Willas grove, p.11
Willa's Grove, page 11
“Thank you.” Willa smiled. “You know what I really want to say right now? I feel something I haven’t felt since Jack died. I feel secure, having you all here. Really. Thank you.”
They all smiled at her.
“You make it easy,” said Bliss.
Jane let out a little squeal as she raced out of the room. “Mushroom picking!”
Harriet rolled her eyes and followed her.
And Bliss looked out the window, blinking at chickadees. Not saying anything at all.
***
Town looked different, the way anything does that you are about to leave. Willa saw every stitch of it, slumped down in the back seat of the shiny red midsize SUV, a billboard flashing: willa’s friends. People wouldn’t come within twenty feet of a rig like this, and that was fine by her. She pictured the women in the Merc, getting the silent treatment from people who really only knew how to be polite as a rule.
From her new-leather, no-rust, no-crack-in-the-windshield perspective, she thought, It really is a dump. Had it always looked this way and she’d just worn rose-colored glasses? Or like her, had it let itself go without Jack there to be its constant champion? It didn’t matter. The Merc roof was drooping. The siding was rotten in parts. The red paint on the sign was worn off the M and much of the T and the L. The gas pump had seen better days—she wondered who’d backed into it, likely drunk, leaving the Saloon. And the Saloon—it looked about as tired as its day-drinkers. Willa and Jack weren’t there to say, Hey, we need some help up at the Homestead. And instead of ordering another round, they’d be in Willa’s garden, weeding the beet rows with her, in return for armloads of fresh vegetables.
She noticed a new table in front with an overflowing ashtray, a few old chairs with the foam coming out of their seat cushions. Jack wouldn’t have allowed that on his watch. That was no kind of welcome to Willa, Montana. Where had the picnic tables gone? She suspected there wouldn’t be hanging baskets later this spring when it warmed up enough—her job, and she’d be long gone. The post office sign, which had always been so official and even sterile, looked a little embarrassed to be in this company. “Somebody needs to take care of this place,” she whispered.
She pictured that somebody. Maybe it wouldn’t be a developer after all—maybe a young couple with big dreams and a nest egg. Whoever it was, hopefully the new owner would give her at least a month to tie everything up. Maybe they’d let her store some things in the barn until she found a place. More and more she was considering selling her house furnished and only taking her most cherished belongings, like the Blue Willow platter, some of their books—definitely Jack’s Thoreau and their Emersons, if she could ever find them. And the Inn journals, the guitar. She’d load her truck with just the very basics, but she’d keep their bird migration atlas close. And once she got herself on her feet, if she lived frugally enough, maybe in a few years she’d find a way to actually go on that bird migration that she and Jack always talked about. For now, the question was where to go next.
I just can’t go back to Chicago, she thought. It all depended on how much the town sold for. She hated that fact.
Where would I go if I didn’t have any responsibilities? Willa stared at the Merc and tried to lose herself in images of Costa Rica, Belize, toucans and howler monkeys, the Georgia O’Keeffe landscapes of the Southwest—of being a woman, on her own, in places so new and unknown. Like the Calliope hummingbird, no bigger than a june bug, who migrated alone. One had gotten its beak caught in the kitchen window screen last summer and died there, and she’d shown it to Jack, cupping the iridescent green tiny thing with the violet bow tie at its neck.
He’d said, “To hold something this mighty, this beautiful and brave, that we were never meant to … in the palms of our hands.”
She’d said, “It’s like an offering. We need to honor it. Let’s freeze it. So we can have it just like this to remember.” Almost as if she’d known that theirs was a grace period that would have to end.
So they’d put it in a small jewelry box, on a cotton pillow, and tucked it on the top shelf of the kitchen freezer. Willa looked at the Calliope every so often. Its color was always just the same. She hadn’t looked all winter.
She sighed. She’d need to release it to decay soon. Maybe she’d fling it over Bison Butte along with her husband’s and dog’s ashes. Seemed heartless to launch a bird from a cliff when you knew it could no longer fly. Maybe she’d follow a Calliope hummingbird out of town and just keep following it.
