The Language of Sycamores (18 page)

He scratched his head, torn, I could tell, between being supportive and telling me what he really thought. “So, you’re saying that you want to spend the rest of your life giving music lessons to underprivileged kids?” His hazel eyes took on a slightly scolding, mildly parental expression. “That isn’t very lucrative, Karen.”

“I realize that,” I snapped, feeling eighteen years old, like my father was telling me that taking theater and music classes wasn’t productive. “I’m not talking about forever. I’m just saying that I don’t want to make any permanent decisions right now. I”—the truth came to me in a rush of self-discovery that sat me upright in my seat—“want to stay here through Memorial Day and finish out the Jumpkids camp. “
Stay here? For two weeks?
I tried to make the idea sound less radical than it was. “Kate has the whole family coming for the holiday weekend. I can help her get things ready, spend some time with Josh and Rose, reconnect. Kate and I haven’t spent more than an hour or two alone, without the family, since I left for college.”

“That’s because you haven’t wanted to,” he reminded me in a flat, slightly reproachful tone. He was so much like my father—logical, analytical, careful. Safe. Always. “Karen, I’ve tried to get you to come down here dozens of times these past two years, and you were completely against it. Now you’re telling me you want to spend two weeks communing with Kate and the kids? That doesn’t make much sense. It sounds like a knee-jerk reaction to what happened Friday at Lansing. Are you sure this isn’t just an excuse, a way of running away?”

No.
“Yes.” I knew that wasn’t completely true. I probably was reacting to losing my job and the news from Dr. Conner. “But does it really matter? Am I not entitled, for once in my life, to be a little off plumb? I’ve been floating right on level for years. Is it the end of the world if I
have a little . . . breakdown for a few weeks?” I waved a hand toward the brush passing on the side of the car. “I mean, you’re out here on your layovers buying tractors, plowing over cedar trees, and building barns on land we’ll never use. How logical is that? But it makes you feel good. It helps you relax and reconnect with growing up on a farm. That’s what I need—a little time to relax.”

Raising one brow and lowering the other he delivered a comical look that told me we were going to move from arguing to joking again. That was, thankfully, the one way he differed from my father. James could see the humor in things. “You’re going to relax with ninety-seven Jumpkids banging on percussion instruments, a bunch of daffy college students, Sherita skulking around like an axe murderer, and the plumbing backed up in the church?”

“Exactly.” I knew I’d won the argument, and at that moment, I loved him so much for accepting feelings that were still so nebulous. “Sounds great, doesn’t it?”

“No.”

I prodded him playfully in the shoulder. “Oh, come on. You’re great with the kids. They love you. You’re the baseball king.”

He chuckled, and I felt the oppressive emotions fly out the window. “Yeah, well, it’s good in small doses, but I’ll tell you, I’m not sorry to be getting on a plane tomorrow.”

“Wimp,” I joked.

“Nutcase,” he retorted, and we laughed together. I felt like a thousand pounds had been lifted from my shoulders. There was only one gigantic weight remaining. The news from Dr. Conner’s office. I needed to tell James, but if I did, he’d insist that I go right home for the biopsy. And he’d be right. There was no logical argument to combat that—except that I wasn’t ready to go home yet. That didn’t qualify as an excuse, and I knew it.

I could schedule it here,
I told myself, trying to absolve a measure of the guilt.
I could schedule it here with Grandma’s old doctor . . . what was his name? Schmidt. Dr. Schmidt. By the time James comes back, I’ll know the answer.

I looked up and realized we were passing through the valley where
the old wooden bridge used to be, where I had found the mermaid pool and the sister trees. “Oh.” I pointed as we crossed over the new bridge. “Stop. I want to show—”

James pulled into the newly cleared driveway.

“James, what are . . . ?” I looked around for an explanation. How could he know about this place?

In the backseat, Dell stirred and stretched, then put her hands on the window frame. “Are we there yet?” she muttered sleepily.

