Autumn Blue (29 page)

“How’s it going, guys?”

Ty sat back on his heels, lifting his eyes to Millard’s.

“I think we’re about done here,” Millard said.

“Wow. It looks perfect.” Sidney balanced the tray of sandwiches and cookies on top of Tyson’s ten-gallon tool bucket. “Your
reward.” She turned toward Rebecca. “Honey, can you go in and get the juice pitcher and cups from the kitchen counter?”

“Wait for me,” Sissy said, heading off behind her sister.

Her mother used her arm as a roadblock. “Not now, Sis. Amilia’s resting on the couch.”

“But we made fans for her!”

While the men rinsed their hands under the hose, Sidney admired the girls’ leaf bouquets, saying they looked like Technicolor
peacock tails and suggesting that Rebecca arrange them on the table beside Amilia for when she awoke. A minute after she went
into the house, Rebecca returned.

“Sissy, come on in!” Apple juice sloshed and dripped down the sides of the pitcher as she delivered it into her mother’s hands.
“She was already awake, Mom. I tiptoed—I promise. She wants to visit with us!”

Sidney shook her head as the girls scrambled away. “She’s a strong woman. Enrique was more than a neighbor. His wife was her
best friend, and when she died, Amilia helped him raise his kids as if they were her own.” Her eyes grew tender. “I can tell
she really loved him.” She stared at the poured section of sidewalk, which stopped abruptly at the border of the yard next
door. Two-by-four forms continued to extend like train rails to the front stoop of the silent house. “I wonder if Alex will
still want to finish this.”

“He never told me what to do,” Ty said through a mouthful of fried-egg sandwich. “He just took off. I didn’t think it would
be good to let it dry the way it was. Nobody could walk on that mess.”

“You made the right decision,” Millard offered. “Worst-case scenario, it can be jackhammered out. I guess it’ll depend on
who moves in next door.” He ate only half of a sandwich and began scraping and hosing down tools. Fried egg, no ketchup, white
bread. Definitely not the fare one would expect if it was coming from Sidney’s own pantry.

Millard had grown fond of his neighbor’s cooking. It seemed to surprise Rita that he could prefer hot potato-leek soup and
apple bread fresh from the oven over the bricks of frozen entrees that she delivered. Of course, Rita was probably thinking
that Sidney was slowly poisoning him while wooing her name onto his will. Rita’s suspicious thoughts revealed more about his
daughter than he wanted to know.

It grieved him. He had been a good teacher but a lousy father. He raised an intelligent daughter, pouring into her every bit
of information that she could receive. Perhaps he had dumped Jefferson’s share in too to make up for what the boy lacked.

If only Millard had understood the truth before it was too late. Jefferson’s loving, joyful heart was of greater worth than
the national archives stored in a brain. He was the teacher, and Millard had been the mindless pupil shooting spit wads in
class. Now, Millard knew that his own values had been perverse lies. Where Jefferson was now, in a place where a person’s
honor had nothing to do with knowledge or physical appearance or wealth, Jefferson Walker wore a crown.

If Millard had been wiser, he would have taught his daughter to value what was eternal more than achievement. She would not
be capable of such suspicion—of what he reluctantly recognized as downright greed—if she had learned to embrace the substance
of her brother’s innocent heart.

“I’m going to stay with Amilia until the family arrives,” he heard Sidney say over the splashing sound of the hose. “Alex’s
sister called to say they’ll be here soon. Ty, you can go home with Millard whenever you guys are ready.”

Rebecca and Sissy burst out the front door. Sissy tripped on the steps, diving headlong onto the grass. She jumped to her
feet without brushing off the front of her grass-stained pants.

“Amilia wants us to put this in the sidewalk!” Rebecca announced. She held out a brass oval with the raised pattern of a violin.
“It’s a belt buckle. It belonged to the man who died.”

“She showed us some animals he carved out of wood with a knife, but they made her cry.” Sissy tipped her head sympathetically.
“She doesn’t want them in the sidewalk.”

Millard tested the concrete. Might be too set. They had finished their job in the nick of time. “Try it in this corner,” he
suggested, passing the buckle to Ty. The boy pressed it into the stiff mixture, working it gently. His sisters knelt beside
him, watching intently.

