Quiet Dell: A Novel (13 page)

•   •   •

Hart is riding the pony as his father leads it across the meadow. His feet don’t reach the stirrups, but he grips the horn of the saddle and the pony’s long mane. Rider’s mane is coarse and combed, and the color of cocoa. His father adjusts the bit in the pony’s mouth, speaking quietly. The pony turns his soft ears as though they’re engaged in conversation. The words are important but Hart cannot hear them. They walk over pale new grass, under blossoming trees. The meadow is limitless before them, open, but the grass grows higher, and higher still, to Rider’s flanks, to his father’s waist. The sharp, numberless blades part before them and register no passage. Hart sees his father’s muscular back, for now he is shirtless in the heat, in suspenders and trousers. The light is warm but not unpleasant, bright yellow and then brighter still.

Leaves begin blowing about wildly, flying up in clattering swarms. The air, crisp and cool, smells of woodsmoke. The pony walks over layers of dry leaves that crackle like crumpled paper. The meadow is low and the trees nearly naked. Hart sees, far off, his mother and sisters, parading with parasols. They’re walking together happily, all listening to Grethe, who speaks with felicity and wit, having never fallen ill. Rider tosses his head, for there is a bonfire in the cleared center of the meadow. His father, in a fine suit now, calms the pony. Hart knows they will pass by, though his mother and sisters and grandmother sit round the fire on café chairs, roasting their figs and chocolate on long sticks. Hart hears their laughter, tinkling like distant chimes, but nothing is funny, for time is short.

Snow begins falling, powdering the sleeves of Hart’s jacket. The snow thickens, falling so heavily, coating his leggings and boots. He is roped to his saddle, his hands in bulky mittens. Rider steps slowly, deliberately, for the wind is blowing and the snow is shank-high. They are headed to the open meadow where the snow is unbroken, shining on its surface. Hart sees his father, holding the lead, grasping the pony about the neck in a half-embrace.

A shape approaches in the snow, a tall man on a fine horse. The man wears formal riding clothes, jodhpurs and jacket, and nods as he moves past. As though observing some genial custom, the men greet one another’s horses. “Rider,” says the tall man, inclining his shoulders far above them. “Traveller,” says Hart’s father, nodding. Hart hears the big horse walk past, begin to canter, and then to gallop. The sound of its hooves grows louder and louder until one roar of wind envelops all.

Desperately, he wants his father to turn to him. He wants to call out but his scarf is pulled high across his mouth. His father stops Rider and feels his way along the pony’s back to Hart, in the cutting, swirling snow. Hart pitches forward out of the saddle, into his father’s arms. His father’s face fills his vision and he remembers, perfectly, the last time his father took him to the park on the pony. He knows his father’s eyes and smell, his mustache and full
mouth, his strong, compact hands, for he has thrown off his gloves and pulled Hart close to him. Hart is crying and his father begins to cry, unashamedly, saying that he went away but he has come back, he will never leave Hart again, ever, unless I take you with me, my dear sweet child my only boy my one.

Hart holds on to his father’s neck very hard, but someone is shaking him, pulling them apart. “No!” he shouts to his father, but it is Mrs. Abernathy, saying Hart must get up, for his mother has sent for him and Mr. Pierson is here with the automobile.

•   •   •

So early, just as Cornelius promised, there was no line at the bank. Grethe gave the note to the teller, who looked at her, and back at the note. “Excuse me, one moment.” She then stepped to another teller’s window. Grethe saw them pick up the telephone and make a call. She knew she must have done something wrong. Were they calling her mother? But her mother was not at home. Grethe held her purse to the center of her chest. She hoped she would not have to put on her glasses and read the note before the teller. She could do so, of course, but she must always practice before she read aloud.

“Miss Eicher . . .” The teller was back, and leaned forward, as though inviting a confidence.

“Yes?”

“I’m afraid we cannot honor this note. It is not your mother’s signature, you see.”

“It’s . . .” Grethe waited.

“Do you understand me, dear?”

Grethe was about to say that Cornelius might have written the note, for he had surely written her name across in that lovely script. She wished that she could write her name like that.

The teller leaned closer. “Mr. Malone would like to speak with you, but he is in meetings all day in the city. Can you come back tomorrow with the note? He asks that you allow him to help you, personally, first thing tomorrow morning.”

