I heard Jason's truck turning into the driveway as I sorted through my evening email, and a trip came into my heart. All around me were the familiar trappings of my world – the inlaid wood desk that brought me so much joy, the ivory-colored parakeet in her cage to my right, the striped grey cat curled up at my feet. And here was this strange man gently intruding on my world, easing his way into my routine.
He parked alongside my Forester, then gave a look around before heading up to my front door. I pulled it open as he knocked, welcoming him with a smile.
"Nice kayak," he offered by way of greeting. "Do you go out often?"
I nodded, glancing to where it sat in the yard on its rack. "As much as I can." My brows folded of their own accord. "Although Whitinsville closing access to their reservoir this past spring was a bit cruel. I used to love kayaking on the reservoir. The water was peaceful and quiet. No motorboats."
He smiled in understanding. "Still, you have a number of options in the area," he pointed out.
I nodded, gathering up my ski jacket. "Not any more this season," I countered. "The kayak needs to get into the basement before the snow comes down tomorrow."
"I would be happy to lend a hand," he offered.
"After we get through today," I suggested. "First we need to get out to Sares Farms to get a sense of what it is like. If Sam is there, we can see what he has to say."
"Ready when you are."
We piled into his truck and were on our way. We drove for a few minutes in silence before he spoke without turning his eyes from the road. "Do you have a plan?"
I shrugged. "Poke at the bushes and see what emerges," I admitted. "Right now we know little. The more we ask, the more we know, and we can see what shapes form."
He nodded, then glanced at the dashboard. "Do you mind a little music?"
I was intrigued to see what he had in there. "By all means," I offered. "Your car, your rules."
He hesitated for a moment, then reached forward to push a button.
A gentle acoustic guitar began, a folk-Celtic mix, and then a woman's voice rose above it. I blinked in surprise. The lyrics began.
I'm eighteen acres of wild country here
With wild summer roses in my hair -
"That's Neptune's Car," I said in surprise.
He glanced over at that, curiosity in his eyes. "You know them?"
"Certainly," I agreed. "Holly, the singer, she's from Sutton. She's amazing."
"My band played with them a few weeks back," he explained. "We were doing a benefit concert in Worcester, at the Boiler Room."
"You're in a band?" I asked, as Holly's beautiful melodies intertwined with her guitar player's deeper voice.
He nodded, slowing to a stop at the remains of the Blue Jay restaurant. The concrete foundations stared blankly from where the burnt-out husk had been removed. "I play bass guitar for a local band."
A comfortable feeling wrapped me. He was the foundation of the band, the reliable rhythm that eased through and beneath everything they did. It fit perfectly.
"What kind of music do you play?" I asked as we set into motion again.
He shrugged slightly, his eyes flicking to me for a moment in what might have been a nervous gesture. "A blend. Classic rock, modern music, blues. Zeppelin, Adele, Taylor Swift."
"Sounds lovely." I smiled, intrigued.
He paused for a moment. "We have a concert coming up on Saturday, if you'd like to see us. It's a benefit at the Singletary Rod and Gun club, on the Oxford line."
"I would like that a lot," I agreed.
He smiled, then, and glanced over for a moment. Then he was back to watching the road, his gaze serious again.
"Did you want to do this quickly, so you can get to the fire station to vote?" he asked, and his tone was carefully neutral.
I shook my head. "I took care of that already," I let him know. "A close presidential election this year, and some interesting ballot questions. Medical marijuana and right-to-die."
"Hmmmm," he offered.
I smiled at that. I tended to hold my political leanings close to the vest, and with all the deluge of flyers and pamphlets in my mailbox for the past month, I appreciated that someone else was willing to keep low key on the topic.
When I did not respond, he smiled. "I voted as well," he stated, "and I see you are not belligerent about your politics. That's a welcome relief."
"There's a reason I thought about going out to talk with Sam today," I stated. "A good way to stay away from the TV and its non-stop coverage."
He turned left onto Nipmuc Road, and in short order we were driving amongst farm buildings and open fields. "Here we are," he stated after a moment. "This is their farm store."
My eyes lit up. To the right was a small pen, and behind it was a larger pasture with a pair of small horses. I went to the pen first. It was chilly out, and I pulled the neck of my parka closer. A small calf was in a plastic shed, curled up against himself. I felt his isolation. Cows are herd creatures; they feel safest when among a group of their own kind, bolstered by their members. He seemed alone and unsure.
"Hey there, little one," I called out to the white-and-black animal, and he blinked at me with large, brown eyes.
We strolled around to the back pasture, and one of the small horses ambled over to greet us. I stayed back, but Jason moved forward to the rail, waiting for the chestnut to approach him. The horse nibbled at his arm, the long pink tongue lapping along its length, searching for a carrot. Jason waited until the horse nuzzled him in the elbow before reaching out to gently rub along his nose.