She shook the migration fantasy out of her mind and imagined the moment at hand—the women in the Merc being stared up and down by the people of Willa, Montana, mainly Marilyn. She could hear their minds ticking—especially when it came to Jane. They’d consider Jane proof of what they’d always suspected Willa was ultimately made of: city folk.
Willa sunk down in the back seat and stared at the flaxen May sun. “I don’t belong anywhere without Jack and Sam and Ned,” she whispered, wishing she still snuck a cigarette from time to time. “Maybe I’ll start smoking again,” she said and laughed.
Syd the Dog Man, and fiddle player in Jack’s band, appeared in front of the Saloon then. He was riding Pilgrim. Willa slumped down a few more inches and put her face up against the window to get a good view. “Pilgrim looks skinny,” she said. “Is he not feeding him? His dogs better not be getting first choice.”
Syd tied Pilgrim up to Jack’s old hitching post and went into the Saloon. He’d be in there for at least three beers and a few goes at the gaming machines.
Willa looked around. Town was quiet. The women would be chatting in the Merc, either out of fascination or as spies, and someone would be chatting back for the same reasons.
I just want to touch Pilgrim. Only a few steps and she could be at his side, nose in his mane and thick, proud-cut neck—always a stallion, that horse.
Leaving the car door open, she made a beeline for Pilgrim and dropped her head into his chestnut mane. He turned his nose to her and gave her a long sniff.
“It’s me, boy. Good boy. It’s me.” She kissed his neck and put her hand on his muzzle to feel the velvet. “Can you believe he’s gone?” she said low. “I hope you’re happy with all the dogs. Is Syd taking care of you? Is he playing you music like Jack used to? He’s as close as I could get, since Earl has too many horses already.” She checked under his belly to see if the flies were eating him alive like they always did, but either it was too early or Syd was doing his job.
Then the Saloon door opened and she heard not Syd, but other Willa, Montanans, whose voices she recognized, yet whose faces she couldn’t attach to their timbre, warped by alcohol. Jack was the one who kept track of daytime at the Merc. She got the Inn guests and the afternoon wanderers and Jack’s musician buddies after work, wanting to jam.
“Well, no one’s buying my house, that’s for damn sure. I own it. It’s been in our family three generations. I wouldn’t live in one of them hippie cabins if you paid me and I’m glad I didn’t fall for it. He came in like Jesus Christ himself. And now what are those families supposed to do?”
“To my way of thinking, Jack made plenty of money off the renters. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was getting some sort of money from Uncle Sam too for having those low rent houses. And without him here to run the place, she doesn’t care if the whole town gets mowed down. She’ll just go back East. I hear they both come from money.”
“She don’t care if some rich Californian kicks them all out.”
“Or slumlords ’em.”
“Whoever it is, they’ll probably put up one of them gates and shut us all out.”
“Anymore, you can’t trust anyone with deep pockets. And she’s running out of town with her tail between her legs and all the money. You going to the party?”
“I’m not gonna lie. I’ll miss that woman. She’s not bad to look at neither. And you can’t match her soup and pie. And especially her bread. And Jack’s beer. They still have a few kegs at the Saloon. I’ve been rationing myself all winter. That man could make beer.”
“Yeah, well, you can say goodbye to the Saloon too. Nobody’s gonna keep that place running. I think Jack built it just so he had himself his own watering hole.”
Willa heard the men coming around to their trucks. Pilgrim sidestepped so that she was up against the hitching post and could get a better view. It was as she thought—the two biggest assholes in town. The only assholes in town, really. And people forgave them because they’d been two kids who’d never stood a chance in hell with the fathers they’d had. But Willa was shaken. How could they think she and Jack would possibly do any of those things? Was this what everybody thought?
They gunned their jacked-up trucks and peeled out of the parking lot as Pilgrim’s ears pinned back and Willa said, “Easy, boy.” She felt utterly sucker punched.