“This is the place,” James answered. “Just had the new fence put in last week, and I put the gate up this morning.”

My mouth dropped open. “This is . . . We have . . . I didn’t . . .” I babbled, still trying to process the idea that this was our property. When we’d inherited land from Grandma Rose, I had assumed that it was actually attached to the farm, not down the county road. “This is the piece of property Grandma Rose willed to us?”

He quirked a brow at me as Dell hopped out to open the gate. “Yes. I’ve told you about it, remember? It was originally a three-hundred-acre piece your grandparents bought sometime after World War II. The hundred acres on this side of the creek are ours, and the hundred on the other side are your aunt Jeane’s. Your father has the hundred on the north side of ours.”

All of that was familiar. I remembered it from the reading of the will, but in all the times Grandma had taken us here, she never mentioned that our family owned the property. “I knew about the division of the property, but I didn’t realize it was located here. James, this is the place I was talking about—where I stopped yesterday to find the swimming hole Grandma Rose used to take us to. This is the place. The waterfall where Kate and I played is right down there, just down the path a bit, and Grandma Rose’s special place—the sycamore grove that she and Augustine talked about in their letters—it’s just a short walk down the creek.” My mind filled with memories, and I saw Kate moving down the path, trotting ahead of the car, like Dell was now, Queen Anne’s lace skimming her bare brown legs, long dark hair swinging back and forth in the sun. I could feel the past all around me. “I just can’t believe it’s ours.”

“It’s ours.” There was a twinkle of satisfaction in his eye, a pride of ownership. But more than that, he was happy that I was finally taking an interest. This place was special to him, and now it was special to me, as well. I was filled with a sense of something meant to be. James smiled as if he felt it, too.

I wondered if Grandma Rose had planned it this way. If she knew that I would someday come back here to remember the history I shared with my sister, and to learn about the history she had shared with hers. Could she possibly have known that when my world was spinning out of control, I would come here to feel grounded?

James drove to the end of the new gravel driveway, which extended perhaps fifty feet into the property, and stopped beneath a grove of trees where a pad had been cleared. “The barn’s going to go there.” He pointed to some orange construction flags nearby. “Nothing fancy—just a small workshop and a place to keep the tractor for now, until we decide what to do with the place in the long run.”

“We’ll never sell it,” I rushed out, gazing at the flower-laden meadows below, the low sweet peas stretching their blossoms sunward in the dappled, lacy shade. Overhead, the sycamores whispered in a language I remembered and understood. I watched Dell disappear among them. “It’s too beautiful to ever let it go.”

James nodded, seeming pleased. “It’s a beautiful place.” He pointed up the bluff. “There’s a fantastic spot up there for a weekend house. The other day I found an old rock chimney, and the foundation of a log cabin.”

“Amazing,” I whispered, stepping from the car, anxious to explore all the secrets of this magical place. Our place.

James walked to where an old green tractor sat parked, and I followed. “There she is.” He gave the tractor an affectionate pat that made me smile.

“She’s a peach.” I took in the rusty paint job and the big dent in the front-end loader, recalling James’s sister telling me that when he was young, all he ever wanted to do was drive the tractor and other farm machinery. That love for all things mechanical had led him to eventually become a pilot. “What a cream puff.”

He squinted, sensing that I might be making fun of his baby. “Fifty-seven John Deere.” He introduced me to the tractor as I walked slowly around it. A tractor was pretty much a tractor to me, but James, of course, knew his sweetheart inch by inch. “She’s a good old girl. Three-point hitch, live PTO, mint condition, still has good compression and plenty of power.”

“Wow.” I batted my eyes, pretending to be impressed. “What a babe. I think I’m jealous.”

James turned and gave me a slow, flirtatious grin. “You two might have to fight over me.” He was so handsome when he smiled like that—slightly mischievous, slightly wild. Not the straightlaced, sophisticated airline captain. “But you’d better watch out. She can mow over a two-inch cedar tree in nothing flat. She’s tough.”