"Friendly," I agreed, glancing back at the other horse which remained at the far end of the pasture. "I guess he thinks we might be bringing him a treat."
The front of the store held an assortment of decorative gourds as well as butternut squash. Inside the space was small but well maintained. Freezer space held home-made pies and cuts of meat. There was local honey, from tupelo to blueberry to orange blossom. There was fudge from Eaton Farms, another local shop. Several varieties of apples were on offer. And then there were items clearly brought in from elsewhere – pineapples, for example.
I was intrigued by the blueberry honey, and we brought a jar to the register. As the young woman rang it up, I asked if Sam was around. She nodded in answer, and after she handed me my change she headed into the back room.
Sam was much as I had imagined he would be. Stocky, creased, with greying hair and weathered skin. He was wearing blue jeans and a blue flannel top.
His voice was gruff but not unkind. "You wanted to see me?"
I put out my hand. "My name is Morgan Warren, and this is my friend Jason Rowland. We have come to talk with you about John Dixon."
A shadow drifted across his face, but he shook our hands. "A tragedy," he stated roughly.
I paused for a moment. "John had been working on his memoirs, and I have talked with his son, Jeff. I would like to do my best to finish that project, to honor John's memory."
A different look skated across the surface of Sam's skin at that; a confusing mixture of emotions that was difficult to decipher before it vanished again. "Oh?"
"If you have some time, it would be my treat at Tony's Pizza, to spend a few minutes learning more about what John was like when he was younger," I offered. "Nothing complicated. I would just like a sense of where the man began."
He paused for a long moment, gazing around him at the shelves of neatly stacked maple syrup and home-made fudge. "All right," he said at last. "That seems reasonable."
He turned to the young clerk. "I should be back in an hour or so." Then he was walking with us out of the building. He climbed into his crimson pick-up and in a few minutes he was following us back out toward Central Turnpike.
Jason glanced at me as we led the small train toward the pizza place. "So far so good?"
I nodded. "At least he seems willing to talk," I agreed. "Now to see what he says."
The intertwining harmonies of Neptune's Car kept us entertained, and soon we were turning into Tony's parking lot, perched high over 146. The sight of the parking lot surprised me. Usually the place was packed to the gills, especially at nine p.m. But tonight there were only two cars in the entire stretch. I glanced over at Jason.
He shrugged. "Election night, and the polls are extremely close," he pointed out. "Plus some interesting ballot questions. The staff is probably watching it on TV inside."
"And here I had hoped to avoid that all," I grumbled. We climbed out of the car into the cool late autumn night. Sam was close behind us as we headed into the building.
We stepped through the short entry hall and into the main building. The counter was to the right, with a long hand-lettered sign listing out the offerings of subs, pizzas, and pasta dinners. Italian marble tile spread along the floor, and the walls had wood paneling, decorated with assorted photos of baseball teams and other local events the restaurant had supported over the years.
Another couple was ahead of us in line, their voices holding disappointment. "But we called ahead of time so we could eat here," the man was saying. "Eggplant parm with ziti. That way we could have it here, with plenty of time before you closed at ten."
The man behind the counter shrugged. "Policy here is to put everything into bags," he stated.
The customer peered into the bag. "And we had asked for ziti, not spaghetti," he added.
The clerk set about dumping the food out onto plates for them, and soon the couple was settled in a corner. We moved up to place our own orders, with wine all around. The red was poured for us and we took the glasses over to a green Formica-topped table, waiting for our number to be called.
Sam took a sip of his wine. "Well, what did you want to know?" In the small booth his face was tired. He seemed as old as the restaurant, the dull metal container of the napkins on the table reflecting his weary eyes.
I gave my own wine glass a gentle rotation. "What was it like growing up with him?"
He shrugged, glancing over at the counter, waiting to see if the green plastic trays with our food were out yet. "Well, he was Merry, of course," he growled, as if that explained everything.
"And you were Sam," I offered.
His shoulders tensed. "Of course I was," he snapped. "It was my name already; Samuel. And my father was a farmer. The others thought that was oh-so-cute. They had their plans to go off to college or the Far East or wherever they were going to explore. And I was going to be stuck in Sutton." He took another gulp of his wine. "Sam the farmer. Sam the pack mule."
I looked at his hands, sturdy and firm. "You sound like you weren't too happy about this."
His breath came out in a snort. "Not happy?" He shook his head. "When I was a child, my friends were all boasting about being super-heroes or policemen. Any time I mentioned anything like that to my father, he scoffed at me." His voice took on a rough edge. "'You are a farmer,' he would snarl at me. 'Put that foolishness out of your head.'" He looked down into his wine.