The dust parted then, and Bliss, Harriet, and Jane emerged from the Merc—women with plans. She waited for them to get to the SUV and took one more deep sniff of Pilgrim’s neck. She knew she was being melodramatic and she didn’t care. She whispered, “Wherever I go, I’ll take you with me in my heart.” Maybe that was the only thank-you note she owed. And she beelined it back to the car, this time to the driver’s seat, her heart in her stomach.
“That place is a lost boon!” said Harriet, getting into the back seat with a large paper bag. “It’s like a movie set! I love it!”
“More like boondocks,” said Jane, getting in next to Harriet. “I felt like they were all looking at me like I was one of those middle-aged women in the Sundance catalogue.”
Harriet cackled. “You bought your entire wardrobe for this week in that catalogue and you know it. Earrings and all.”
“At least I didn’t fall for the five-hundred-dollar wearable horse blanket,” Jane winked.
Bliss got into the passenger seat and passed Willa a stack of mail. “Here you go,” she said. “No one said much to us. They knew exactly who we were, though. The woman behind the counter barely looked at us and we ordered all of her sandwiches and eight Morning Buns. Were those your preserves for sale on the shelves?”
Willa’s heart sank even lower when she saw Jack’s name on one of the envelopes, the rest junk mail. She opened it slowly. Time to report your livestock. She’d missed the deadline, anyway. She tried to smile. “Yep. Apple plum butter. And my canned rhubarb and strawberries for pie. They’ve also got pounds of frozen huckleberries in their freezer that I picked last August with Jack and the boys. He knew where all the best patches were.” You just have to be everywhere, don’t you, Jack. Would he follow her out of town too? Down deep, Willa knew it was her choice.
Jane passed Willa her cell phone. “I took these photos for you.”
It was just as she’d said. Stolen moments. There was Marilyn sitting at the post office desk, doing her crossword puzzle. And Tally wiping down the counters with a smile on her face but still looking like she might cry. And the back of Earl, drinking coffee at the table, alone, wishing Tally would finally pay some attention to him.
“These are perfect portraits,” she said to Jane.
Jane smiled, but with purpose. “Did you see the photo of the rows of your apple cider vinegar? I love the packaging. I’m a sucker for old typewriter print. Same as on the invitation.”
Willa swiped to the next photo and there they were, Jack’s pride, and the labels typed in his Remington best: a teaspoon a day. She smiled. “He loved that typewriter. It was Emilio’s. His own handwriting was illegible.”
Bliss said, “You didn’t take a profit for any of it, did you, Willa?”
Willa felt like she needed to defend themselves, after what the young men had just spewed. “Not for things we made. The other local goods sold in there are on consignment. We took a small income from the other goods sold, and the gas, and whatnot. And then a cut goes into the town coffer which keeps up the Merc and pays the employees.” She didn’t say that that was almost empty too. There was just enough to pay the employees their last check before the auction.
“Did you get a shot of the bulletin board?” said Willa.
None of them said anything.
Finally, Bliss said, “There was a big sign over your auction sign that said please don’t buy our town. We didn’t think you needed the visual.”
“We took it down,” said Harriet in a quiet voice.
Jane said, “What are they thinking? If you’re leaving, and they can’t afford it, they’re digging their own grave. I mean, they should be ashamed of themselves.”
How did we ever become the bad guys? Willa thought as she pulled out of the parking lot. “You know, it was never us versus them. It was always, always us-us. We had each other’s backs and we showed up for each other. It hurts, the way they’re acting.” She didn’t want to have to admit her fall. But she didn’t want the women to judge the townspeople either. She swallowed hard. “What are they supposed to do? They’re desperate.”
“I get it. When I quit the altar guild, I got the same cold shoulder.” Bliss cleared her throat. Willa could hear the buck up in it. “I recognized one man in the Merc. With the gray moustache. He used to be in Jack’s band. Guitar player. He smiled at me. I think it was a message for you, actually.”
