A Place to Call Home (40 page)

The house was a wood-shingled bungalow perched a good hundred feet up on a steep hillside above a steep street. A wooden staircase zigzagged in three long sections through brave, high-altitude-loving shrubbery, and at least
a dozen bird feeders clung precariously to the posts of a friendly porch draped in hanging plants.

I leaned on my cane, stared up at the three tiers of almost vertical wooden stairs, and felt Matthew watching me to see what kind of stuff I was made of. “Bigger and I can carry you up between us,” he said.

“Oh, I can climb these stairs on my own, but thank you.”

Nobody, not even me, believed I could make it up those stairs. Matthew and Tweet gave each other embarrassed looks. Roan took my arm. “You probably need a little more time before you start mountain climbing,” he grunted. “Even though I’m sure you could do it.” He guided me a few yards along the edge of the narrow yard and we studied a wooden platform about three feet square, set on a base of steel-pipe supports that rode a wooden monorail and cables straight up the hillside, to one end of the porch. “You can ride up on this,” Roan said. “We use it to haul groceries and furniture—”

“She might fall off,” Tweet called anxiously.

“No, I’ll climb up beside her.”

“It’d be safer if Bigger and I carried you, Claire,” Matthew repeated. I met his eyes. Green eyes. Sally McClendon’s eyes. Full of challenge. “Nobody’s carrying me,” I said. “If y’all can winch my ass all the way up on this low-rent freight elevator, then do it.”

Tweet whooped. “I’ll turn the crank!” She trotted up the stairs, her short, sturdy legs pumping and her trousered rump undulating athletically. Envy tightened my chest; I was tired of being an invalid.

“Honey, don’t let the dogs out yet,” Matthew called after her. “You know what happens when they see you cranking the platform.”

“Dogs?” I said. “What happens?”

Matthew feigned melodrama. “They jump all over her and sometimes she lets the crank slip.”

“So the platform plunges down the hill, eh?”

He arched a brow. “Yeah, but you probably wouldn’t fall more than a dozen feet before you were knocked unconscious.”

I flicked a hand. “No problem then.”

“He’s yanking your chain,” Roan said.

I surveyed the multitude of bird feeders planted above us. I looked at the tiny platform jutting from its crude rail. I was scared of the damned thing but wouldn’t admit it. “Give me a chunk of raw salmon to wave and a thousand bald eagles’ll probably swoop down and fly me to the porch. It’d be patriotic, too. Bald eagles. Oh, all right, I’ll just take your elevator. But let me off at the housewares floor. I need to buy a hostess gift.”

Matthew contemplated me intensely, his sandy brows a flat line, some new edge dawning in his appraisal. Then he stepped over to Roan, threw an arm around him, and gave him a quick hug. Roan slapped him gently on the back. Matthew nodded to me. “Bigger told me you never back down and never give up. I see what he means.”

We’d established the first round of respect then. Roan helped me sit gingerly on the contraption’s platform. As Tweet cranked a handle-and-gear device from the end of the porch, the platform jerked roughly up the rail. Roan and Matthew climbed on either side of me, plowing through the shrubbery, each extending an arm in front of me to block me if I went off headfirst. I didn’t flinch, didn’t bat a nervous eyelash. I finally realized how much I’d inherited from my Grandmother Elizabeth’s regal and obstinate English dignity. A person can hide a lot of fear and worry behind an aristocratic posture.

She would have been proud of me that day, and proud of Roan, and proud of Matthew, her lost grandson.

Matthew and Tweet had two dogs, one big, one little, shaggy mixed breeds, who wagged and slobbered and flopped on the main room’s braided rugs with their bellies exposed for me to scratch. A multilevel collection of
perches sat in one corner of the living room over wide wooden trays filled with kitty litter. Two large green parrots, two cockatiels, and two parakeets fluttered on the perches, squawking and relieving themselves with a cheerful bawdiness that reminded me of Grandpa Maloney’s pull-my-finger jokes.

My newly found cousin and his bride had a deceptively spartan honeymoon lifestyle—from a pair of expensive kayaks strapped to the ceiling of their back porch to the clustered diamonds of the wedding ring Tweet wore on her pragmatic little hand, they were enjoying the Eddie Bauer version of newlywed pioneer adventure, thanks to Roan.