“I’m tough.” I cut a suggestive glance at him. It felt good to flirt again, to be like we used to be.

“Oh, really?” He grinned over the hood of the tractor. “Show me.”

Raising my arm, I made a muscle to be silly, then ducked away just as he was about to test it. He came after me, and I turned and ran through the field, laughing, as he hollered, “So that’s how it’s going to be?”

He caught me halfway across the field, his arm snaking around my waist and spinning me around midstride, pulling me into the air. He drew me close, and we fell into the tangle of lacy sweet peas, hidden from the world like young lovers. Closing my eyes, I drank in the scent, the feel of the moment, the sound of the breeze, the touch of his lips on mine, the warmth of his body, the exhilarating press of his weight holding me close to the damp earth. I remembered everything I loved about him, and everything I treasured about this place.

I felt young again, and in love with the world.

Chapter 18

B
y the time we went home, James and I had explored what seemed like every inch of our land.
Our land.
I loved the way it sounded.

I showed him the initials in the rocks while Dell waded in the creek, then we took a tractor ride around the perimeter and stopped near the sister trees. James and I stood admiring the gigantic sycamores, while Dell discovered that, even all these years later, they were still easy to climb. Watching her, I painted the glen as it must have been years ago—the three sycamores much smaller, the peach grove only a single tree, grown from a mysterious seed perhaps dropped by lovers or planted by woodland fairies. I saw three girls in plain cotton dresses and bare feet—beautiful Sadie with her long, red hair, quiet Augustine with soft golden curls the color of the evening light, and my grandmother, the middle girl, her brown curls falling around her shoulders in wild disarray. I imagined them there, escaping from the world, still able to believe in things they could not see.

The evening light felt warm on my face and James’s hand was firm and solid in mine as I closed my eyes, turning my face upward toward those ancient branches, thinking,
I want to believe. I want to believe in things I can’t see.
I yearned to be as fearless and free as those little girls, as Dell when she climbed high into the branches, never looking back to see where she had been.

“I guess we should go,” I heard James say.

I nodded reluctantly. The day was over, but I didn’t want it to end. Tomorrow morning, James would be leaving. It seemed as if this new magic between us would leave with him, that it would evaporate bit by bit, and when he came back things would be as they had always been.

Why did I feel that way? Why was I so afraid to grasp this new happiness? Why did I feel as if James’s leaving was the beginning of the end?

We drove Dell home in silence. When we turned onto Mulberry Road, James studied the decaying cracker box houses, the ditches littered with rotting furniture, the snarling dogs on chains. His face held a silent expression of horror and disgust that spoke volumes. Obviously, in all of their fishing trips together, he had never taken Dell home. For a moment, I thought he’d say something, then he just glanced at Dell in the rearview mirror, privately gave me a sad look, and slowly shook his head. If he had any illusions about what her life was really like, they were swept away when we pulled up to her house.

He sighed, taking in the ramshackle dwelling, the yard strewn with broken household items and trash the dog had chewed up, the driveway littered with tools and parts from Uncle Bobby’s pickup, now jacked up with one wheel off.

I didn’t want Dell to go, but I knew there wasn’t a choice. Our day of
Let’s pretend
was over. “I’m sorry we kept you out so long,” I said. “Maybe I should come in and explain it to your grandmother.”

“No,” she replied, quickly gathering her papers from Jumpkids camp and the flowers she’d picked by the creek. “Nobody cares.” A simple fact of life.

Biting my lip, I closed my eyes for a second. James noticed it. “All right, then, I’ll see you in the morning.” My voice held a false cheerfulness. “Do you want me to pick you up, or are you coming over to the farm?”

“I’ll come over.” She climbed out, then stopped at the driver’s-side window and frowned at James. “Are you leavin’ tomorrow?”

