Another Homecoming Read online

  “Not since the funeral. I just couldn’t.”

  “You wouldn’t have heard at home, of course,” he went on. “Around here, though, rumors fly faster than the speed of sound.”

  “What rumors?”

  Again, there was no sense of Kenneth playing calculating games. He examined her face, then asked, “Are you sure you want to know?”

  In that moment she began to understand. Not just the day, but all the events of the entire winter. Even before the words made things clear, she felt a dawning sense of clarity. As though she had not wanted to search out what had always been there for her to see.

  Kyle did not turn away. Not now. She nodded her head, very slowly, her eyes not leaving Kenneth’s face.

  He sighed his acceptance. He took her hand. It was the act of a friend, one who was giving her an unspoken assurance that she would not be alone. “Your mother has been contesting the will. Do you know what that means?”

  “Yes.” She was her father’s daughter. She knew the words of his world. To contest meant to challenge in court.

  “Your father surprised everybody. He set up a trust in your name. He put all of his stock, the controlling interest of Rothmore Insurance and all its subsidiaries, into this trust. For you.”

  Kyle sat totally still for a moment before rising to stare out the window.

  “I understand that you might be shocked, even frightened,” he said. She slowly turned back to him. His face was creased with the power of comprehension. “But this is what your father wanted, Kyle. Nobody could have structured this so carefully, or so secretly, unless it was something very important.”

  He motioned to the seat beside him and waited until she had resumed her place before he continued. “The two trustees will vote your stock until you turn twenty-one. Then you have power to do what you will, except that you cannot sell the shares until after your twenty-ninth birthday.”

  Her mind was a swirling tumult of questions, so many she did not even know what to ask. Kenneth went on, “Your mother has tried to nullify the will. But your father left enough assets to her, things other than the company, that she has no real basis for a suit. None of her own family’s money was used in setting up the firm; that is all on record. Last week the court threw out her case. The company is now yours.”

  “No,” she whispered. “I don’t want it.”

  “The head trustee is old Mr. Crawley.” Kenneth continued to speak with gentle insistence. Now that he had started, clearly he wanted to tell her everything. But his voice continued to hold to its kindness. “There have been some real battles on that front as well. When Mr. Crawley heard that your mother had tried to enlist Randolf Junior into her challenge, he threatened to cut his own son off without a penny. And he would have. I’m sure of it.”

  Kyle remembered the hurried visits, always done in secret. She recalled the glances he had thrown her way, the silence, the sense of fear. “I don’t—”

  The door was flung open with such force that they both jumped. Her mother looked in, saw her, took in the scene at a glance, and seemed electrified with horror. “What are you doing here?”

  “We were talking.” For some reason, her mother’s agitation seemed to only make Kyle more calm.

  “Come out of here this instant.” Abigail almost stamped her foot with rage. “I forbid you from ever speaking with this . . . this meddler.”

  Kyle rose from her chair and started to follow her mother from the room. But just as she was moving through the doorway, she turned back and asked “Who is the other trustee?”

  “NOW!” her mother commanded.

  Kenneth Adams stood in the center of his room, untouched by Abigail’s rage. His voice remained gentle as he said, “If you are ever in need of anything, anything at all, just give me a call.”

  12

  THAT SPRING AND SUMMER were the fullest and most memorable Joel had ever known. Throughout those mixed-up seasons with their crazy weather, he was up before dawn delivering papers. The April frosts were the worst—not the coldest, but still the hardest, maybe because he was expecting warmth that did not arrive.

  As soon as the school day was over, he met up with Simon. Usually they went back to the Miller home, where he grew accustomed to helping in Mr. Miller’s workshop. The broad-shouldered man was a good teacher and introduced Joel to all his carpentry trade. Joel grew as comfortable with the lathe and drill and sander and broad-band saw as he had with the smaller instruments of his modeling days.

