there Madame B. I’ll get every last one up for you.” And he did, one carved sliver at a time, returned them to the old box, along with a yellowed paper with drawings of birds, carefully measured and detailed, feathers, claws, beaks, labeled and dated in Ray’s immaculate script.
I knelt on the floor to scoop up the broken bits of our childhood, not a single shard worth keeping. “Better toss them out” I said but my voice must have been cracking because Wilbur, tough old Wilbur, put aside his glasses and came over to me and in a way I can only describe as kind, held me in his sweaty arms as I cried and cried like a baby until I ran out of tears.
And that’s what finally got me to make the call. I had picked up the Realtor’s business card several times over the past few weeks but that bright smiling picture of him, with a name Lucky Lundale no less, was just too cheery for my taste. I wasn’t ready to get sucked into anything. It can wait, I told myself, but the holidays were coming, busy season at the church, and acquiring this five acre piece of land seemed like a present of sorts. At least I needed to open it and see what was inside.
The ride up to Nevada County took some wind out of me. This old Corolla isn’t used to gravel roads. Makes me miss driving Ned’s Dodge Dart with that classic Slant Six engine. They only made it for a few years and according to Ned, there was never a better engine made. We named it Dotty back when it was brand new and every now and then I think about how he used to gloat over how quiet her engine ran, even when he pushed her second gear up hills.
Ned loved to baby that car. On the weekends he’d come over, he and Pa would take turns shimmying under the chassis while I talked to the ends of their legs. Guys from Pa’s work, from around the corner, would drop over, stick their heads under the hood, cursing praises, softly touching and admiring every gorgeous inch of her turquoise body.
Dotty is still parked in the garage, I keep her covered with a plastic tarp that time has begun to eat through. No telling what she looks like. I don’t have the heart to investigate. It was Mr. Harrington, Ned’s father, who finally got me to crank her up after Ned died. He and Pa shared a bond as though they’d been in battle together. The loss of sons gave them something to talk about. So they drank, not much, just what the facts called for. Some months went by before they approached the car, like they might offend Ned if they so much as nicked it. She hummed like a kitten when they started her up, next thing I knew they were changing the oil, taking her out on the interstate, a couple of overgrown teenaged boys, and the car was happy to be back in gear.
It took me some months to get in, change the seat so I could reach the pedals, clean out the glove compartment. I threw out every scrap of paper in the garbage and didn’t so much as look. I reached under the seat and found one of Ned’s leather gloves, the left hand, one he’d been looking for. I slipped it back under the seat where it still is and always will be, as long as I’m around.
People whispered when I drove it, I could sense it, like trails of road dust, whooshed up behind me. I could sense their pity, eyes following the young widow, though we never did get around to marrying. After the doctors gave him the death sentence all our wedding plans got steamrolled. It all happened so fast. We talked about taking our vows at his bedside. But he went from bad to worse before there was time to think about anything other than holding hands, praying together (which I only did to please him, believe me, prayer didn’t help the situation one bit), and saying goodbyes to his family and buddies. Sometimes I regret not taking our vows. I loved the sound of Hannah Harrington. Used to practice writing it on napkins, with oversized H’s for flourish. But no sense thinking about that anymore.
Every once in a while when I’m driving a long distance, I find myself thinking about Dotty, picturing Ned behind the steering wheel with that fancy leather cover he paid extra for. Tapping on the shiny turquoise dashboard along with whatever tune was playing on the radio. Thin slips of yellow hair falling into his eyes, I’d whisk his hair away so he could see the road and he’d grab my hand, kiss it, bring it down to his thigh if the light turned red. We had some good times in Dotty. I think that’s why she kept on running for so long, a good ten years past Ned at least. You can’t find parts for the Slant Six engine anymore, something that would have made him furious.
San Juan Ridge is about sixty miles north of Roseville, crossing through a series of winding mountain roads that up until now I’ve made a point of avoiding. But once I got the hang of the highway, once I figured out it was just roads leading to more roads, I kept my speed at a sensible 40 mph. Everyone passed me, which was fine with me. Going slow, I noticed how concrete big box shopping plazas disappeared into scruffy looking strip malls, and occasional gas stations eventually faded into open pasture land. Then the pines and maples and oak trees started, thickening at each turn of the wheel, interrupted by roads, marked, unmarked, then marked again. Highway 49 came up large and clear, like the map said, and just as large, a sign reading Lucky Realty—Own A Piece of Paradise—reared up a few miles past the turn-off to Nevada City. It was located in a claptrap of a building, making me glad I didn’t bother to dress for the occasion. The building also housed a used clothing store, a palm reader (Sister Matilda), and a windowless establishment with neon lights flashing The Nugget, even in the middle of the day. I turned off the ignition, amazed and relieved to have come the distance without incident.
“Seven-acre parcels are going like hotcakes around here,” the Realtor must have said to me at least ten times. I could see right away that this Mr. Lundale had big designs on my business. All I wanted to do was see the place. I may have come off as rude, well so what if I did. This was Ray’s place we were talking about, not some commission for him to write up on his chalkboard.
“Let’s just go up there Mr. Lundale. I don’t have much time to waste here.”
And so we did.
I couldn’t see out the windshield for the dust, could barely hear his ranting on with all those gravel bits pocking the road, fighting with the tires.
“The place needs some work but even as is, you’d be surprised what folks will pay around here to get country property.”
I was holding hard on to the strap of Mr. Lundale’s monstrous truck, felt like I was being bucked by a horse. My stomach was not as it should be, and I was worried about what I might do to his leather dashboard.
“Please slow down,” I tried to say, but he was lost in his own spit-shined reveries.
“Yessirree, we’ll get you a good price for this” was his answer. I rolled the window down, took in a loud rush of air to keep the contents of my stomach at bay.
Just then, the truck hit a pothole, bouncing us both up and out of our seats. He downshifted with a broad sweep of his muscular arm, then resumed his excessive speed. “Almost there” he winked, maneuvering his mountain monster past a sign that read Blind Shady Bend.
At the end of a winding rock-strewn stretch, he stopped the truck, set the brake and reached over to open my door.
“This is it. Let me come around to help you down.”
I had to step high over the logs, careful not to snag my ankles on the underbrush. Here and there I noticed signs that somebody had been digging in the dirt, but for the most part, it was nothing but broken tree limbs and weeds everywhere. People around here certainly didn’t believe in grooming their hedges. I have to say I was pleased Mr. Lundale wasn’t treating me like an old woman, trying to protect me from the roughness of the landscape. He didn’t bother to guide me through the thicket, just let me wander around on my own. I was grateful for that.
“I’ve got the name of a good tree man,” he offered, as though I had asked him. “Spend a couple hundred on clearing will make you many thousands more. People like to see what they’re buying. Of course, that’s all up to you.”
“Of course,” I answered, and then moved on. He finally stopped talking and let me be for a few quiet minutes while I stepped deeper into the brush, scratching my pant legs against the undergrowth that released unfamiliar though not unpleasant smells. I leaned over to pick what looked to be mimula, but of a purplish-red tone I’d never before seen.
Broken