He nodded, turning his gaze from the house to her, then back and forth again, like he was having trouble assimilating the two. “Yeah, I’ll
be leaving in the morning,” he said finally, reluctantly. “But I should be back sometime next week, and when I come, I’ll bring the
Partridge Family
guitar. I’ll even bring some new strings and show you how to put them on. Maybe we can take it down to the river and see if the catfish like guitar music.”

She giggled. “ ’K.” Her eyes lit up and she jittered in place. Reaching through the window, flowers and all, she gave him a quick, awkward hug. “Thanks!” Then she pulled away.

On the porch, Uncle Bobby was watching. He staggered a step backward and held the door open as she crossed the yard, stopping to pet Rowdy on the way.

“Hey, how’s my little brown girl?” His slightly slurred words drifted across the yard as she continued to the house, the dog following behind her. “You have a good day with the white folks?” He glared toward the car, and James jerked forward in his seat.

I laid a hand on his arm. “Leave it alone.” I thought of all the warnings Kate and Brother Baker had given. If James started a confrontation now, tomorrow her grandmother would keep her locked away and there would be no more Jumpkids camp for her.

Uncle Bobby waited, still talking while Dell went in the door. “Got you some new clothes at the Wal-Mart over in Springfield. Thought you’d like that . . .” The screen door fell closed, and the dog lay down outside, head on his paws, nosing through a hole in the corner of the screen, as if he shared our misgivings about sending her in there.

Uncle Bobby came back to the door and kicked at the dog, then stared at us.

“We’d better go,” I said, my hand still on James’s arm. “We might get her in trouble.”

Nodding reluctantly, James backed the car onto the street. “Someone ought to report that.” He nodded toward the house.

I sighed, laying my head back against the seat as we drove away. James was accustomed to a world where he was in command, a world that was right and level and clean. “Kate says it’s been reported in the past. Brother Baker told me that every time someone gets involved, the grandmother starts keeping Dell home and away from other people,
which will only make her situation worse.” I could tell he wasn’t satisfied with that answer, that he still thought he ought to be able to fix the problem. He was looking for logic where there wasn’t any. Why would God give Dell a talent like that and put her in a place like this?

“It’s wrong,” he grated out, his hands kneading the steering wheel, his level of emotion surprising. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d seen James red faced and tight jawed, teetering on the edge of control. It wasn’t like him at all.

“It sure seems that way,” I agreed, caught between sharing his anger and wanting to calm him down.

Glancing narrowly in the rearview mirror, he slowed the car, his face a mask of frustration. Was he thinking about going back and doing something rash?

“James, we have to just let it be.” I pried his hand off the steering wheel, threading my fingers through his. “Kate and Brother Baker know a lot more about the situation than we do. They have Dell’s best interests at heart, too.”

“Guess so.” He looked out the window, watching the dumping grounds of Mulberry Road pass by. He seemed disappointed—in the situation, in me, in himself for not going back after Dell? I wasn’t sure which.

We drove back to the farm in silence. A heavy feeling settled over the car, wrapping around me like the weighty lead cloak they use for X-rays at the dentist’s office. Where I had been filled with joy as we explored the mermaid pool and the sycamore grove, now there was a fear that something was about to go wrong.

“James,” I said quietly, as we parked the car in the driveway and got out.

“Hmmm?”

“Be careful this trip, all right?”

He frowned as we walked through the gate. “I’m always careful,” he said, then kissed me on the top of the head, slipping his arm around my shoulders. Resting against him, I took a deep breath, trying to shake the sense of foreboding.

Perhaps, I told myself, it was only guilt talking—a nagging whisper reminding me that I shouldn’t be keeping my medical tests secret. . . .

That off-balance feeling stayed with me through the evening and into the night. In the morning, the phone jolted us awake before daylight. James answered, said, “Yes,” then turned on the bedside lamp and began jotting down numbers on a piece of paper. I knew what it meant. His trip had changed, and he would be leaving even earlier than expected.