For some reason Millard’s eyes stung as he observed the children, and it wasn’t because of the wind that swept down from the
mountains and tossed autumn leaves into the damp air. The knot in Tyson’s face had loosened and his brown eyes were soft,
wondering. He had momentarily forgotten to be tough and cool. Tyson was being a boy.

The kid that had invaded Millard’s home four weeks ago was arrogant, angry, and lazy. Millard could go on—and he often had
as he lay awake in bed at night, regretting the obligation he had imposed on himself like a suicide bridge-jumper in midair.
What a waste for a young man of obvious intelligence to be content with doodling skulls and graffiti around the frayed holes
in his jeans. The boy had been impossible to like—let alone love.

Millard raised his eyes above the mountaintops, beyond the hazy clouds to what he perceived might be heaven. Perhaps he had
been given a second chance to love an unlovable boy.

E
NRIQUE ESTRADA
was buried beside his wife on a hillside overlooking the winding trail of Sparrow Creek. To the south, a thick soup of fog
rested in the bowl of the mountains, obliterating the town of Ham Bone from sight. Sidney shivered, wrapping her black coat
tightly around her slender body.

There was no priest, which surprised Sidney; she had assumed that Enrique was Catholic. Instead the eulogy was delivered by
the minister of the small Reformed Episcopal church where Amilia attended along with Alex’s sister Carmen’s family.

Alex had two sisters and a brother; all of them gathered around the grave site with their spouses and children. A dozen or
more friends of the family, mostly of Mexican descent, were scattered about. Sidney felt like an intruder, though Amilia had
begged her to come. Alex had pushed her wheelchair up the slick, grassy slope to where it leveled off. He tucked a blanket
around her, kissing her lightly on the cheek before stepping off to one side. The rest of the grieving family clustered close
to Amilia, alternately resting hands on her shoulders and bending to whisper into her ear or pass fresh tissues. Carmen, the
daughter that Sidney had seen with Alex at the school play, knelt beside the wheelchair and clasped Amilia’s hand. Sidney
had met Carmen briefly the day of Enrique’s death, when through her tears she had expressed gratitude to Sidney for staying
with the distraught Amilia until they arrived. The children called their surrogate grandmother “
Mi-Ma
.” Truly she was the matriarch of the family.

As the short ceremony progressed, there were muffled sobs among the crowd. But Sidney’s silent tears were not for Enrique.
She had hardly known him. It was the sight of Amilia that wrenched her heart. The love of her life lay a few feet away in
a sealed box, soon to be lowered into desolate, solitary silence. No more shared meals, or sunny afternoons on the porch,
or dreamy melodies wafting from his violin. She would never adjust his collar again. The finality of it all seemed more than
the woman could bear. She suddenly looked like an old lady, stooped and frail. The hushed children stared at her, wide-eyed,
apparently frightened by the stifled sobs that tore from their Mi-Ma’s throat, lingering echolike in the cold, damp air.

And then there was Alex. He stood alone, his narrowed eyes as hard as black marbles, not trained on the minister’s face but
staring straight ahead toward the distant foothills. “Stay with me, Pop!” he had pleaded. She had heard his frantically murmured
Spanish prayer. And then, as his father’s body was wheeled away, she had watched Alex’s face turn back to stone. Had he allowed
himself to cry?

Sidney averted her eyes. She couldn’t look at him. If she were to break out in audible wails of sorrow, it would definitely
not be good. She was an outsider there. They would all think she was out of her mind and maybe she was. Alex was almost a
stranger despite the recurring intersections of their paths. Serious thoughts of her may never have crossed his mind, yet
she found herself at that moment longing to be at his side. No one should bear pain alone.

Why did he stand apart from the rest of them? She remembered that Enrique had begged Alex to forgive someone—Ernesto. Was
he here? Surely it had to be a family member if Alex’s forgiveness was so important to Enrique on his deathbed. Sidney discreetly
blotted her eyes and began sorting through the men in the family cluster, leaving one that might qualify. He was not as tall
as Alex, but the facial structure was strikingly similar. Judging by his expensive-looking black wool coat, shiny shoes (probably
Italian), and red silk tie, he was definitely not from Ham Bone. The tall woman beside him had dark hair in a short designer
cut that could be pulled off only by a beautiful face, which she had. She too appeared to have just walked out of Saks Fifth
Avenue. Her eyes roved from the minister to the polished wood coffin and then, without moving her head in his direction, came
to rest on Alex.

