THE LAST BOY (54 page)

Wally Schuman showed up on a Tuesday afternoon right before Christmas while Tripoli was still in town. It was the day of another heavy snow, and the driveway was so deep that he had to leave his car on the main road. His red goatee was encrusted with ice and he looked frozen.

“Come in quick,” said Molly, as the snow blew in through the door.

Stamping his feet and removing his boots, Wally explained that he had run into Tripoli in the courthouse and had inquired about how Molly was doing.“The roads didn’t look so bad when I started out in town,” he confessed, rubbing his red hands to get them warm.

After Molly made him some hot tea, he sat by the stove slowly drying out, steam coming off his wet clothes.

“You shouldn’t be too hard on yourself about Daniel,” he said, sipping the hot tea.

“I suppose what's done is done, and I can’t undo it.”

“Well, at the very least, I think Daniel got people thinking about
the effects of their actions on the Earth. And that's a good start.” He then went into the reason for his visit. The
Journal
was short staffed. Knowing that Molly had worked as an editor at the magazine and… “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to try your hand on a few pieces. I’ve got to warn you that it doesn’t pay much.”

“Did Tripoli put you up to this?”

He looked genuinely surprised. “No. No. This was my idea entirely.”

“And I was the only writer in town that came to mind,” she smiled and wondered if Tripoli had been sneaking peeks at her journal. Deep down he was, after all, a nosy cop.

“Well,” Wally admitted, “I do have another motive, too. I still think a lot about Danny…Daniel.” He held his hands over the stove, stretching his fingers, examined them, and then shifted his gaze to Molly. “I’m convinced he was destined to return to the woods again,” he said looking her in the eye. “Maybe not as early as this. Maybe not to face the forest alone. But I think that what happened to Daniel was not your doing,” he said with a warm and generous smile.“And I think people need to understand that. And not just for your sake, but for the town's.”

The change in Molly was obvious to Tripoli, though he didn’t dare mention it for fear her state of well-being might simply evaporate. She seemed to be in a continuous state of metamorphosis. She certainly wasn’t the same woman he had met that fateful day he had taken on the case of her missing son. The edges to her personality had been rounded, and in their place was a seamless acceptance of life and its vagaries, an understanding that small pleasures and rewards were momentary and fleeting, and needed to be taken where and when one found them. Even Molly's body had changed, he noticed. Her thighs and hips had taken on more womanly contours. Her face was filling out and her breasts seemed larger, more
firm. What should have alerted him, eluded him, Tripoli who had no such experience before.

“I want to get rid of my car,” she said, and Tripoli looked at her surprised. “And I want you to get rid of yours, too. They’re both just polluting wrecks on wheels.”

“Okay,” he smiled. “Do I take a horse and buggy to get to work?”

“No, but…do you think we could afford one of those new hybrid cars?”

“Well…yeah…” he scratched his head.“I suppose so. But what about mine? The Caprice belongs to the department.”

“Get them to change, too.”

“You mean the whole fleet?”

“Why not? This is a progressive town, right? They’re always patting themselves on the back, saying how enlightened they are. Well, let them put their money where it counts.”

“It's not going to be easy convincing Matlin.”

“Go talk to the mayor. Common Council. You might be surprised.”

“You go talk to them.”

“Okay. I will. But first you talk to Matlin.”

Tripoli swallowed.

“Oh, come on. You’re not afraid of him, are you?”

“No,” he replied quickly,“of course not.”

They spent a quiet Christmas together. Tripoli had gone out and cut a small a tree, and they set it up and decorated it in the newly finished living room. She had knitted him a scarf and a pair of matching wool socks to go with it. Tripoli had dozens of gifts for her. Perfume and jewelry. A fancy nightgown that she couldn’t use until spring. A set of bath oils and a couple of cookbooks that he had found on sale.

Jewelry, she thought, out here in the sticks? Perfume? Though
the gifts were a little inappropriate, she knew his sentiments were sincere. After Christmas dinner, they lay on the rug in front of the fireplace watching the flames dance and talked quietly about Daniel. “I wish Danny was with us,” she said, gazing at the tree. “He would have loved this. Just think of it,” she added wistfully. “The three of us together. Here.”