“Gotta go,” he said, setting down the phone and leaning over to kiss me. “Guess you’re on your own to get to town this morning. I have to head for the airport.”

“All right,” I whispered, still hoarse from sleep. Sitting up, I slipped my arms around him and held him tight. “I love you.” How long had it been since I’d told him?

He grinned suggestively. “I’ve got a minute.”

“A minute won’t do any good,” I teased.

“I’ve got”—he twisted his head so that he could see the windup clock on the nightstand—“twenty minutes.”

“That might do it. . . .”

Turning off the lamp, he slipped back into bed and I felt an electricity that had been missing between us for too long. I surrendered myself to it, losing all sense of time and place. There was only him and me. His hands, his body, the soft sounds of passion. In my mind we were in the field among the lacy sweet pea vines, wrapped in the grass and the flowers and each other, a perfect circle. . . .

When he finally slipped from the bed, I didn’t want him to leave. “Don’t go.” I reached for him, unwilling to let the moment end.

He chuckled, a deep, warm, resonant sound. “I’ll see you next week.”

I heard him moving around the room in the dusky predawn light, hurriedly gathering his things. “Be careful,” I said again.

“I will.” Then the sound of a suitcase zipping. The last thing he always did before he walked out the door. He stopped to lean over the bed and kiss me, his hand softly cupping the side of my face, then threading into my hair. Closing my eyes, I rested my cheek on his arm. “You be careful, too. Watch out for Sherita. She’s good with a baseball bat.”

“You’re so bad,” I chided, lightening the moment.

“You like me when I’m bad,” he breathed against my cheek, then kissed me again and headed out the door.

I lay in the empty bed for a long time, watching the first rays of morning slowly creep in around the windows. I felt lost and lonely.

From somewhere outside I heard singing.

“Oh, soul, are you weary and troubled? No light in the darkness you see. . . .” Dell’s voice.

Pushing open the window, I spotted her coming up the path, little more than a shadow against the gray morning, the big dog following behind her.

Slipping into my sweats, I waited until she rounded the blackberry patch. “Hey, there,” I whispered through the window. Even though we were too far from the main house to worry about waking anyone, it seemed a shame to disturb the morning hush.

She stopped just beyond the blackberry bushes and looked up quizzically. “What are you doing?”

“Still sitting in bed. It’s early yet.” Hadn’t she noticed it was barely light outside? Why wasn’t she afraid to cross the creek and walk through the woods in the dark? Did anyone at home even notice when she got up and left at this hour of the morning?

“Did James go already?” She checked the driveway, sounding disappointed. I realized why she’d come so early. She wanted to tell him good-bye.

“Yeah.” The melancholy was obvious in my voice. “Want to come in?”

“ ’K,” she said, and in a minute she was on the porch. I heard her leave the door open, closing only the screen. Outside, Rowdy gave a low whine.

Propping the pillows, I sat in bed with my bare feet tucked under the covers.

Dell came in carrying a handful of ripe huckleberries. “Want some?” She plopped on the other side of the bed, testing the old mattress for bounce before crossing her legs.

“Sure.” I took a few of the tiny blue berries, and for a few minutes,
we sat savoring the wild delicacies, not speaking. When the berries were gone, we lay back against the pillows and talked about the day and what would happen at Jumpkids camp. Finally, the light grew bright outside the windows, and I climbed out of bed to shower and get ready. Dell started practicing
Lion King
dance steps, muttering to herself as if she were the teacher talking, and occasionally singing a line or two of the song. When I was finished showering and dressing, she came into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub, watching me put on makeup, then timidly experimenting on herself. I swept her long hair into a high twist, and we did a cramped version of beauty shop, draping each other with old costume jewelry from Grandma’s vanity drawer. We stood laughing at the results, sharing a girl moment before she washed off most of the makeup and became herself again, so that we could go in and eat breakfast with Kate and Ben.