by these days. It's much easier to adopt a child from overseas. Asian, especially.”

Dalton removes his hand from his wife's grasp, flicks his fingernail against his wineglass, and a
ping
swells through the room. Adopt? What an idiotic idea. He goes to the fireplace and throws a log on the flames. Poppy, framed in the living room window, lights a cigarette.

“Your husband smokes like a chimney,” Dalton says. “He hasn't stopped puffing since he stepped outside.”

“Hubby gets nervous around strangers,” Cloyse says.

A sob from the rear of the house, a hiccup, a whimper, and another sob.

“You didn't tell me you were already a momma!” Cloyse says, and pats Deirdre's knee. “I got two myself. Is that a boy—”

Dalton says, “Don't get up, hon. Lord knows you've done enough today,” and to Cloyse, “All he does is cry. I'd put him in the garbage disposal if Deirdre would let me. Chew his little butt right up.”

“Dalton's a big kidder,” Deirdre says. “He's a softy at heart.”

Halfway out of the room, Dalton says over his shoulder, “The booger eater took his first steps last week. Can you believe it? Where does the time fly?”