When Molly had finished sprucing up the dining room, stripping and varnishing all the woodwork, she went back to town to get material for curtains. The room called for something cheerful, colorful, perhaps in yellow and green. She found the perfect fabric in a sheer material that was on sale, and bought enough for all the downstairs rooms.

Then she headed over to City Hall where she had a morning meeting with the mayor.

“Danny's mother, of course!” said Mayor Rankin getting to his feet to take Molly's hand.“Please. Please sit down.” He offered her a chair.“I was going to call you, in fact. Chief Matlin called me about updating the fleet. It's funny how everything comes together at once,” he leaned back in his chair and played with his mustache.

“Oh?” she said, trying to disguise her surprise.

“A year ago, six months ago, if I had suggested replacing those tanks that pass as police cars I’d have been booed and thrown out of office. Now people seem to be receptive to the idea.”

“Why's that?” she asked.

“I think it's a lot of things.”

“Danny?”

“Well, yes. Among others. Certainly. Look, I’d like to ask a favor. You could make my job a lot easier.”

“What's that?”

“I’d like you speak to the Common Council.”

“But…But…” Molly stuttered.“But I’m not a speaker.”

“I think you’ll do just fine. And what I’m hoping to propose is not just replacing police cars, but all city vehicles.”

“Well, in that case…” said Molly.

“I knew you’d see it my way.” Mayor Rankin smiled and led her to the door.

As she was coming out of City Hall, she passed her old boss hurrying up the street. For an instant, she almost didn’t recognize him. Larry was clad in an expensive Italian suit largely hidden by a jauntily unbuttoned camel's hair coat. His hair was newly styled and brilliantly moussed. He was freshly tanned as if just back from a Caribbean vacation, and his skin seemed to glow. Hardly the down-at-the-heels businessman she might have anticipated, given Sandy's dire report.

“Larry,” she gulped, unable to hide her surprise.

He looked at her for a moment.“Oh, Molly. Molly. How are you doing?” he exclaimed cheerfully, as if they had seen each other only a day ago.“How's everything going? Are you working these days?”

She shook her head.

“Just hanging out, eh?”

She nodded.

“What a waste of talent,” he said with a smile she couldn’t quite read.“I always had big expectations for you.”

Strange, she thought, not a word about Danny. “I heard about the magazine,” she finally ventured.“I’m sorry.”

“Oh, that!” He flicked his hand and laughed.“That's already history. Didn’t you hear? I’ve just opened up a new firm. Internet marketing. Things are taking off again. You know,” he turned philosophical, “sometimes blessings come in disguise. You think you’re on the right track and—whoops,” he checked his watch.“I’m late for an appointment.” He started to move off. “But I definitely want to talk to you. Might have a key place for you in the organization,” he said, turning his head as he retreated into the distance.
“How about lunch some time? Why don’t you give me a call? We’ll play catch-up. Gotta dash.” And then he was gone.

Molly liked living at the farmhouse. It took just a quick walk through Tripoli's field, and she was deep in the Connecticut Hill wilderness. It felt right being in the country, and crunching through the ice-layered forest gave her solace, a sense of connection with Danny. Often, she would find herself talking to him, as if Danny were still there, close to her. She would tell him about her new life on the farm, about the toasty wood stove they had in the kitchen, how they were fixing up the house, finishing up all the rooms. How there was so much space—not like the old trailer. How life here was good and wholesome, and how she wished he were here with her to enjoy it.

On cold days, when the sun came out and the wind on the hilltop fell to a calm, the winter air became so still that Molly found she could hear for miles. She could hear the scurrying of squirrels on the icy ground, could make out the snap of twigs as a trio of deer stepped gingerly, nearly out of sight, through the distant woods. Here, high on the crest of the hill, if she listened she could hear the very bowels of the earth itself groaning and shifting under her feet, ever in motion as it had been for eons. Sometimes, when she spoke to Danny, she swore she thought she could detect traces of his voice, feel his presence, sense his eyes upon her.