“Earl,” said Willa, smiling. “At Jack’s memorial, he played one of his favorites. ‘Shenandoah.’ And started bawling so hard I had to put him to bed like a little boy. Jack loved Earl the most.”
“It looked like he wanted to say something to us,” said Bliss. “But it was like he knew his place. I did see that Grin and Bear It is playing tomorrow night at the Saloon. I can’t imagine them without Jack,” said Bliss.
She knew her friend meant well, but still she was startled. Life had gone on. “I wonder who’s playing the mandolin,” she said. “Maybe they just have a fiddle, guitar, and bass now.” So many memories. Where to put them now? The woods would help. She pulled off onto the dirt road that led to the burn where the morels would hopefully be plentiful.
“You know what I smelled in that mercantile?” said Harriet. “Fear. With a capital F.” Willa knew that smell. Just not in the Mercantile.
“Listen, Willa. They know they’ve been lucky to have you and Jack. And they need a scapegoat. Believe me. I know all about it. You being the bad guy makes them the victims and people love being victims. Because God forbid they take a good look in the mirror.”
“What’s there to look at?” asked Willa, feeling defensive. “Their hearts are breaking. This town saved them. And I’m packing it all up right underneath their feet.”
“How did this town save them?” asked Harriet.
“That’s the long part of the story,” said Willa.
“You know,” said Jane, “you might be doing them all a favor. Maybe the next owner will be in a better position to create more jobs.”
“That’s what they’re all afraid of. They don’t want change. And they insist on respect. And they know they won’t get it from an outsider.”
She took a deep breath. “And no one will keep it the way we did. It’s a lose-lose for everyone, because whoever buys it will be totally rejected if they change one thing,” said Willa. “I mean, they lost what held it all together when Jack died. And I just … couldn’t be Jack.”
She caught Bliss’s eyes. She hoped she hadn’t told the women about her fall. Either way, she added, “And for the record … they tried to help me this winter. In their own way they tried. I just needed to be alone. And I think I needed to see that they could carry on without us.”
“Life doesn’t let you have it both ways,” said Bliss, eyeing Willa back.
“Bitter pill,” said Harriet.
Bliss said, “I might be overstepping. But now could be the time to tell the long part of the story, Willa. That way, we can help you.”
Willa felt her face flush. She knew Bliss wanted her to talk money. Not broken ribs. “It’s hard to talk about it, you know?”
“I know,” said Bliss. “But you might as well. We’re here for you.”
Willa gripped the steering wheel, and then let her mind go with the well-worn ruts in the road. Washboards, they called them, after the old way of washing, hand to metal—the way they had washed for years. Would these women understand her life? Would they judge Jack like they were judging the townspeople? Might as well, she thought. But not the fall. Not yet, if at all. She couldn’t give up totally on her self-reliance.
“Well, I didn’t want to go into this last night. But it’s a real mess. Half the town owns their homes outside the city limits. The other half pays rent to us. A long time ago, Jack wanted to help people who were living disenfranchised lives in the middle of the woods—many of them in horrible conditions, some of them old and sick, desperately needing a community around them. And so he built cabins on our land, over near the Mercantile, and rented them out for very little—really, just enough to cover basic costs. Montana houses take a beating and they require a lot of upkeep. Most of the renters are on Medicaid or collect Social Security, and really relied on us. Well, they relied on Jack. He was always over at the renters’ houses fixing things and helping them out.” Willa slowed for a pothole.
“What I suspect happened—and especially after what I heard today outside of the Merc, which explains a lot—was that some of our renters couldn’t even afford to pay the low-income rent. And I wouldn’t be at all surprised if my dear, starry-eyed Jack, was floating them. Like family.” She gripped the steering wheel harder. “Thinking that somehow we’d be okay, financially, with the income from the Mercantile and what we managed to put in our savings. And certainly not thinking he’d drop dead.” She shook her head. “That savings was our nest egg. And it’s gone. Thank God we were smart enough to put away money for the boys. But I would never touch that. It might be all they have.”
