Shadows (14 page)

Saturday had come so quickly, and now this very last day with him was nearly done.

Grace aimed a glance out the picture window. The sun was a suggestion more than a fact, a dimming smudge hidden behind a thick drapery of pewter clouds that rapidly shaded to gunmetal gray as her eye moved north. The tamaracks lining Odd’s west bank were a thicket of dark bristles and vertical slashes, like a stockade, against the fresh-fallen snow. The storm had swept through this region of Wisconsin a day ago and was now well on its way east to Michigan, but there was no telling if the storm might reverse course. Storms stalled around Lake Superior all the time. She’d hoped
that
might delay him, but he was bound and determined to leave.

So. This is it. A sort of last meal,
she thought, and then got a little impatient with herself.
Don’t mope. Don’t make this harder for him than it has to be
.

Well, he would leave with a full belly if she had anything to say about it. Nearly everything was ready: potatoes, a venison stew, a trio of baked apples, and a nice pan of cornbread. All that needed doing was the cake, and
that
was the real challenge. Grace eyed the heavy cast-iron Dutch oven nestled in glowing coals. Burn rates varied; the shapes of the coals were important. Heat was mechanical energy converted into thermal energy, but
temperature
was determined by kinetic energy. So complicated.

So much preparation, but the simple pleasure of imagining the look on his face made it worthwhile. The table was strewn with tinsel from some long-ago Christmas. She’d unearthed ancient wrapping paper for the scarf and four pairs of wool socks knitted on the sly. Out of what remained, she fashioned a twinkly silver banner with his name—his real name—in big cutout letters.

Of course, she had always known. Her head might be stuffed with numbers, but she wasn’t in orbit. She only pretended sometimes. Grace had never been a stupid woman.

Take the afternoon, five years ago, when the Marines knocked at her door. The odds they’d dropped by for coffee and crumb cake weren’t high. A very nice corporal caught her on the way down. She apologized, but the corporal said that when the heart sinks, everybody falls.

Flipping the timer, she drew another hash mark on a scrap of old envelope. She stared at the tiny grains slithering in an avalanche down that miniature mountain. A single grain was a millimeter; factor in volume and there were three thousand grains per threeminute timer, a thousand grains a minute, sixteen-point-six-six-sixsix-six-into-infinity grains per second . . .

God, I’m not asking for much. Just let the cake come out all right, okay? Just this one last thing.

Another flip. Another hash mark. Six down, seven to go. Jed had strict instructions not to come back up from the boathouse for another forty-five minutes. So, plenty of time. The cake needed another nineteen, Grace figured. Twenty-one minutes, tops.

Too bad she had only ten.

“I wish you’d take the horse,” Jed said.

“And I’m going to say the same thing I said the other eighty times you asked.” Tom rolled a flannel shirt into a tight tube and slid it into his backpack, then hefted the pack in both hands. All told, he’d be carrying about thirty pounds on his back, which he could handle just fine. He’d taken long treks on snowshoes, sprinting up hills, timing his pace with Jed’s old Timex. The leg still grabbed and locked, but he could go a good half day without much of a break. 

“You need both horses, and you know it. Besides, you’re giving me plenty as it is.” 

Jed’s face puckered like he was sucking a lemon drop. “Even if I were to tell you it was a birthday present?”

“My birthday was in December.”

“Late birthday present then.”

“No.”

Pause. “Grace would like it.”

“Jed.”

“All right, all right.” Sighing, Jed hooked his thumbs in his parka’s pockets. “You are a very stubborn boy, Tom Eden.”

“So I’ve been told.” After a moment’s silence, he said, “How surprised should I act? I mean, considering you’ve told me about the cake.”

“Oh, that cake!” Jed slapped his thigh. “My God, I must’ve aged ten years listening to her go on about chemistry and all these equations and molecular coefficients. The only physics I ever needed was bullet trajectories and wind speed.”

“I think you had fun.”

“Oh yeah. Grace always was smart as a whip. Michael took after her more than me. He was gonna . . .” The old man took a hard swallow. “He was fixed on engineering school, but the money was a problem, so he joined up. Then he figured out how much he liked the Marines and that was that. I thought maybe when Alice came along, he might stop to think about what would happen to her and Deb if he was to get himself killed, but he was stubborn just like you. Once his heart was set on a path, there was no talking to him.”