She recalled the walks they had taken together and how Danny had sprung to life when they fled the office for the outdoors. In her mind's eye, she could still see him climbing the high hill behind the trailer park and prancing like a deer through the deep grass and wild flowers of summer. How little it had taken to make him happy! What a terrible mistake she had made in not moving out here with him right from the beginning. Oh, how he would have loved it here, might have grown and thrived here. This, after all, had been their
dream before her faintheartedness in the face of uncertainty had insinuated itself into their life. Now, day by day, her surroundings, she realized, were transforming her: her view of life, of love, even her sense of her body was now different. Her period had skipped a month and she began to wonder.

It was a walk one late afternoon that prompted Molly to take up Wally Schuman's suggestion. The rays of sun were slanting low through the trees, and, when she looked carefully at one of the low maples, she noticed for the first time it had no new buds. Examining the other trees, she found that many of them, invariably the maples and beech, were utterly devoid of buds. The discovery was frightening. It meant that many of the trees in the forest wouldn’t be having leaves in the coming spring. Were they dead? she wondered. Had the summer heat and drought taken this toll? What would the woods look like in the spring?

Molly started by writing a small piece. In essence, most of it was excerpted from her journal. In it she wrote about life in the country, about the chickadees and nuthatches and bright red cardinals that came to Tripoli's feeder, about how the boughs of the tall spruce in front of the farmhouse, when heavy with snow, looked like the outstretched arms of an old man struggling to keep the load aloft. Of course, she wrote about Danny, too. How he had been endowed with the wonderful ability to listen and sense all that was in the natural world around him. And she wrote about her discovery of the budless trees and how Danny, she now understood, had been sent by the old Hermit to warn of an impending calamity. That people, herself included, would have to change what they did or how they did it.

She sent the article to Wally Schuman and was surprised not so much that he published it, but by people's reactions. Her observations must have hit a responsive chord, because two days later there were a flurry of letters to the editor about her article. Upon close
examination of the trees in their yards and woods, others around the county had also come upon the same worrisome phenomenon of budless trees. And it was not limited to just the maple and beeches, but to some species of birches, too. Molly's article, they wrote, had the ring of authenticity and truth, and, yes, Daniel had been right. All the respondents were hoping for further stories from Molly.

She did another piece. This one was solely about Danny, recalling him as a small child, then describing in detail his return, his transformation, his incredible gifts. The headline for the piece was entitled,“Just Listen.”This, too, brought a chorus of cheers.

“I knew it,” said Wally on the phone. “And the Gannett Wire Service wants to carry your articles—with your permission, of course. Generally, we share with our other papers.”

“Sure,” said Molly.

“And it means a bit more money, too.”

The prospect of being able to help pay her way at Tripoli's was inviting. So she sat down and wrote another article. This was about herself and was much harder to write. Almost confessional in tone, she examined her own situation while working for the magazine.“I was so terrified at the prospect of losing security that I allowed myself to become distracted from what was essential in life. I was so swamped with the informational noise of the everyday that my connections to the essentials of the Earth had become severed. I had come to believe that fruit and vegetables grew in supermarkets, that milk was made in containers, and fish magically laid themselves glassy-eyed upon beds of ice. And all for me.”

“So, what do we do now,” she asked,“now that the dairy farmers don’t have enough hay for their cows because of the summer drought, now that we’ve depleted the oceans of fish?”

A day after the article appeared nationally in the Gannett papers, Molly began receiving letters from all over the country. There were so many letters that Josh Miller, the mailman, couldn’t leave them in
the box and had to come up to the front door lugging a sack.

“Hey, you’re getting famous,” he said, slipping the bag off his shoulder and letting it fall at her feet with a grunt.

“Hardly,” she laughed.

“Everybody I know here in Newfield still talks about Daniel. What with all the stuff that's happening, folks are scared.”

“And you?”

“Geez,” he took off his wool cap and scratched his bald head.“Of course. But what can I do? I’m just a lousy postman. Well, happy reading,” he said and jumped into his jeep and headed off to the next farm.