“Yes,” Grethe said, and turned to go, but the teller called her back, for she had forgotten to take the note.

•   •   •

She waited a moment outside the bank. She must concentrate, for she was anxious. The signature. She must remember, for he would ask her. Funds were money and Mother wanted money, and he did, for their trip. Perhaps now they would not go on their trip, and she would not see her mother very soon. She felt tears prick her eyes. Still, she must hurry. She hugged her purse to her chest and saw the note still in her hand. Quickly, she put it inside the purse, relieved, for she might have dropped it and never known. She crossed the first street with the light, and came to the second corner, the broad avenue.

Traffic blurred, unbroken.

She wondered, if she put on her glasses, would the traffic stop for her. No, one thing had nothing to do with the other. She wished she might see the woman at the crossing, but she saw no one, only the cars passing in angry streaks, until she glimpsed Hart on the other side of the street. He would be very upset with her, even if he knew that Mr. Pierson had told her to go to the bank. She listened, looking from right to left to right. One car was coming, far off, but she crossed in time.

She turned one way and another, but Hart had gone on ahead; she hurried to catch up. She would not mention that Mr. Malone wanted to help her personally. If Mr. Pierson should tell her to return tomorrow, Hart would go with her and stand just beside her. He was very protective, Mother said. Grethe thought she saw him, always a corner ahead of her, and walked faster.

•   •   •

Hart pulled a shirt on over his pajamas and found the canvas shoes he wore as slippers. He knew, vaguely, that he had dreamed about the pony and his father, and he was angry with Abernathy for coming into his room and waking him.

He saw the car then, gleaming in front of the house, incongruous as an ocean liner. Hart had never seen it in daylight, for his mother’s friend had arrived after dark, and they’d set off together near dawn a week ago, before the children woke. But now Mr. Pierson was back, and they would ride along with the chrome trim flashing. He wondered about the color of the seats and visors, and smelled pancakes as he ran for the stairs.

“Ah, Buster!” Mr. Pierson smiled up at him, clapping him on the shoulder as he reached the landing. “You shall be copilot, my boy. We’re leaving quite soon, so you must have breakfast.”

“I’m sitting in the front, then?”

“Absolutely. I know the way, of course, but you will track our progress on the maps, and decide when we stop for ice cream. What do you say?”

“Mr. Pierson, can Duty ride up front with me? He’s ridden in cars before. He’s very good at cars.”

“No, no, my boy. We haven’t room and it’s much too long a journey for a dog, in such hot weather. Duty will stay with Abernathy until our return. He’s a good watch dog, isn’t he, and we can’t leave Abernathy here by herself, can we?”

“But she doesn’t even like Duty,” Hart said.

“Ah. You wait. By the time we return, they’ll be friends. She has him shut up in the pantry now, due to all the rushing about.” Mr. Pierson inclined his head, considering. “You must explain to Duty that you’ll be back quite soon. People think animals don’t understand, but I disagree. They hear a tone of voice; they know things, in their way.”

“Yes, they know,” Hart said, and saw, in his mind’s eye, his father and the pony, walking before him in the gently falling snow.

“I’m very glad to have you along, Buster. You are such a good lad and your mother and I are very proud of you. Now have your breakfast, and be quick.”

Hart felt himself nodding and turned, for he heard Duty barking wildly. He felt very odd and wondered why he hadn’t heard the barking all along. Abernathy, frowning, gave him a plate of scrambled
eggs and pancakes. Annabel was packing the picnic basket, emptying the icebox. Hart went into the pantry, where Duty at last fell silent. Hart, his back to the wall, slid down to sit on the floor. “Duty, it’s all right.” The dog licked his face and scratched at the heavy door. “I know, never mind,” Hart said. “Look here, you have the eggs. I’ll have the pancakes.”

Duty, diverted, fell to work. Hart folded the pancakes in half and ate them, dripping syrup on the plate. Absently, he kept one hand on Duty’s sleek head, for his palm fit the dog’s hard, flat brow. “I have to be gone for a bit,” he said. “You’ll stay here and watch over things. I know you won’t like it, all of us going at once.”

