Another Homecoming (14 page)

She closed her eyes so as to hear more clearly his booming voice, smell the English Leather cologne that he always used, feel the weighty pressure of his hand on her shoulder. But when Kyle reached up, she felt only emptiness as her hand touched nothing but the fabric of her jacket.

Carefully Kyle checked her compact to obliterate any trace of tears before opening the outer door. Mrs. Parker was still standing by her desk, as though she had not moved. “Your mother came by, Miss Kyle. I . . . well, I told her . . .” she hesitated, “I said I’d send you down . . . as soon as you appeared.”

“Thank you,” she murmured, avoiding the woman’s gaze. This visit to her father’s office had shattered her more than she had expected. “Where is she now?”

“Down with Mr. Crawley, I’d imagine. Shall I ring and find out?”

“No, that’s all right, Mrs. Parker, I’ll go down.”

“Miss Kyle,” the woman started, then stopped. Mrs. Parker was a professional woman who had been with her father for as long as Kyle could remember. But now the astringent features suddenly softened in genuine concern. “I just wanted to tell you, madam, that all of us here are rooting for you.”

“Thank you,” Kyle said, but she didn’t know what the woman meant. She entered the hallway, returned the greetings of several people she did not recognize, and started toward Randolf’s office. But her legs did not want to carry her. Her limbs felt leadened, as though all her strength and focus had been drained away. She felt utterly alone.

Kyle faltered and reached out a hand for the side wall. But instead she touched a door, which pushed inward as she leaned.

“Why, Kyle, hello, how are you?”

She recognized the voice before she remembered the name. Kyle watched her father’s former assistant rising from his desk. “Hello, Kenneth.”

He walked over, searched her face, and in that moment his own smile slipped away, swallowed by a mirror of what she felt in his own heart. “It’s so hard,” he said quietly. “I still can’t get over the fact that I’ll never hear his voice booming out for me again.”

The hollowness in her chest was filled with a soft fire. Her tears began again, leaving warm trails across her cheeks. “I miss him so much,” she whispered.

“I know you must. He loved you so.” He took her arm, guided her inside, and shut the door behind her. “I never heard such happiness in his voice as when he was talking about you.”

Each word seemed to unravel another thread of her control. Her shoulders shook with the sorrow that seemed to always hover nearby. She put her hands over her face, trying to push it all back inside, feeling as though her whole body was crumbling.

Kenneth’s arms seemed to just appear, wrapping her up in strength and comfort she had not known since her father’s passage. She heard the voice murmur in her ear. She felt a hand stroke the hair out of her face, felt the muscles of his arms cradle her with gentle strength.

Gradually she recovered her composure, until she was able to free herself and wipe her eyes with the handkerchief he offered. “I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t apologize. I think I know how you feel.”

She glanced at him, just a quick look. There was too much sincerity in his gaze to hold it for long. But his words seemed to speak directly to her heart. “You miss him too.”

“So much. He was a friend as well as my employer. You don’t know, you can’t know, how rare that is.” He guided her over to a chair, seated himself beside her. “He was a genuine man, right down to the core. Every word he spoke, he meant.”

She nodded. That was indeed her father. Still she could not look at Kenneth. It was too hard. Those strong features held an immense capacity for compassion. They pulled at her heart, inviting things from her that she tried to keep hidden.

Kyle avoided returning his gaze by looking around his office. She had seen it several times in the past, usually when her father pushed open the door and proudly pointed to his protégé as though he himself had invented the young man. Yet this was the first time she had ever been inside. Then she noticed the plaque set above the door, and it drew her upright.

He noticed the change. “What is it?”

She pointed at the plaque. “Up there.”

“The needlepoint? It’s very old. My mother’s grandmother did it.”

The design was intricate and beautiful, a garden trellis supporting wisteria in full bloom. Above shone a four-pointed sun, shaped like a golden cross. And framed by the trellis and the flowers and the streaming light were the words, “My son, give me thine heart.”