  At the beginning of summer, Mr. Miller declared the boys ready to begin work on their own furniture. Joel was as delighted as Simon and started on a rocker for his mother. The two worked in a corner of Mr. Miller’s shed and learned to move about the cramped space with ease.

  When evening shadows lengthened, Joel found it harder and harder to put down his tools and head for home. Toward evening, Mr. Miller would often look at him, his gaze filled with a thoughtful sadness. But he seldom spoke of Joel’s homelife, except for their continued discussions after Sunday services. Sometimes Mr. Miller prayed with Joel about a specific need or a particularly bad day at home.

  Joel’s life at home became more and more a world apart. He found it increasingly difficult to slip into his silent role as he journeyed home. The Miller household was so full of laughter, of talk and life. Ruthie was always in and out of the carpentry shed, bringing lemonade, a word, and a bright smile. Joel found himself increasingly drawn to the shining-faced country girl. And she seemed to save her warmest smiles just for him.

  The first day of August, Joel arrived home just in time for the evening news. He had found this the easiest way to slip back into his home. Walter Cronkite supplied the comfortable conversation his parents lacked. That night was a special treat, because the Ed Sullivan Show would be on later. Joel found himself in hopes that the little mouse, Topo Gigio, would make an appearance. The puppet always made his father laugh. It was such a rare occasion that he and his mother shared a smile behind his back.

  He parked his bike behind the house, came in through the kitchen door, and kissed his mother as she stood over the stove preparing dinner. He entered the living room in time to see Elvis Presley being shorn like a lamb, while his drill instructor stood and observed. The entire world had watched as Elvis had been inducted into the army. For some reason, it had made his popularity grow even stronger. The day he had left for boot camp, millions of teenagers had written and wished him well.

  At his mother’s call, Joel rose and went to set the table. He returned to watch as Marines landed on the sands of Beirut. His eyes on the television, Joel’s father murmured, “Look at the leathernecks go.”

  “What are they doing?”

  “Ah, some king got shot,” he said. “Over in Jordan or someplace.”

  “Iraq,” Joel quietly commented, remembering now having seen it on that morning’s front page.

  “Wherever.” He waved it aside as unimportant. “Boy, do I ever wish I were . . .”

  The words were cut off by a loud thump and breaking glass in the kitchen. Joel and his father stiffened, then leaped toward the hallway at the sound of a long moan.

  They raced into the kitchen to find Joel’s mother on the floor, one leg outstretched, the other trapped back under her. Her face was contorted with pain. “Oh, I slipped. I can’t . . .”

  With surprising speed his father limped his way through the broken glass to kneel beside his wife. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My back,” she moaned. One hand pulled feebly at the trapped leg.

  With a gentleness Joel would have not thought possible, his father eased the foot free and stretched the leg out straight. Then he turned to his son and said, “Go get Howard. And fast.”

  Joel accelerated down the hall and out the door, leaped over the front steps, and flew down the street. At the end of the block he skidded through the turn, caught himself on one hand, and sped on. He raced across the street, ignoring a car that screeched on its brakes and blared an angry blas
t of its horn. He ran up the front steps of the Austin home, tore open the screen door, and found Doc Austin seated in an almost identical position to his father, watching as Cronkite declared that’s the way it was, on that first day of August.

  “You gotta come,” Joel gasped, fighting for breath, his heart pumping so wildly that he felt nauseated. He thought he was going to be sick and fought hard against it as he sucked in air.

  Howard Austin drew his focus away from the screen. His tired gaze spoke of having been disturbed by a thousand pressing calls. When his eyes fell on Joel his demeanor quickly changed. “Slow down, take a deep breath. You’re pale as a ghost. Are you okay? That’s better.”

  When Joel could catch his breath enough to form words again, he repeated his message with more urgency, “You gotta come quick.”

  “Easy now,” Howard said. “Now, tell me what’s the matter.”

  “It’s Mom,” Joel managed. “She’s fallen and it’s bad.”