Jed looked so miserable that Tom had to fight the impulse to blurt out that, fine, he would stay. There was no way around this; his leaving would hurt, and there was nothing he could do about that.

The Coleman hissed. He let Jed break the silence. “I got something else for you.”

“You shouldn’t,” Tom said, quietly. “You’ve given me so much already.”

“And not nearly half what you’re worth,” Jed said, fiercely. The deep crevices along the sides of his nose were wet.

Tom said nothing. Jed unzipped the Road King’s right saddlebag, reached in, and fished out a bulging, plastic accordion document pouch, tied with string. “You got maps, and I put down how to get where me and Grace are going come spring. There’s a list, too,” he added as Tom unwound the string. “Folks who might come in handy. I know I told you not to trust anyone, but if they’re still around, these are good people.”

Tom fingered the envelope, then drew out a brittle piece of paper so old that the edges were frayed, though the ink was new. “Who are they?”

“Vets, most of them. We rode Rolling Thunder together. And here.” Jed dug inside his shirt and slipped something from around his neck. “You take these. Show them to anyone on that list, and they’ll know you’re okay.”

The tags, warm from Jed’s body heat, were not a matched set.

The edge of the older tag was crimped, and there was no social; just Jed’s name, service number, blood type, and religion. The design of the other he was very familiar with, because his meat tag tattoo had the same information. His own tags, with their rubber silencers, were tucked in an old sock drawer back in a house that, more than likely, was now nothing but ashes.

“I shouldn’t take these.” 

“Tom, you’re young. You think you can go it alone, but you ought to know by now that you can’t. You’re going to need help. Now, you take those.” Jed paused. “Humor an old fool. Do it for me, if nothing else.”

Jed had a point. If Vietnam veterans were anything like vets nowadays, the network was tight, and the bonds were for life. Draping the tags around his neck, he tucked them inside his shirt.

“Where’s your other tag?”

“With Michael. That tag of his there is the one they brought to the house. Night before the funeral, though, I slipped one of mine in there with him, so he wouldn’t be alone.” Jed put his hand on Tom’s shoulder. “Now you won’t be either.”

There was a knock at the front door. Three, actually: sharp and evenly spaced.

Darn it.
Grace’s brows pulled down in a frown. Jed was early, but . . . he always used the south door. Anyway, he wouldn’t knock.

More raps: “Grace, it’s me.”

Her shoulders relaxed, but only a little. She knew the voice, but it was the wrong place at the wrong time. She would have to figure out a way to get rid of him. He couldn’t see the table, the gifts.

“Grace?”

Well, shoot.
She threw a quick glance at the timer, now halfway through this ninth cycle. It shouldn’t take more than twenty seconds to answer the door. Plenty of time.

One-one-thousand, two-one-thousand . . . I’ll just say he can’t stay.
She headed out of the west room and took the short hall to the front door.
Three-one-thousand, four . . . I’ll be firm, and then I’ll shut the door and I won’t answer again, no matter what . . . Six-one-thousand.
She dragged open the front door, wincing against a wintry blast.
Seven—

Everything she needed to say piled up like those grains of sand on that miniature mountain. Her mouth opened, but not a word tumbled out. She recognized the old man in his black parka and too-large bombardier hat, pulled so far down he had to tip his head back to see where he was going.

The other two—hard and grim-faced and also old, because just about everyone was these days—she didn’t recognize at all.

Three men.
For one brief moment, she felt a weird sense of déjà vu. She wasn’t at the cabin, and the world hadn’t gone to hell, and the Marines had only just arrived as she wandered out of the kitchen with measuring spoons—because, for the life of her, she couldn’t remember what those spoons were for.

Then her eyes shifted to the horses.

Three men, two rifles.

But
six
horses.

These men, that’s three.
She felt the air drying her tongue, her voice evaporating the way the fizz in pop died.
A horse for him, too, but not me or Jed—because they’re not here for us, and that makes four.