Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (25 page)

Daddy's growing another one this year to commemorate Sammy's birth. Jack says a savings bond would be more practical. He and Daddy don't get along as well as they once did. They compete for Sammy. Andrew says it's the “first-son versus the first-grandson syndrome.” I know he made that up, but it fits. Donna says getting Sammy away from Daddy is harder than “sweeping slugs off of concrete.” That fits too.

Aunt Kate sits back and laughs at both Jack and Daddy, more than she should I think. But it's good to see her happy again. Her first new boyfriend in two years, according to Donna. She says he hasn't done a single “inside” repair or addition to the house but he and Aunt Kate have spent a lot of time outdoors. That's good to hear. I know she loves that old farm house but I think it has too many ghosts for her. Donna thinks Aunt Kate might even consider leaving with this llama guy. I can't imagine her giving up the farm and going all the way to Washington. But she may. If I've learned one thing in the past two years, it's that you can't predict what people will do based on what they've done in past, especially your own self.

I'm standing at the kitchen sink, staring out the window and thinking about Aunt Kate when I see her blue Blazer ease up the driveway. She doesn't see me from the window. She looks upset. My anxiety reaches flood stage.

“Hi, Aunt Kate,” I say, opening the door, my voice unsteady. She doesn't make a move to come inside, doesn't say anything for a moment. My mind whirls—visions of Jack holding his chest, Daddy facedown in his garden, Donna in a crumpled Honda.

Aunt Kate looks at Sammy. She finally speaks. “You need to come with me,” she says. Then, as though she knows what I'm thinking, she adds, “Everyone's fine. I just need your help.” I can tell by the way she sets her jaw, she's not going to explain.

“Jack won't be home till lunch time. I don't have anybody to keep Sammy,” I say.

“Bring him.”

We ride the five miles to her farm almost in silence. I stare out the window, try to empty myself from anxiety by absorbing the scenery. From the crunch of my driveway and out my street, onto the four-lane then back off, around the curve at Cater's Bridge, past the Short Stop Bar and Grill, past Pilgrim's Dairy, then up the bumpy dirt road to the farm.

Aunt Kate drives straight to the barn then stops. She turns and looks at me. I can see a range of emotions in her eyes—sadness, love, resolution. Now she'll tell me, I think to myself, why she wanted me to come. Instead, she takes Sammy and says, “Follow me.”

She leads me into the barn and towards the back stall. It's dark, almost dark as night. The air is charged. I feel it popping against my skin, inside my head. My heart beats faster with each step. I can barely catch my breath. Aunt Kate stops. “There,” she says, gesturing with her head. “Look in there.”

The stall is half obscured in darkness. Out of the shadow, like a flashback or a dream, steps Athene, my beautiful roan mare. I slip through the stall door, throw myself against her, rub her neck, run my hand down her leg, tug on her mane, and breathe in that wonderful horse scent—sensations I haven't felt for an entire year. It seems now for a lifetime.

I turn to Aunt Kate. “How ‥? Where ‥?”

“Ask him,” she says, looking beyond Athene. She hands me Sammy and walks away. I turn back to the mare, see movement in the darkness.

“Hello, Sarah.” I am paralyzed by the voice—unable to speak, move, think—able only to search the dark for the speaker, for Michael. He moves out of the shadow to the other side of the mare, stretches his arm around her neck, close enough now that I can see his face.

“Couldn't sell her,” he says. His voice sounds strained. “Didn't seem right, her being yours and all. And I thought,” he clears his throat, “I thought you might be back for her.” I say nothing. “Can hardly see my hand in front of my face in here,” he says. “Let's go outside.” He opens the stall door. My legs feel weak but they carry me toward the light.

Outside, my eyes drink him in—beard thicker than I remember, worn denim, arms shining golden in the sun. He looks at Sammy. Then he turns his dark eyes on me. I fall in.

“See you've been busy,” he says with a laugh that isn't really a laugh. “When did he come along?”

“What?” I hear myself say, trying to stop my descent into his eyes.

“When was he born?” Michael says. His eyes have me tumbling.

“This spring,” the words break out of my throat. “Came a little early.”