  Alarm spread in rapid stages across the middle-aged features. Howard Austin scrambled from his chair. His wife appeared in the hall entrance, her face creased in sudden concern. “Is she all right?”

  “Where’s my bag?” he said to answer her question.

  “Right here on the table where it always is,” she said, holding it out to her husband. “I’ll put dinner in the oven. Joel, tell her I hope she’s all right.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. Austin.”

  “Okay, sport, let’s take my car.”

  Doc Austin drove with practiced haste. Joel sat beside him, his heart still pounding erratically, making his breathing rise and fall in funny little flutters. As always, he ignored the stabbing pains in his chest that came with too much exertion. Soon the doctor was pulling up to Joel’s house and easing from the car before the motor had stilled. He bounded up the steps, opened the door, and hurried through to the kitchen. In the doorway he stopped so suddenly Joel collided with him. There was a sharp intake of breath, then Doc Austin crossed the room in three quick strides and knelt beside Martha. Joel felt a chill spread through his belly at the sight of blood spread over the linoleum.

  “Where are you bleeding, Martha?”

  “It’s me,” Harry replied, holding up a hand wrapped in a dish towel. “She dropped a glass when she slipped and fell. I was trying to pick it up.”

  “For Pete’s sake, I’ve got enough to do without you going and making more work for me.” Howard Austin slipped a hand under Martha’s neck and deftly felt around. “Does that hurt?”

  “No, farther down,” she murmured.

  Harry asked, “Want me to lift her up?”

  “No, hang on a minute.” As gently as he could, the doctor continued his examination until he grunted softly and stopped.

  “What’s the matter?” Harry’s face was a mixture of alarm and fear. Joel found himself staring at his father. He had never seen such emotion on that normally impassive face.

  But Howard did not respond. He felt a moment more, then raised up slightly and asked, “Can you move your toes?”

  “I think so.”

  “Don’t lift your legs. Good, that’s good.” He then turned to Harry and said quietly, “Better go call an ambulance.”

  Harry stared at his friend for a minute, then rose and moved for the hall phone.

  Howard turned back to Martha and asked, “Do you have any tingles running up and down your legs? Any shooting pains? Numb spots?”

  “No.”

  “Good,” Howard sighed, his tension obviously easing. “That’s good.”

  Joel’s mother chided, “All I did was slip on a puddle by the sink.”

  Doc Austin looked down and said quietly, “It appears you’ve injured your spine, Martha. But you can move your feet, so apparently there’s no serious damage to the nerves.”

  Harry slammed the phone back into its cradle and reappeared. “They’re on their way.”

  “We shouldn’t move you,” Howard said to the prone woman. “But I can slip a pillow under your head. Would that help?”

  “I’ll get it,” Harry said before Martha had a chance to respond. He hurried down the hall and returned with one of the sofa pillows. As Doc Austin lifted her head, Harry knelt and gently slid it into place.

  Joel stood by the door, frozen to the spot. He was caught as much by his father’s reaction as by his mother’s pain. There was such concern on Harry’s features, such caring. It was as though Joel was confronted with a totally different person, someone he had never known except maybe in old photographs. A person who felt, who showed, who cared.

  In the days after his mother was settled into the hospital, Joel’s homelife went through a subtle transformation. Joel spent an hour every afternoon in her hospital room, as much time as he was permitted. His father, however, spent more time there than at work. At home, Harry remained silent and withdrawn as always, but occasionally his face was softened by worried glances at the phone and a milder tone toward Joel.

  Joel found himself amazed by it all. Howard Austin continually reported progress, assuring them that Martha was healing nicely. She was responding so well to traction that surgery probably would not be required. Joel’s father remained in his new world of concern, one that stripped away his stony mask and left him openly vulnerable.

  Yet when Joel was there in the hospital room with the two of them, his parents were still uncommunicative. To Joel’s eyes, it seemed they had become so accustomed to their mute roles that they did not know how to break out of them.

