After the Frost (9 page)

"Thirty-ten, thirty-eleven—" Sarah said, her voice a low murmur.

Rand reached for the sugar and put two heaping spoonfuls into his buttermilk. The clank of the spoon hitting the cup seemed obscenely loud. He caught Lillian's nervous gaze across the table, and involuntarily he followed it to Belle, who was slowly, deliberately, opening a biscuit. She spooned apple butter on it thickly, then followed it with a lacing of maple syrup.

     
"Thirty-six, thirty-seven . . ."

     
Rand's eyes narrowed, and he looked away and took a gulp of the sweetened buttermilk. But the sight of her pouring that syrup wouldn't leave him. She used to do that, he remembered. Before or since, he'd never seen anyone else eat a biscuit quite that way.

     
It bothered him that he remembered.

     
"Thirty-eleven . . . Papa, what comes after thirty- eleven?"

     
"There is no thirty-eleven," he said gruffly. "It goes thirty-eight, thirty-nine, forty, forty-one."

     
"And
then
what?"

     
"Pass the applesauce, please." Belle looked at him pointedly.

     
Rand grabbed the bowl and shoved it toward her.

     
"And then what, Papa?"

     
"Thank you." Belle made a show of dipping the spoon in, plopping the sauce onto her plate so that it pooled next to those smothered biscuits.

     
"And then what?"

     
"Sarah," Lillian admonished.

     
"Papa—"

     
"What?" Rand turned to his daughter almost violently, feeling a surge of impatient exasperation. He inhaled deeply, forcing calm into his tone. "What do you want to know, Sarah?"

     
"What comes after forty-one?"

     
"Forty-two."

     
"And then what?"

     
"Sarah, that's quite enough." Lillian said. "If you want to count to a hundred, count quietly—and not until after supper."

     
"Forty-three comes next," Belle said. Abrupt silence followed—so abrupt, her words seemed to echo. She looked up from cutting her meat. "Doesn't it?"

Sarah sat up straighter in her chair. She looked at Belle with big, round eyes and then at Rand.

His stomach tightened and rolled over. He nodded to Sarah. "Yeah. But listen to your grandma, all right?"

She smiled and banged her fork into her potatoes. "Forty-three, forty-four, forty-eight . . ."

Rand sighed and pushed aside his plate, no longer hungry. "I have some things to do in the barn," he said. He rose, grabbing the latest issue of
The Ohio Cultivator
from the sideboard where he'd left it earlier.

It was a lie. There were always things to do, that was true enough, but tonight he'd planned to settle himself in a chair and read—read long enough and hard enough so that he couldn't think about today or yesterday or years ago. He wanted to lose himself in farming techniques and stories—hell, even the ladies' section sounded good.

But he couldn't do that with her sitting there all night. Not with that damnably uncomfortable silence that filled every room she was in.

He went out the door quickly and crossed the yard, was up the road and to the barn in minutes. The building was big and dark, the sounds of the animals and the smell of hay and oil was comforting. There was no silence here, uneasy or otherwise. The dusty, musky scents were all around him, the darkness and the constant movement soothed him, just as it had hundreds of times before.

Rand threw
The Cultivator
aside and went to work, feeding the animals and tightening down for the night. It was easy work now, while it was still warm, with the cows and the horses pastured. Only the pigs and the chickens needed any care at all, and when he finished, the sky was just turning a dusky shade of gray.

There was an old rocker by the toolroom, kept there just for nights like these. It was roughly made of maple, but the arms were smoothed and dark with oil from men's palms, and over the years the seat had seemed to form to his body. It had belonged to his grandfather first, and his father after that, and there was a time when he'd thought Cort would own it next. But it hadn't happened like that, and in spite of the bitterness and guilt Rand felt over being the brother who inherited, he was glad the rocker was his.

He remembered the days when his father, Henry, sat in it, creaking back and forth over the crackling straw, rubbing his thick beard as he worked over a piece of leather harness, talking in time with the rocking. "It wasn't so long ago—"
creak, creak
, "that a man—"
creak
, "never had to use credit for a thing—"

Rand smiled. It was nearly seven years ago now that his father had died, but he still couldn't look at the rocker without seeing Henry there, without hearing the steady rocking of the chair. Rand sat down, sliding back over the smooth seat, fitting his hands around the arms, letting his body melt into the shape. He never felt so close to his father as he did in that chair—even walking the lands his father walked and sitting at his father's place at table. But then he guessed it wasn't that strange. He and his father had never been close. Henry was too tied to the land, too bound to its rhythms, and Rand had been anything but.

He felt a moment of sadness that Henry Sault had never raised a son who loved the land that way. God knew Cort never had. And Rand, even though he worked it every day, even though he felt its grit on his fingers and its dust in his hair, only felt like an intruder, not like he belonged. Not ever like he belonged. There had always been too many other things.

Rand closed his eyes, leaned his head back. The dreams still hovered at the back of his mind, multicolored images that beckoned and pleaded. He heard their music, the laughter. He smelled the smells and tasted the air. They were hazy now, where once they had been bright and vividly real, but even at their dimmest, they were more compelling than the corn he'd grown with his own hands and the rich smell of freshly turned earth.

No, he was nothing like his father. Not even now.

But he was no longer like himself either.

Rand sighed. He picked up
The Ohio Cultivator
, banishing thoughts of his father and dreams, and flipped through the pages, hoping something—anything —would catch his eye. The words were dim on the page, too hard to read, and it took him a minute to realize that he'd been out in the barn longer than he'd thought. The light was dying; he either needed to light a lamp or go to bed.

Neither idea was compelling. He was tired, he felt it all the way to his bones, but his mind was wide awake and he wouldn't be able to sleep. Usually he didn't need much sleep—three or four hours at best—but tonight he didn't even know if he would get that.

