Lingering outside the front porch, I give the house a good stare. It’s the one time I can actually do something like this without looking like a total creep. There’s something sad and lonely about this place now, especially here in the dark, all alone. The roof sags a bit more than it used to, and the windows could use a good washing, but it’s beyond any of that.
I know what the house represents to me, but I can’t help but wonder what it means to River.
What’s a single man need with a big old farm house like this anyway?
Pulling in a breath of sweet country air, I release a deep yawn and make my way in.
Switching on a few lamps when I shuffle past the console table in the entryway, I pause when I notice a framed needle point with the saying “Bless This House” in pale blue thread. It doesn’t seem like something a bachelor cowboy would decorate with, so I can only assume it was a gift from his grandmother or someone special.
Moving on, I take the opportunity to walk around the house, going room to room and lingering like a sentimental weirdo.
I pass the wall in the living room where our upright piano once resided, remembering the teacher who used to come here every Monday night from six o’clock to seven to give us all lessons. She would slap our hands when we missed a note and always when my mother wasn’t looking. We were always too afraid of her to say anything.
Next I stand beside the picture window, where we used to gather on snow days and try to guess how deep it would be by noon. Aubrey always won. She was good at guessing things. Or maybe just plain lucky.
A white-washed built-in separates the dining room from the kitchen, and I chuckle to myself when I remember scratching my initials into one of the drawers. I’d never seen my mother so red-faced and speechless before, and I’d never heard my father yell so loud. From then on, I had a new respect for things, especially the kinds of things other people poured their blood, sweat, and tears into.
“It’s a piece of art,” my father screamed, his well-worn fingers tracing the intricate inlays of the glass cabinet fronts. “Someone made this, Leighton. Why the hell would you scratch your name into it like it belongs to you? What gives you the right?”
It was the first and only time I’d ever seen my father lose his cool, and I’m glad he did. I like to think that moment had something to do with my desire to study art history and restoration.
Tugging the third drawer on the left, I can’t help but to look and see if “LEH” is still carved into the bottom. Digging past a stack of outdated newspapers, old greeting cards, and junk mail, I run my fingers along the bottom until I come across the rough indentations.
Still there.
Smiling, I place everything back, only something on top catches my eye.
An obituary.
The woman on the front is young, with dark hair like mine and the prettiest smile I’ve ever seen.
Allison Lucille Gardner McCray passed away unexpectedly on Wednesday, June 20th, 2012 along with her five-year-old daughter, Emma, and her unborn son, Cannon. She is survived by her husband, River McCray of Bonesteel Creek, her parents, Evie and Roger Gardner of Colton Hills, a younger sister, Candace Gardner, of Colton Hills, an older brother, Bryan Gardner, of Fox Run, as well as her paternal grandparents, and several cousins, aunts, uncles, and close friends.
She was preceded in death by her maternal grandparents, Vivian and Harold Smyth, as well as a brother, Gregory, who died in infancy.
Allison was born April 21st, 1983. She attended Bonesteel County High School and upon graduation, pursued a degree in nursing at Colton Hills Community College where she met and eventually married the love of her life, River McCray. In her spare time, she enjoyed baking, rehabilitating injured animals at the Paxton Animal Sanctuary, and spending quality time with friends and family.
River and Allison welcomed Emma Bluebell McCray on January 1st, 2007. She was the center of their universe, with her vivacious spirit and her intense love for life on the farm. She especially loved caring for her chickens and sneaking extra treats to their cattle dog, Bowser. They were expecting a son, to be named Cannon, in August.
Funeral services for the McCrays will be held at the Brownstown Funeral Parlor on Saturday, the 23rd of June, at eleven o’clock in the morning. Burial to follow at Resting Hills Cemetery.
Memorial contributions may be made in the family’s name at First National Savings Bank in Bonesteel Creek.
My hands quaver, and I look at her picture again. Allison’s smile is contagious, her big, round eyes so full of life … a life she’d never live to see past the age of twenty-nine.
Flipping to the back, I see a collage of black and white photos. River and Allison smiling on their wedding day. River kissing a grinning, drooling baby Emma on the cheek. Allison and Emma riding a painted pony together. A beaming, radiant, and very pregnant Allison rubbing her belly and rocking in a chair on this very front porch.
So much life … just … gone.
All their hopes and dreams … obliterated.
My heart shatters, and my eyes burn until I can no longer see the photos in front of me. Drawing in a shaky breath, I place the paper back on top of the stack and slide the drawer closed.
So now I know.
Now I know why River McCray doesn’t smile.
Chapter Thirteen
River
“You look nice today.” Leighton glances up over a cup of coffee at my kitchen table Sunday morning as I adjust the knot of my tie. “Going somewhere special?”
“Church.”
“Ah.” She looks me up and down. “I had no idea you were the church-going type.”
“I’m not,” I say, moving to the coffee maker. “There’s a widow down the road. She’s too old to drive. I take her every Sunday.”
“That’s … really sweet.” She peers at me over the top of her coffee mug, and I can’t help but feel like she’s looking at me in a whole new light. “Mind if I tag along? I can’t remember the last time I went to church.”
“Truck leaves in ten minutes.”
Leighton springs up, dumping her coffee in the sink before heading to the stairs. Exactly ten minutes later, she’s standing at the front door in a white sundress, her dark hair pulled into a bun on the top of her head and her buxom mouth slicked in deep red.
“Is this okay?” she asks, giving me a spin. “I hope the lips aren’t too much, but I kind of felt washed out in all this white.”
“Trying to impress somebody?”
Leighton rolls her eyes, punching my arm as I walk past. A moment later, her heels are clicking down the front walk as we make our way to the truck. Her perfume fills the cabin, and I can’t stop stealing glances in her direction.
She’s a beautiful woman, but today she’s stunning. There’s a simplistic grace about her.
My Allison was that way.
A few minutes later, we pull into Mrs. Ada Flowers’ house at the top of the hill. She’s waiting on the front porch in her Sunday best, oversized organza hat and all, and I get out to help her in.