His father and the pony had disappeared at nearly the same time, or so it had seemed to Hart. His mother and grandmother took the children to the funeral parlor, where they all knelt, touching the closed box. They were judged too young to attend the service, but the house was a blur of people and flowers and food laid out. Soon after, the pony was sold to the farmer who’d supplied hay and feed; a good home, his mother said, with pasture and a lake. Hart wanted to go with the pony, to the pasture and the lake; later he didn’t remember kicking and hitting, and screaming until his throat was raw. Then he lay wrapped in quilts, a cold cloth on his forehead. His mother told him that she would never punish him for what he could not remember doing.

Hart stroked Duty’s shoulders and back, where his hide wrinkled in shiny folds over his muscles. He was small but strong, with jaws like a trap, and a quivering, astute nose: he found rabbits in their nests, and mice in their holes. Once in the clinch, he never backed down. There was no punishing him for all that, but leaving him was punishment. “I’ll take you to the park when I get back,” Hart said, “but the fellows will miss us. There’s not another decent pitcher.”

Duty looked up from the eggs, then licked the plate, nudging it aside. He turned a tight circle and sat on his haunches next to Hart, as though they were spectators at the same event.

•   •   •

Mr. Pierson was standing at the door as Grethe came up the front steps. “My dear?” he said quietly.

Grethe thought it would be hard to tell him, but the words came easily. “Mr. Pierson, they wouldn’t give me the money. They said it was not my mother’s writing.”

“The signature, do you mean? How tiresome. Your mother won’t be pleased, but never mind. Get the children. We’ll leave immediately.”

“Right now? I’ll ask Mrs. Abernathy to help pack—”

“No need. We’ll be back for all that later. In any case, your mother has clothes for all of you in her trunk.”

“She does?” Grethe had helped pack the trunk: her mother’s best clothes, and numerous mementos, but—

“The note, my dear.”

She gave it to him gratefully, and saw that Hart had come up behind them, holding a plate of eggs and pancakes.

“Grethe hasn’t had breakfast,” he said.

“Quite right,” Mr. Pierson said. “Give her that plate, for the car. It’s your second, isn’t it? You’ve a good appetite! The picnic is in the backseat. Come along, Annabel!” He motioned her forward.

“I told Duty I will bring him back something special,” Annabel said, “and send him messages. Dogs hear what we do not!” She was holding her rag doll, Mrs. Pomeroy.

They could hear Duty barking, from the pantry.

“We will be back soon enough! Quickly now!” Mr. Pierson widened his blue eyes at Hart, and smiled happily. “When we’re far enough east, my boy, south into the beautiful hills, I shall give you a driving lesson. There is one stretch seldom traveled, where the stream runs along beside the road and the turns are gentle. There you shall take the wheel, with my assistance of course.”

“I’m going to drive?”

“Oh, yes. A boy your age should know how to drive. Be quick now, your cap!”

They were all out the door, into the car, rolling down the windows and remarking on the plush seats. Grethe saw that Mr. Pierson, Cornelius, she must call him, was still in the house. Perhaps he had forgotten the note. But then he was on the porch and down the steps, and they were all clapping and cheering. He turned the key and the motor growled as the gears engaged. Hart wanted to blow the horn to tell the neighbors good-bye, but Cornelius drove them smoothly away. The journey was begun.

Whenever the moon and stars are set,

Whenever the wind is high,

All night long in the dark and wet,

A man goes riding by.

Late in the night, when the fires are out,

Why does he gallop and gallop about?

—Robert Louis Stevenson, “Windy Nights,”
A Child’s Garden of Verses

West Virginia seemed to Hart a magical preserve of forest and trees, deep valleys, high vistas where hawks wheeled, and few people, for they passed frame houses and small hamlets, isolated barns, and no towns of any size. There would be fireworks in Park Ridge. He wondered if he would see lights tomorrow night from somewhere in the mountains.

Hart had never seen mountains. He’d never traveled in an automobile, for they rode the streetcar to Chicago. He was used to the city, with tracks and noise and telegraph wires swooping from pole to pole. Mr. Pierson’s farm was in Quiet Dell, with many acres of fields and woodlands, a pond for fishing, and a house with a broad front porch and double porch swings. A room for each of them, and a good dinner their mother was cooking. She would make a pie, Mr. Pierson was sure, for blueberries were in season and falling off the bushes.