He felt restless. As though something were reaching inside him, searching for his soul. It was calling him, tempting and inescapable, and Rand put aside the journal and went to the doors of the barn. He heard the chickens clucking and scraping and the heavy breathing of the hogs, smelled the cool dampness of the night air tinged with the scent of apples and hay.

It was growing dark. The stars were beginning to twinkle. He saw one, then two, and then he saw the edge of the moon rising through the trees on the horizon, big and bright like late-summer moons always were. The katydids' chirping was raspy and strident by the pond, and in the distance he heard the howling of the Alspaughs' dog.

Something called him then. He didn't know what, didn't know anything except that he wanted to see the road again, wanted to imagine how far it went, even though he already knew, knew that road like the back of his hand.

Still, he followed the call, hurried down the drive, slipping and sliding on the gravel beneath his feet, feeling the breeze in his hair and on his face as he went to the front of the house. In the yard the oaks were sighing, their leaves dancing shadows, and he leaned against one of them and stared out at the road, feeling his heart swell and his head ache with wanting—something—he didn't know, had never known.

It was almost as if he heard a noise, though there couldn't have been one. Rand turned, saw the lamp flicker to life in the upstairs window, saw the shadow against the fine muslin curtains.

Belle.

He knew suddenly why he was there, what had called him, and he felt desperate and afraid, tasted again the harshness of shame in his mouth. The darkness he thought he'd banished threatened him again, the memories of six years ago shifted in front of him.

He wanted to leave, to turn around and walk into the house and search out his daughter. Sarah, whose silly stories would lull him into sleep. Sarah, whose presence comforted him even when his yearning for a different life made him desperate for peace. He knew if he sat on the porch and waited, she would somehow know he was there. Would sneak out of her room and patter silently down the stairs, just as she had a hundred times before.

He should discourage it, he knew. But he had always drawn so much comfort from her presence; her chatter made his demons disappear, gave him a sense of belonging, of future, that nothing else could. He knew he would feel her little body cuddle up against his as she sat beside him on the porch, would hear the soft whisper of her voice as she talked and told stories until they were both limp with weariness.

He sighed and looked up at the window, seeing the shadow cross the curtains and the flickering light, feeling the sharp edge of need well up inside him again. Rand's mouth went dry. He squeezed his eyes shut, working to push it away, to forget. He was afraid of it, afraid of the way that obsession had ruled him once, afraid of becoming like his mother, who had killed herself rather than face her madness.

It's not in you anymore. You fought it. You destroyed it
. He told himself that and he wanted to believe it. But then he looked up and saw Belle's silhouette, and the longing lodged in him, along with the harsh touch of fear.

And he knew that even Sarah couldn't help him tonight.

     
B
elle's dreams were disjointed—disturbing fragments touched with anger and tension—and when she opened her eyes finally to stare into the darkness, she felt as if she hadn't slept a wink.

It was very late, and the moonlight shining through the thin curtains was faint, appearing and disappearing as clouds swept over the moon. She heard the breeze outside, rattling the giant oaks and sending a single branch creaking against her window.

The sound would have comforted her once, but tonight it only increased her tension. Her whole body felt tight; her jaw was sore as if she'd been clenching it for hours. There was no point in trying to relax. She already knew she wouldn't be able to, just as she hadn't been able to the entire, miserable day. Belle felt a tightness in her chest as she remembered the way her mother had whisked Sarah from the table and set her to playing with a bunch of shelled corncobs. When Belle started to join her, Lillian had asked her—sharply—to help with the dishes. Then, before she had even finished, Sarah had been sent to bed—early, Belle was sure.

Between her mother and Rand, Belle hadn't spent more than a few minutes alone with her daughter.

She sighed again, turning onto her side, watching the play of shadows cast by the fluttering curtains. That would change soon enough. Tomorrow or the next day she'd go into town, see if maybe they'd hire her on at the Black Horse Tavern. Or maybe Cly and Son's grocery had a position. Anything to get some money so that she and Sarah could get the hell out. She couldn't stay here much longer without going crazy. Even if she hadn't known it before, tonight had made it very clear.

The porch swing creaked outside, cutting into her thoughts, a startling, steady rhythm in the night, too steady to be caused by a breeze. Belle froze, listening.

". . . then he ate all the ones standin' by the pond, and he called his friend the troll . . ."

Belle frowned. A child's voice. Slowly she sat up in bed. It had to be nearly three in the morning. What was a child doing up at this hour?

It was her imagination. Frowning, she started to lie back.

     
“. . . and then they went lookin' for monsters."

It wasn't her imagination. The voice was tiny and soft.

     
Sarah.

     
Belle jerked upright. She stared at the window in surprise. Sarah? What was she doing up so late? Frowning, Belle pushed back the covers and slid out of bed. She was nearly to the window when she heard a low voice rumbling through the darkness.

     
She stopped, confused. There was someone else out there with Sarah. Someone—a man—

"Hmmm. Did the monsters let them in?"

     
Belle knew that voice, would recognize it anywhere. Rand. Rand was out there too.

     
"No. They were very, very selfish, 'n they wanted all the food for themselfs."

     
As quietly as she could, Belle went to the window. Slowly she raised the sash and leaned out until her stomach rested against the sill. She wished she could see them, but the roof blocked her view. She could picture them, though, sitting on the creaking porch swing, rocking it back and forth with their feet, and she knew they were sitting close together, because their voices were so low.

     
". . . they cut the heads off all the bunnies."

     
"Not the bunnies."

     
"Well, not all of them. Just the mean ones."

     
"Oh."

     
"They ate the good ones."

     
"Hmmm." Pause. "Sleepy yet?"

     
Another pause, as if Sarah was trying to decide the best answer. "No. Are you?"