  In the evenings when Joel was home alone, he liked to look at the pictures from his parents’ very early days. Back before he was born, even before the war. Before everything became shadowed by what he saw on their faces now, like the heavy clouds of an overcast day.

  Back then, their eyes seemed to shine with excitement and love and hope. His father had a jaunty smile. Joel could see the traces of that smile still today, only now the lines were twisted downward, the face too quick to grimace and sneer. And his mother . . . back then her eyes looked at the camera with such trust and joy. Such happy times. Why couldn’t they have lasted? Was it because of him? Was he at fault? Joel would go through the pictures one by one, wishing there was some way he could make things go back to the way they had been.

  During those evenings alone, the quietness of his home had a different quality. The stillness acted like a mirror, drawing him to look at himself and his isolation in ways he had never before experienced. He found comfort in the Bible, ashamed by how even the littlest Miller girl knew the Scripture stories better than he did. By the second week of his mother’s hospitalization, Joel was reading the Book every night. And though words still came hard when he prayed alone, he tried to talk with God every night before going to bed, asking first for his mother’s healing. But in time, he found the prayers being extended, almost of their own accord, to include an inward healing for his father as well.

  Toward the end of that second week, while Joel and his father watched television together, there came a firm rap on the door. The knocking brought a surprised look from his father, who sat slumped in his well-worn chair. He nodded toward the front. “Answer it.”

  Joel moved to obey. At the door he stopped in surprise. It was Mr. Miller, his huge frame drooped slightly over his crutches and his good-natured smile on his face. Joel was unsure what to do. They had so few visitors, only Doc Austin and his wife. His heart began to beat a nervous rhythm. As he moved to open the door, inwardly he uttered a short, disjointed prayer. “Don’t let it be something about Simon. Please.”

  Mr. Miller stumped through the open door and asked, “Is your father been to home yet, Choel?”

  A voice from the back of the house called, “Who is it, boy?”

  Joel swallowed hard. He worked his mouth for a moment, but the words were hard to form. “It’s . . .”

  “Choseph Miller,” the big man called back and started down the hall, lightly brushing past the bewildered boy. The crutches made a dull thud, thud, on th
e bare wooden floor.

  Joel followed Mr. Miller down the hall and saw his father push himself upright from the chair’s lopsided cushions. He half stood, half leaned on the chair arms, as though uncertain whether or not to raise himself and greet this man who had disturbed his evening.

  But Joseph Miller was not an easy man to dismiss. Joel watched as his father stared openly at the big man. The staccato rhythm of the crutches echoed in the still room. His one good leg moved easily in time to the crutches, his other pant leg fastened at the knee. His father watched as the shortened leg swung with each forward thrust of the man’s body.

  “Sorry to be cutting in on your evening,” the man said, ignoring the chattering television. “But the boy here’s been saying you have some problem to yourself. The wife to town took herself today and came back saying I was to bring myself by.”

  His father glanced toward him, then back to the shortened leg. Harry looked bewildered and even a little angry. Joel could feel his slight frame shiver with discomfort. Surely, he cried inwardly, surely his father would not make a scene. The very thought made him want to dash from the room.

  But to his relief his father stretched out a hand in greeting. Joel was pleased that his father did not wince as Mr. Miller gave it a hearty shake. “Have a seat,” Harry offered, nodding toward a neighboring chair.

  “I thank you.” Mr. Miller crossed to the chair and seated himself, placing his crutches carefully together and lowering them to the floor. The pleasant expression did not leave his face. He carefully studied Joel’s father before saying, “A hard lot it is, when one’s wife is wonderful sick. Makes a man know not where to take himself next. My Ruth stopped by the hospital, says the doctor wants your good wife to stay to her bed when home she comes. And quiet she needs as well. ‘How can a growing boy live quiet?’ I ask. Boys were made for noise yet. So my Ruth, she says, ‘You go and tell the poor father that Choel can come make his noise to our house.’ He can stay until the Missus be fine on her feet. No hurry to push her back on up. Choel be chust fine.”