“That’s from the Bible, isn’t it?”

“The quote? Yes, from Proverbs.”

She turned to him, recalling the conversation they’d had at the dinner table, the only other time she had really talked with him. It seemed like memories from another lifetime. “You’re a . . . a Christian?”

The surprise in her voice caused him to smile. “I try to be. No—that’s not correct,” he quickly went on. “One does not become a Christian by
trying
to be one. But I do try to live up to the standards that Christ set.”

Kyle could not bring herself to respond. At a moment when she felt her world so shaken, she was confronted not with mere words but with a
fact
. Here was a man who cared deeply for her father. He showed her the caring concern that her own heart yearned for. He was successful in business; she knew that by the way her father had often spoken of him.

And he was a Christian. Here. In the heart of the place where she thought faith did not belong. Especially now.

Kenneth’s eyes turned back to the plaque. “Your father used to come in here sometimes after hours. We’d talk about everything under the sun. Including faith. Toward the end, we began to study the Bible together.”

She could not keep the shock from her voice. “Daddy?”

But he was not seeing her. His eyes and his mind seemed fastened upon something very far away, maybe very dear. “He was one of the most open men I’ve ever met. Most people who find success are
imprisoned
by it. They refuse to consider anything that might challenge their hold on the good life.”

Kyle found herself nodding at the words. This sort of person she knew all too well.

“Lawrence was totally different. He was interested in everything. He had no time for fools, and could be quite short with somebody he thought was wasting his time. But he’d sit there and listen with an openness I found amazing. He told me once . . .”

Kenneth stopped. Kyle found her eyes drawn to the young man. His silhouette was a strange mixture of sharp-angled strength and the softening of deep sorrow. He took a long breath, held it, let it out slowly.

“It was toward the end, one of the last times we talked together here in private,” he said quietly. “I’ve found myself wondering if maybe he knew what was coming. Lawrence told me he’d never met anybody who talked about faith like I did. He said the words seemed to spring naturally from whatever it was I had inside—that was the way he put it. I told him nobody had ever paid me a nicer compliment. That night we prayed together. He received God’s gift of salvation. And there was such a wonderful feeling here.”

Kenneth turned to her then, the move unexpected, and seemed to catch them both with aching transparency. Kyle stared into his eyes and felt as though heart was speaking directly to heart. Finally he said, “I miss him.”

“So do I,” she whispered. “So much.” After a pause she said, “Thank you for telling me about this.”

A sense of need finally stirred within Kyle. As though a thought had been planted inside her mind, Kyle sensed that here was someone she could ask. Someone she could trust.

She sat straighter and asked, “Please tell me. What is going on around here?”

She would think back over that moment many times in the days and weeks to come. For Kenneth did not disengage and withdraw behind an official barrier. Instead, he stayed right there with her, comfortable with the closeness, willing to go wherever she wanted. “What do you mean?”

“Everybody is so nice to me. They’ve always been kind, but not like this. It’s different.”

He nodded slowly. “You haven’t been back here for some time, have you?”

“Not since the funeral. I just couldn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have heard at home, of course,” he went on. “Around here, though, rumors fly faster than the speed of sound.”

“What rumors?”

Again, there was no sense of Kenneth playing calculating games. He examined her face, then asked, “Are you sure you want to know?”

In that moment she began to understand. Not just the day, but all the events of the entire winter. Even before the words made things clear, she felt a dawning sense of clarity. As though she had not wanted to search out what had always been there for her to see.

Kyle did not turn away. Not now. She nodded her head, very slowly, her eyes not leaving Kenneth’s face.

He sighed his acceptance. He took her hand. It was the act of a friend, one who was giving her an unspoken assurance that she would not be alone. “Your mother has been contesting the will. Do you know what that means?”

“Yes.” She was her father’s daughter. She knew the words of his world. To contest meant to challenge in court.

“Your father surprised everybody. He set up a trust in your name. He put all of his stock, the controlling interest of Rothmore Insurance and all its subsidiaries, into this trust. For you.”