Sidney was intrigued. Alex stood off to the left while the graveside service was taking place directly in front of the rest
of the family. Sidney stood on the right with a half-dozen or so friends of the clan. The woman’s intermittent gazes at Alex’s
profile were furtive. The man, on the other hand, never glanced Alex’s way. He only turned his head from time to time toward
the woman beside him, his left arm resting around her back.

When the service was over, Alex wheeled Amilia to a blue minivan that happened to be parked next to Sidney’s little red car.
She lingered behind them awkwardly until Alex and Amilia were on the far side of their vehicle. Carmen caught up with her
just as she got to her car, giving Sidney directions to her house, where a reception was being held. “Oh, thank you.” Sidney
stared down at the printed half sheet in her hand. “I appreciate the invitation, but honestly, I feel a little out of place.”

Alex’s sister touched Sidney’s arm and smiled. “We’d love to have you if you can make it.” She turned to leave, commenting
over her shoulder, “We’re usually not such a dreary batch!”

“Sidney!” It was Amilia’s voice, but Sidney couldn’t see her. She circled the back of the minivan. Alex had put her in the
passenger seat and was folding up the empty wheelchair. Sidney smiled tenderly at him and he nodded.

“Hello, Sidney. Thanks for coming.” She wondered if he meant it.

“Sidney?”

“Here I am, Amilia.” Sidney reached through the open passenger door and took her hand. For a moment only their eyes spoke.
“I want you to come,” Amilia whispered.

“All right.” Sidney gazed at her face. She had beautiful skin for a woman her age, soft, round cheeks, and eyes that even
in her dark hour were full of love. Sidney wanted to be more like her. “I’ll do anything for you, Amilia.”

“Sidney, why don’t you follow me out to the house?” Alex slid the side door briskly until it latched. “My sister lives way
out in the woods. It’s easy to get lost.”

CARMEN AND HER HUSBAND
had built their log home on five acres in a bend of the Boulder River. Between two wings, the main living area boasted windows
that stretched dramatically to a sharp peak. Sidney paused on the sprawling wraparound porch to glimpse the river between
evergreen trees at the outer edge of the mowed yard.

She followed Alex and Amilia into the house, which was still filling up with people, seemingly more than the number who attended
the graveside service. Amilia squeezed Sidney’s hand before Alex wheeled her down a long hardwood hallway. “I’m just going
to take a short rest. Alejandro, don’t you let me sleep too long.”

After piling her coat along with others on a bed in a room down the hall, Sidney returned to the main room, warming her backside
by the blazing fire in a floor-to-ceiling river-rock fireplace. The interior walls were the same as the exterior—stripped
cedar logs the color of honey. Cozy furniture groupings were anchored by a huge oriental rug, the kind Sidney dreamed of owning
someday. She may have lived in a run-down rental—what Millard Bradbury innocently referred to as a trailer—but in her heart
she was the queen of an elegant, perfectly decorated home.

The atmosphere was considerably lighter there away from the bone-chilling fog and tears of sorrow at the cemetery. Children
giggled. Comfortable, familiar sounds of clanking and conversation came from the kitchen along with the unmistakable scents
of onion and garlic mingled with spices. Sidney tried to eavesdrop on two older women sitting nearby in folding chairs, translating
their Spanish into English just for practice. She wished they would slow down and enunciate their words. Though Alex’s generation
spoke fluent Spanish, his family chose to speak English. Amilia said it was important that they keep their own culture while
blending for social and economic reasons with their American culture. After all, unlike their immigrant farm-working parents,
they were born U.S. citizens.

Carmen approached, carefully stepping over a little boy who lay on the floor, building a boat out of Legos. “Hot cider?”

“Yes, thank you.” Sidney accepted the glass mug. “Please, Carmen, don’t think you have to wait on me. In fact, if there’s
anything I can do—”

Carmen shook her head. Her thick hair was pulled back in a barrette at the nape and she wore no makeup. She didn’t need it.
“The meal’s already made. It’s what we do in times of crisis. Food therapy. My sister and aunts have been in my kitchen for
two days. All we have to do now is warm it up and spread it out on the buffet. This family knows how to take it from there.”