Stepping Stones by Steve Gannon Page A

the torment in his face, but still I said nothing.
    “Seth, I tried to do right by you both,” he continued, fighting for control.  “I swear I tried, but after Ma died, I . . . I don’t know what happened.  I know I failed you, just like I failed with everything—the plans I had for this farm, and how I was gonna send you and Georgie to school downriver, and . . .”
    Pa’s words trailed off.  He swallowed hard, then pushed on.  “Seems like only yesterday your mother and I stood before the preacher, with little Georgie already on the way.  I was young then, not much older than you, full of plans and dreams.  Guess that’s all they were.  Dreams.  When Ma died, she took ’em with her.”
    He stepped closer, his eyes brimming.  “I know you blame me for what happened.  I know you hate me, boy.  But Seth, I done the best I could.”
    Outside, I could hear the wind moving through the trees.  The sun had crested the hill in back and was filtering through the window onto the worn planks at my feet.  It was time to go.  “I’ll be leaving now,” I said.
    Pa’s shoulders sagged.  “I don’t reckon I’ll see you again.”
    “No, Pa.  I reckon not.”
    “Well, so long, son,” he said softly .
    “Good-bye, Pa.”
    I picked up my duffel and left the cabin where I had spent the first fifteen years of my life.  I walked down the dirt road to Auger’s Crossing, and when I got to the river, I headed downstream and kept on going.
    I never looked back.
     
    *        *        *
     
    I awoke slowly.  Sunlight streamed into the stall, lighting the straw with a warm yellow glow.  Breathing in the sweet scent of alfalfa, I lay quietly, listening to the sounds of the waking farm.  Sandy’s mare whinnied in the next stall, kicking impatiently for her morning feed.  The cows’ lowing told me they needed attention too, and I heard the chickens already scratching in the yard.
    I rubbed my eyes.  S itting up, I spotted Christy Sullivan standing in the doorway.  From her expression, I knew she had prepared herself for the worst.
    “Good morning, Mr. Neuman,” she said.
    “Morning, Christy.”
    She took a deep breath.  “Mr. Neuman, is Lucky—”
    Before I could answer, Lucky shook off his blanket and let out a big, happy yelp.
    “Mr. Neuman, you fixed her!’ Christy squealed, running to her dog.
    “Yeah, honey, I did.  It’ll be some time before he’s walking again, but he’s gonna be all right.”
    I got a good feeling watching the two of them together—Christy kneeling in the straw talking nonsense to Lucky, Lucky licking any bare skin on his master he could reach .  Then, with a puzzled frown, Christy studied her dog for almost a full minute, her eyes fixed on him intently.  Then she turned to me.
    Something about her abruptly changed.  Curious, I searched her eyes, again noticing that they were a deep, deep blue shot through with tiny flecks of gold.  With a shock, I realized I had been right the day before.  They were just like Ma’s.
    Thoug h I tried, I couldn’t look away .  Time seemed to stop. I felt something shift ing inside my head.  All at once memories began flashing past my mind’s eye:  Ma.  The boulder.  Georgie’s death.  What I had done for Lucky.  Everything.
    Christy and I stared at each other, lost in the shock of recog nition.  A chill ran through me.  Christy was different, too.  In some strange way she was just as different as I, and she knew about me as well.  She knew what I had done, all of it, and what it had cost me.
    Without a word, Christy put her arms around my neck and gave me a hug.  Somehow, for me, that hug was like Ma’s cleansing rain.  For the first time since Georgie’s death I knew that I wasn’t alone, and that there was so meone I could trust.  Then I felt something break inside me, shatter like ice on a pond, and w ith blinding clarity I saw the terrible burden of hate I had given myself to carry, and I