Kyle sat totally still for a moment before rising to stare out the window.

“I understand that you might be shocked, even frightened,” he said. She slowly turned back to him. His face was creased with the power of comprehension. “But this is what your
father
wanted, Kyle. Nobody could have structured this so carefully, or so secretly, unless it was something very important.”

He motioned to the seat beside him and waited until she had resumed her place before he continued. “The two trustees will vote your stock until you turn twenty-one. Then you have power to do what you will, except that you cannot sell the shares until after your twenty-ninth birthday.”

Her mind was a swirling tumult of questions, so many she did not even know what to ask. Kenneth went on, “Your mother has tried to nullify the will. But your father left enough assets to her, things other than the company, that she has no real basis for a suit. None of her own family’s money was used in setting up the firm; that is all on record. Last week the court threw out her case. The company is now yours.”

“No,” she whispered. “I don’t want it.”

“The head trustee is old Mr. Crawley.” Kenneth continued to speak with gentle insistence. Now that he had started, clearly he wanted to tell her everything. But his voice continued to hold to its kindness. “There have been some real battles on that front as well. When Mr. Crawley heard that your mother had tried to enlist Randolf Junior into her challenge, he threatened to cut his own son off without a penny. And he would have. I’m sure of it.”

Kyle remembered the hurried visits, always done in secret. She recalled the glances he had thrown her way, the silence, the sense of fear. “I don’t—”

The door was flung open with such force that they both jumped. Her mother looked in, saw her, took in the scene at a glance, and seemed electrified with horror. “What are you
doing
here?”

“We were talking.” For some reason, her mother’s agitation seemed to only make Kyle more calm.

“Come out of here this
instant
.” Abigail almost stamped her foot with rage. “I forbid you from ever speaking with this . . . this
meddler
.”

Kyle rose from her chair and started to follow her mother from the room. But just as she was moving through the doorway, she turned back and asked “Who is the other trustee?”

“
NOW!
” her mother commanded.

Kenneth Adams stood in the center of his room, untouched by Abigail’s rage. His voice remained gentle as he said, “If you are ever in need of anything, anything at all, just give me a call.”

12
 

That spring and summer
were the fullest and most memorable Joel had ever known. Throughout those mixed-up seasons with their crazy weather, he was up before dawn delivering papers. The April frosts were the worst—not the coldest, but still the hardest, maybe because he was expecting warmth that did not arrive.

As soon as the school day was over, he met up with Simon. Usually they went back to the Miller home, where he grew accustomed to helping in Mr. Miller’s workshop. The broad-shouldered man was a good teacher and introduced Joel to all his carpentry trade. Joel grew as comfortable with the lathe and drill and sander and broad-band saw as he had with the smaller instruments of his modeling days.

At the beginning of summer, Mr. Miller declared the boys ready to begin work on their own furniture. Joel was as delighted as Simon and started on a rocker for his mother. The two worked in a corner of Mr. Miller’s shed and learned to move about the cramped space with ease.

When evening shadows lengthened, Joel found it harder and harder to put down his tools and head for home. Toward evening, Mr. Miller would often look at him, his gaze filled with a thoughtful sadness. But he seldom spoke of Joel’s homelife, except for their continued discussions after Sunday services. Sometimes Mr. Miller prayed with Joel about a specific need or a particularly bad day at home.

Joel’s life at home became more and more a world apart. He found it increasingly difficult to slip into his silent role as he journeyed home. The Miller household was so full of laughter, of talk and life. Ruthie was always in and out of the carpentry shed, bringing lemonade, a word, and a bright smile. Joel found himself increasingly drawn to the shining-faced country girl. And she seemed to save her warmest smiles just for him.

The first day of August, Joel arrived home just in time for the evening news. He had found this the easiest way to slip back into his home. Walter Cronkite supplied the comfortable conversation his parents lacked. That night was a special treat, because the Ed Sullivan Show would be on later. Joel found himself in hopes that the little mouse, Topo Gigio, would make an appearance. The puppet always made his father laugh. It was such a rare occasion that he and his mother shared a smile behind his back.