There was a movement from the counter; Jason patted me on the leg before standing to fetch our food. I felt the warmth of his hand long after he had left our booth. He returned balancing two green cafeteria-style trays. He placed our food on the table and returned the trays to the counter.
I took a bite of my eggplant before continuing the conversation. "So, what was John like?"
Sam shrugged. "He was the popular one," he grumbled, poking at his spaghetti. "He could have shaved off his eyebrows and all the girls would still have flocked to him. He had that way about him." The corners of his lips turned down. "You know how they are. They barely saw me. I was stuck in the town they were striving to escape. They wanted adventure and excitement. Yeah, John had it all."
I asked softly. "Because he was going to Vietnam?"
He flinched as if I had shouted at him. "Nobody deserved that Agent Orange hell-hole," he growled, taking another long drink of his wine. The glass was nearly empty, and Jason stood without being asked, returning in short order with another full one. Sam barely seemed to notice. "Nobody wanted to head into that punji-stick deathtrap," he added, his eyes far away. "We had been raised on stories of the honors of World War II, of the bravery and heroism of a just cause. Korea singed the edges of that image." His voice dropped. "But this was something else entirely. Good did not always triumph."
Jason's voice was steady. "So why did he enlist?"
The flinch was there again, more pronounced, and he did not raise his eyes. "Eileen."
I held still. "The young woman who drowned?"
His voice was half laugh, half plaintive cry. "She drowned," he breathed, his face creased in pain. "She was stunning, like a Hollywood starlet somehow spirited into our quiet woods of aspen and maple. You should have seen her eyes. Liquid and full, rich with promises and dreams. Her whole life spread before her and she could have had anything she wanted. Then, in an instant she was gone. Her fingers were white, so white, like a porcelain doll. When she reached out ..."
There was a long silence then, and the mindless babble of the radio station's love-advice columnist pushed into my awareness. Some young girl was calling in, a high voice causing the announcer to take her for a child at first. But no, it was a pregnant woman, barely old enough to vote, asking for a song to dedicate to her unborn child. She did not yet know if it was a he or a she; the ultrasound had been inconclusive. From the kitchen I could hear the line cooks arguing over whether Obama would take Ohio or Florida.
Jason's voice eased into the pause. "Sam, were you there? Were you all there when she drowned?"
Sam gave a strangled cry, looking up at both of us. "Why are you dragging this all up after so many decades?" he challenged, his voice rough. "It's in the past. It's long dead. It should stay that way!"
He surged to his feet, and then he was turning, striding through the empty entryway, the door falling shut behind him.
I looked at Jason in surprise. He took in a deep breath, then let it out again. "We shook the bushes, all right," he agreed. "What did we learn?"
"That there is more to this story than I thought," I mused, looking down. After a moment I glanced around at the empty seats, the tables shined and cleaned. "Maybe we should head out ourselves. It seems tonight is not a night people want to spend away from home."
He nodded, moving to gather up take-out containers. In a moment we were back in his car. We had barely closed the doors when all the parking lot lights went out. Apparently Tony's was closing early, the staff eager to head home to monitor election results.
In short order, Jason was pulling onto my road. Guilt teased at me over the truncated dinner, and I gave him a nod. "I had not planned on watching election results, but if you want to come in –"
"Oh? What had you planned?" he asked, curiosity bright in his eyes. "The roads are practically deserted. It seems as if the entire state is glued to a TV right now."
"I am just glad to have the deluge of political fliers, phone calls, and pamphlets done with," I admitted. "I imagine they will be challenging and re-challenging results for weeks to come. Whatever they announce tonight, it will merely be the first of many stages. So I was going to watch the latest episode of Elementary on my DVR."
The corner of his mouth turned up. "Lucy Liu, the Charlie's Angel?"
He actually knew the show? For some reason the thought warmed me. "I enjoy the Sherlock Holmes stories, and while this version is a bit fluffier than usual, it does have its moments." I looked over at him. "Have you seen any episodes?"
He nodded. "All of them. I'd be happy to see tonight's with you," he offered. The words hung in the air with silvery luminescence.
It had been quite a while since another person had shared my space, since the world which had become narrowed to one was surgically stretched to admit another. I was a lake, silver and exact, unmarried by ripples. My heart flickered at the approach of a choice.
It was such a small thing, the joint viewing. And it was, after all, a night of issues. Matters of importance were being decided, as much as I tried to distance myself from the artificial trauma that was been stirred up by media of all shapes and sizes.
"All right," I agreed at last as he turned into my driveway. "I have popcorn," I added, "but not much else."
He smiled, and the warmth of it laced through my being. "That will be more than enough."
I closed my eyes for a moment, and the softest of hope perched in my soul.