“Spring or the baby?” His eyes shift from me to Sammy then back to me.

I feel my balance returning. “Both,” I say. “I was born a little early too.”

“Must run in the family,” he says. He reaches for Sammy. I reluctantly give him up. Michael holds him at arm's length, studies his face. “Where'd he get these eyes?” he asks. “Does that run in your family too?”

“No,” I say. “I don't think so.”

Michael smiles. Then pulls Sammy in close. “I've seen eyes like these before.” He rubs his hand gently over the crest of Sammy's head.

“You have?”

“It's fairly common in some breeds of dogs—huskies, setters—occasionally a horse will have different-colored eyes. But you see it in people too.” He doubles his arms underneath Sammy like a hammock and sways his shoulders back and forth.

“I haven't,” I say.

“I have,” he says, more to Sammy than me. Then he turns his eyes on me again. “It tends to be hereditary.”

“Must come from Jack's side,” I say, not blinking. “How's Texas?”

“Still there when I left it.”

“How about Pete and Norris?”

“Same,” he said. “Pete's still nailing shoes and Norris is still running horses in circles.” He stops swinging Sammy and cradles him in his left arm. “Back in the spring, just at dusk one day, Pete and I found a rattlesnake stretched out near the fence. We tried to scare it off before the horses caught its scent. I swear, Sarah, it was as big around as my arm.” He holds out his right arm for measure, one of those hard, tanned forearms that electrified me more than two years ago. I feel the current again. I try not to show it.

“Damn thing wrapped itself around a post and hissed and hissed until the horses went wild. They were running around the pen, bumping into each other, trying to break down the fence.” He shifts Sammy to his right arm. “We had to take a shovel and kill it,” he says, sorrow in his voice. “I'd rather have shot the thing and gotten it over with. But that would have make the horses crazier.”

“It might have bitten you or Pete or one of the ranch hands,” I say.

“Maybe so,” he says, “but it doesn't seem right to kill something because you're afraid of it.”

He looks out across the pasture toward the mountain range. “I missed the mountains,” he says.

“Hard to see them this late in the summer,” I say. “The air's too thick. Takes a cool fall day to bring them out again.”

“From here it does,” he says, “but not in Tennessee. They're all around you.” He looks at me again. “That's where I am now. Have been for the past two months.”

“In Tennessee?” I ask, my voice too high.

He nods. “Been staying with Russell and Annie. Remember them?”

“Of course,” I say, my mind back in the coolness of their home.

“I bought some land nearby—room enough for a cabin, a small barn, little bit of pasture. A small stream runs along the lower edge. It's really pretty. You'd love it.” I can't think of anything to say but he seems wound up. “Plenty of horses in the nearest town, a few trail-ride outfits, and a stable or two. Enough to keep me busy.”

“Guess they can always use a traveling vet,” I say.

He doesn't seem to hear me. “The other morning before sunset, I walked out to my little piece of mountain. I wanted to watch the sun rise so I could decide exactly where to mark the foundations for the cabin, the right slant so I can watch the sun come up every morning if I want to. As the sun rose through the pines, mist from the creek lifted. It turned pink, this whole line of pink fog rising through the green pines. Really beautiful.” He looks into my eye and says, “It made me think of you.” I feel his hand slipping around my heart, tightening.

“Then I walked down to the creek. There stood a doe and her fawn looking back at me. For a minute they just stood there, dreamlike with the mist rising around them.” Sammy starts to squirm. Michael shifts him to his other side. “Can you imagine such a view from your own back porch?”

I shake my head and look at Sammy. My arms feel empty.

“There's a big old oak tree right where I want the cabin. I'm going to cut it down when I get back and take it to the sawmill. Russell says there's one about twenty miles away. He's offered to help me build some furniture out of the lumber—a slab table and benches, some other pieces. But the first thing I want make to is a platform bed. Remember the one we … the one at Russell's? That's what I'm going to build first. What do you think?” He watches me. I don't answer. I reach for Sammy. Fill my arms with him.

Michael stands there, hands on his hips, looking better than anything Zane Gray or Barbara Cartland could come up with, better than any mythical hero my own mind could create. I don't want to give him up. I feel that familiar stir of restlessness. Sammy seems to feel it too. He wiggles in my arms.