He parked his bike behind the house, came in through the kitchen door, and kissed his mother as she stood over the stove preparing dinner. He entered the living room in time to see Elvis Presley being shorn like a lamb, while his drill instructor stood and observed. The entire world had watched as Elvis had been inducted into the army. For some reason, it had made his popularity grow even stronger. The day he had left for boot camp, millions of teenagers had written and wished him well.

At his mother’s call, Joel rose and went to set the table. He returned to watch as Marines landed on the sands of Beirut. His eyes on the television, Joel’s father murmured, “Look at the leathernecks go.”

“What are they doing?”

“Ah, some king got shot,” he said. “Over in Jordan or someplace.”

“Iraq,” Joel quietly commented, remembering now having seen it on that morning’s front page.

“Wherever.” He waved it aside as unimportant. “Boy, do I ever wish I were . . .”

The words were cut off by a loud thump and breaking glass in the kitchen. Joel and his father stiffened, then leaped toward the hallway at the sound of a long moan.

They raced into the kitchen to find Joel’s mother on the floor, one leg outstretched, the other trapped back under her. Her face was contorted with pain. “Oh, I slipped. I can’t . . .”

With surprising speed his father limped his way through the broken glass to kneel beside his wife. “Where does it hurt?”

“My back,” she moaned. One hand pulled feebly at the trapped leg.

With a gentleness Joel would have not thought possible, his father eased the foot free and stretched the leg out straight. Then he turned to his son and said, “Go get Howard. And fast.”

Joel accelerated down the hall and out the door, leaped over the front steps, and flew down the street. At the end of the block he skidded through the turn, caught himself on one hand, and sped on. He raced across the street, ignoring a car that screeched on its brakes and blared an angry blast of its horn. He ran up the front steps of the Austin home, tore open the screen door, and found Doc Austin seated in an almost identical position to his father, watching as Cronkite declared that’s the way it was, on that first day of August.

“You gotta come,” Joel gasped, fighting for breath, his heart pumping so wildly that he felt nauseated. He thought he was going to be sick and fought hard against it as he sucked in air.

Howard Austin drew his focus away from the screen. His tired gaze spoke of having been disturbed by a thousand pressing calls. When his eyes fell on Joel his demeanor quickly changed. “Slow down, take a deep breath. You’re pale as a ghost. Are you okay? That’s better.”

When Joel could catch his breath enough to form words again, he repeated his message with more urgency, “You gotta come quick.”

“Easy now,” Howard said. “Now, tell me what’s the matter.”

“It’s Mom,” Joel managed. “She’s fallen and it’s bad.”

Alarm spread in rapid stages across the middle-aged features. Howard Austin scrambled from his chair. His wife appeared in the hall entrance, her face creased in sudden concern. “Is she all right?”

“Where’s my bag?” he said to answer her question.

“Right here on the table where it always is,” she said, holding it out to her husband. “I’ll put dinner in the oven. Joel, tell her I hope she’s all right.”

“Thanks, Mrs. Austin.”

“Okay, sport, let’s take my car.”

Doc Austin drove with practiced haste. Joel sat beside him, his heart still pounding erratically, making his breathing rise and fall in funny little flutters. As always, he ignored the stabbing pains in his chest that came with too much exertion. Soon the doctor was pulling up to Joel’s house and easing from the car before the motor had stilled. He bounded up the steps, opened the door, and hurried through to the kitchen. In the doorway he stopped so suddenly Joel collided with him. There was a sharp intake of breath, then Doc Austin crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt beside Martha. Joel felt a chill spread through his belly at the sight of blood spread over the linoleum.

“Where are you bleeding, Martha?”

“It’s me,” Harry replied, holding up a hand wrapped in a dish towel. “She dropped a glass when she slipped and fell. I was trying to pick it up.”

