winters and sold the products in the summer.
Bake knitted, too. It was the darkest secret of that old country boy’s life.
Theirs was the happiest house Lila ever saw. The best part was sharing their fireplace evenings, the couple in their huge old leather chairs, herself on a fat sofa cushion beside one or the other. Sometimes they took turns reading aloud. Behind their voices the wood fire crackled and hissed, the smell soothing as balm. Once, snuggled next to Uncle Bake, Lila watched him reach out to his wife. Neither took their eyes from the page, so a sixth sense must have made Aunt Lila aware because she reached, too. Loving hands linked in knowing communion.
It was the sort of thing that made going home bleak. Not that her parents were cruel or distant. Not exactly. They were simply preoccupied. They had careers, friends, hobbies. Sometimes Lila and Les were allowed inside that world. Not often. A son and daughter were components, part of what defined the ideal family.
Childhood was hardly a frozen sea, though. Ceremony was scrupulously observed; Christmas brought wonderful presents, Thanksgiving was a feast (never just a celebration, but a well-staged event ), and birthdays were truly memorable productions. But neither parent ever hugged her and said, “That’s just for being Lila.” Aunt Lila did. No one else ever showed up like Uncle Bake with a big dish of freshly made ice cream in the evening and said, “I don’t much want to sit out on the porch glider and eat all this alone. You interested?”
In her own house, Lila listened to her mother’s constant complaint that her sister had married beneath her, that Uncle Bake was just a hippie. Lila’s brother, Les, agreed.
Suddenly ashamed, Lila once more closed her eyes against the weight of the night and admitted that she hadn’t thought of Les in weeks, perhaps months. Les, so attractive, so full of life. So needful of more excitement, more fun, more girls, more speed. It was the speed that finished it. Fast car, alcohol, bridge abutment. Lila wondered what it said about her that she could never think of that night without a secret gladness that Les was by himself when it happened.
At least Les had been so much in love with life he dove into it too deeply. Wasn’t it better that life end with a moment of joy suddenly transformed into an even shorter moment of explosive tragedy, rather than a grinding day-by-day diminishment?
Maybe. And maybe at the end Les realized he was a fool.
The thought turned on her, vicious as a scorpion. Les was a fool, yes, but his own fool. Not someone else’s. He destroyed himself. He didn’t wring his hands and watch someone else do it.
Rising, she headed for her car. She wasn’t like Les. He had dreams. The difference between dreams and goals was that goals had roots in reality.
She was almost to Front Street when a man suddenly stepped from behind a tree. Alarm choked her. An involuntary hand flew to her throat.
“It’s me,” Van said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Air flooded Lila’s lungs, helped steady her knees. Her words were brittle. “You should have said something. What were you thinking?”
His answer was injured. “I didn’t see you until you were right in front of me. You were off the path. That tree blocked my line of sight.” Quickly solicitous, he asked, “Are you okay? What’re you doing here by yourself? Alone, in the dark...” He left the rest unsaid.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes. I was... just thinking.”
Van came forward. “You’re headed home now?”
“Absolutely.” She laughed. “It’s late. The store never lets me sleep in.”
“Don’t get me started on that.” He moved to offer his arm. She took it in an exaggerated sweep as if playing along with a joke. Inwardly, she was glad for the comfort of the small intimacy. The fright still had her heart thumping like a tractor engine. She hoped he wouldn't feel the throb of it in her arm. Then she
Bake knitted, too. It was the darkest secret of that old country boy’s life.
Theirs was the happiest house Lila ever saw. The best part was sharing their fireplace evenings, the couple in their huge old leather chairs, herself on a fat sofa cushion beside one or the other. Sometimes they took turns reading aloud. Behind their voices the wood fire crackled and hissed, the smell soothing as balm. Once, snuggled next to Uncle Bake, Lila watched him reach out to his wife. Neither took their eyes from the page, so a sixth sense must have made Aunt Lila aware because she reached, too. Loving hands linked in knowing communion.
It was the sort of thing that made going home bleak. Not that her parents were cruel or distant. Not exactly. They were simply preoccupied. They had careers, friends, hobbies. Sometimes Lila and Les were allowed inside that world. Not often. A son and daughter were components, part of what defined the ideal family.
Childhood was hardly a frozen sea, though. Ceremony was scrupulously observed; Christmas brought wonderful presents, Thanksgiving was a feast (never just a celebration, but a well-staged event ), and birthdays were truly memorable productions. But neither parent ever hugged her and said, “That’s just for being Lila.” Aunt Lila did. No one else ever showed up like Uncle Bake with a big dish of freshly made ice cream in the evening and said, “I don’t much want to sit out on the porch glider and eat all this alone. You interested?”
In her own house, Lila listened to her mother’s constant complaint that her sister had married beneath her, that Uncle Bake was just a hippie. Lila’s brother, Les, agreed.
Suddenly ashamed, Lila once more closed her eyes against the weight of the night and admitted that she hadn’t thought of Les in weeks, perhaps months. Les, so attractive, so full of life. So needful of more excitement, more fun, more girls, more speed. It was the speed that finished it. Fast car, alcohol, bridge abutment. Lila wondered what it said about her that she could never think of that night without a secret gladness that Les was by himself when it happened.
At least Les had been so much in love with life he dove into it too deeply. Wasn’t it better that life end with a moment of joy suddenly transformed into an even shorter moment of explosive tragedy, rather than a grinding day-by-day diminishment?
Maybe. And maybe at the end Les realized he was a fool.
The thought turned on her, vicious as a scorpion. Les was a fool, yes, but his own fool. Not someone else’s. He destroyed himself. He didn’t wring his hands and watch someone else do it.
Rising, she headed for her car. She wasn’t like Les. He had dreams. The difference between dreams and goals was that goals had roots in reality.
She was almost to Front Street when a man suddenly stepped from behind a tree. Alarm choked her. An involuntary hand flew to her throat.
“It’s me,” Van said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Air flooded Lila’s lungs, helped steady her knees. Her words were brittle. “You should have said something. What were you thinking?”
His answer was injured. “I didn’t see you until you were right in front of me. You were off the path. That tree blocked my line of sight.” Quickly solicitous, he asked, “Are you okay? What’re you doing here by yourself? Alone, in the dark...” He left the rest unsaid.
“I’ve only been here a few minutes. I was... just thinking.”
Van came forward. “You’re headed home now?”
“Absolutely.” She laughed. “It’s late. The store never lets me sleep in.”
“Don’t get me started on that.” He moved to offer his arm. She took it in an exaggerated sweep as if playing along with a joke. Inwardly, she was glad for the comfort of the small intimacy. The fright still had her heart thumping like a tractor engine. She hoped he wouldn't feel the throb of it in her arm. Then she
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