“I'm using the plans we drew up for the cabin,” Michael says. “Remember the plans?” I nod. “There'll be plenty of room.”

“For what?” I ask.

“For you,” he says, “and the baby,” he pauses, “if you want to come along.”

“If you want to come along” rings in my ears. Not “I love you” or “I need you” or “I'm claiming you and my son” but “if you want to come along.” Standing there, staring at Michael I realize what attracted me beyond pure lust. Michael is the kind of man who is content on his own. His love of nature, horses, freedom to move on when he gets restless or crowded is enough for him. He may stay in Tennessee for a while, but sooner or later, he'll move on. The year we spent together, our restlessness wasn't the same. He was looking to see and I was looking to find. I need connections.

I have Sammy—and Jack who would probably fight to the death for this child he claims as his own. I can't leave him again. It will kill what I love most about him—his confident, innocent way of figuring solutions to whatever problems life gives him.

Then there's Daddy to consider. I don't think he can take another loss. Donna needs me too. She's about ready to make a break herself. And if Andrew hasn't sensed it yet, I may have to draw him a diagram, complete with a lecture on restless Crawford women.

“I'll think about you and the cabin and Tennessee,” I say, “but Sammy and I'd better stick around here.”

He shifts his hat forward. I can barely see his eyes. “I understand,” he says. If he's disappointed, he doesn't show it. He may even be relieved a little. “I'll keep an eye out for a pony just right for Sammy,” he says. “Next time I'm down this way, I'll bring it by.”

He gets into his old pickup and heads down Aunt Kate's driveway. I wave but he doesn't look back. I watch him until the last tip of the horse trailer disappears. I glance toward the sun. Almost straight up.

“Must be about noon,” I say to Sammy. I retrieve a diaper from Aunt Kate's car and walk toward the house.

Aunt Kate sits on the screen porch gliding back and forth, back and forth like a sign in the wind. She watches us. I slip through the screen door. She stops the glider while Sammy and I settle beside her. Then she presses with her toe and sets the glider swaying again. The motion is soothing, like a swing or a rocking chair or a mother's arms. We glide in silence several minutes.

Aunt Kate speaks first. “Is he gone?” she asks, not breaking our rhythm.

“Yes,” I answer on the forward swing, “he's gone.” Backward swing, “Michael is gone.” I feel like I'm chanting a nursery rhyme or a fairy tale. Sammy nuzzles my neck.

“For good?” Aunt Kate asks, not looking at me.

“I suppose,” I say, “if there are any good departures.”

“There are some,” she says. A complete swing. Another one. She looks into my eyes and stops the glider. “Ready to go home?”

“Yes,” I say, looking back into her eyes and feeling more certain than I have about anything in two whole years, maybe a lifetime. Sammy wiggles. “But,” I add, “I'd better change his diaper first.”

I head for Aunt Kate's bedroom. Her bed is filled with suitcases and piles of clothes. I wedge Sammy between two piles. Aunt Kate didn't mention a trip, I think as I change Sammy. Beside one suitcase lies the portrait of Mama and Aunt Kate as girls, the little one she always kept in the desk drawer. Suddenly my heart begins pounding all the way to my head. My throat feels tight as a scar. I lift Sammy and walk slowly back to the porch. Aunt Kate is gliding back and forth again.

“Going somewhere?” I ask, my voice thin enough to crack.

She nods.

“Where?”

“Washington,” she says, gliding forward.

“To see Charlie?”

Back and forth, back and forth. “With Charlie,” she answers. “With” echoes inside my head.

“A week or two?” I can't hold back the sound of desperation.

She plants both feet and stops the glider. “Maybe for good.”

“But, Aunt Kate, what about the farm?”

“Joe can take care of it.”

“Daddy can't take care of himself,” I say. “He depends on Donna for everything.”

“It'll be good for him. Get him out of Donna's hair.” She leans forward, arches her back. “Besides, he always wanted to live out here. Got mad when Papa left the farm to me.” She stands up. “I'll be back from time to time to check on things.”