“For Pete’s sake, I’ve got enough to do without you going and making more work for me.” Howard Austin slipped a hand under Martha’s neck and deftly felt around. “Does that hurt?”

“No, farther down,” she murmured.

Harry asked, “Want me to lift her up?”

“No, hang on a minute.” As gently as he could, the doctor continued his examination until he grunted softly and stopped.

“What’s the matter?” Harry’s face was a mixture of alarm and fear. Joel found himself staring at his father. He had never seen such emotion on that normally impassive face.

But Howard did not respond. He felt a moment more, then raised up slightly and asked, “Can you move your toes?”

“I think so.”

“Don’t lift your legs. Good, that’s good.” He then turned to Harry and said quietly, “Better go call an ambulance.”

Harry stared at his friend for a minute, then rose and moved for the hall phone.

Howard turned back to Martha and asked, “Do you have any tingles running up and down your legs? Any shooting pains? Numb spots?”

“No.”

“Good,” Howard sighed, his tension obviously easing. “That’s good.”

Joel’s mother chided, “All I did was slip on a puddle by the sink.”

Doc Austin looked down and said quietly, “It appears you’ve injured your spine, Martha. But you can move your feet, so apparently there’s no serious damage to the nerves.”

Harry slammed the phone back into its cradle and reappeared. “They’re on their way.”

“We shouldn’t move you,” Howard said to the prone woman. “But I can slip a pillow under your head. Would that help?”

“I’ll get it,” Harry said before Martha had a chance to respond. He hurried down the hall and returned with one of the sofa pillows. As Doc Austin lifted her head, Harry knelt and gently slid it into place.

Joel stood by the door, frozen to the spot. He was caught as much by his father’s reaction as by his mother’s pain. There was such concern on Harry’s features, such caring. It was as though Joel was confronted with a totally different person, someone he had never known except maybe in old photographs. A person who felt, who showed, who cared.

In the days after his mother was settled into the hospital, Joel’s homelife went through a subtle transformation. Joel spent an hour every afternoon in her hospital room, as much time as he was permitted. His father, however, spent more time there than at work. At home, Harry remained silent and withdrawn as always, but occasionally his face was softened by worried glances at the phone and a milder tone toward Joel.

Joel found himself amazed by it all. Howard Austin continually reported progress, assuring them that Martha was healing nicely. She was responding so well to traction that surgery probably would not be required. Joel’s father remained in his new world of concern, one that stripped away his stony mask and left him openly vulnerable.

Yet when Joel was there in the hospital room with the two of them, his parents were still uncommunicative. To Joel’s eyes, it seemed they had become so accustomed to their mute roles that they did not know how to break out of them.

In the evenings when Joel was home alone, he liked to look at the pictures from his parents’ very early days. Back before he was born, even before the war. Before everything became shadowed by what he saw on their faces now, like the heavy clouds of an overcast day.

Back then, their eyes seemed to shine with excitement and love and hope. His father had a jaunty smile. Joel could see the traces of that smile still today, only now the lines were twisted downward, the face too quick to grimace and sneer. And his mother . . . back then her eyes looked at the camera with such trust and joy. Such happy times. Why couldn’t they have lasted? Was it because of him? Was he at fault? Joel would go through the pictures one by one, wishing there was some way he could make things go back to the way they had been.

During those evenings alone, the quietness of his home had a different quality. The stillness acted like a mirror, drawing him to look at himself and his isolation in ways he had never before experienced. He found comfort in the Bible, ashamed by how even the littlest Miller girl knew the Scripture stories better than he did. By the second week of his mother’s hospitalization, Joel was reading the Book every night. And though words still came hard when he prayed alone, he tried to talk with God every night before going to bed, asking first for his mother’s healing. But in time, he found the prayers being extended, almost of their own accord, to include an inward healing for his father as well.

Toward the end of that second week, while Joel and his father watched television together, there came a firm rap on the door. The knocking brought a surprised look from his father, who sat slumped in his well-worn chair. He nodded toward the front. “Answer it.”