It wasn’t that I thought they were naive and pampered. They’d both worked as veterinary assistants during college, and Roan had told me how he’d taught Matthew as a boy to manage money and make money. I knew that during the early years he and Matthew had lived in a lot of cheap apartments and in dilapidated houses Roan had bought to restore and resell—not exactly a luxurious upbringing for Matthew. But then Matthew hadn’t grown up hungry, neglected, and tortured, fighting bullies in the neighborhood and a bad-tempered alcoholic father at home.

I knew I could pry more personal information about him from Tweet. Reporters develop an instinct for the easy interviews, and she was one of the most openhearted people I’d ever met. While Matthew and Roan shared God-alone-knew-what-kind of dark discussions over salmon-grilling duties on a back porch beyond the kitchen, I sat down with Tweet in the living room.

The house was tiny—living room, kitchen, two bedrooms—adorable, and filled with comfortable furniture, bookcases stuffed with veterinary textbooks and novels, and funky craft-show lamps and knickknacks, mostly depicting animals. I curled up on a plush gray couch with an afghan draped over my legs, chilly enough in the Alaskan June evening to like the cover and the fire binning in a soot-stained
stone hearth near the couch. The afghan’s woven motif was a tree filled with songbirds.

“Maybe I’m reaching here,” I said to Tweet, as she nuzzled each of her bird flock and told me their names. “But I’d bet money that your nickname—”

“Yep,” she confirmed, grinning. “I love birds. I always have. I’ve raised every one of these from babyhood. This one”—she stroked one of the parrots, and he chewed her fingertip—“was my first bird. My parents gave him to me. He’s an old bird.”

I imagined Tweet visiting the farm, strolling among rows of commercial chicken houses. I hope she doesn’t fall in love with edible birds, I thought. “Where do your parents live?”

“They don’t.” She retrieved a glass of wine from a handsome oak table and sipped it. I sipped from my own glass and waited. “They were killed in a boating accident when I was twelve. Near where we lived. Seattle. Out on Puget Sound. I was raised by friends of my parents,” Tweet added. She smiled the way people do to put others at ease when a wornout personal grief has to be dispensed. “So I grew up like Matthew. Adopted.”

I found that very interesting and let the interest show on my face, which encouraged her to confide more. Tweet tiptoed to the kitchen doorway and glanced furtively across to the closed, glass-paned door to the back porch. Then she came over and sat down beside me. “Roan doesn’t know this, he thinks Matthew and I met in a class when we were in pre-vet, but we met in a support group on campus. For adoptees.”

I inhaled sharply. “Why haven’t y’all ever told Roan where you met?”

“Because he doesn’t understand how adopted people fantasize about their biological parents. Look, I knew my parents; I have great memories of them. My foster parents are nice people, but they’ve never taken my mom and dad’s place. Good, bad, or indifferent, your family is a big mystery
to Matthew, and he barely remembers his mother or her sisters. So, in a strange way, I’m at peace about my parents because at least I knew they wanted me, but Matthew can’t stop wondering about his.”

I sat back, blinking in amazement. “I can’t believe he’s never
admitted
that to Roan. They’re so close.”

“That’s the problem. Matthew knows how much it would hurt Roan to admit it. He doesn’t want Roan to feel betrayed. Roan’s always been dead-set against Matthew contacting any relatives. When Roan suddenly told us he was going back to Georgia to see if he could help you, we were shocked. We thought Roan had no good memories about your family. No reason to ever go back. That’s one reason Matthew never pushed it. For Roan’s sake.”

I was stunned. “But Roan was mainly concerned about protecting Matthew when Matthew was underage; he thought my family might find him and interfere. He was wrong—I’ve been trying to convince him that they would have been good to Matthew and him, too, if he’d let us know where he was. And now, of course, Matthew’s grown. There’s nothing to worry about.”

“Except that Matthew wants Roan’s approval,” Tweet whispered, glancing toward the kitchen again. “He won’t do anything that might make Roan feel discarded. But Roan doesn’t appreciate the larger concept of
family
the way Matthew and I do.”

“
The larger concept
? That’s not true.”

“Even Matthew says Roan is hard to figure out. For example, Roan enjoys women, he really likes them, they like him, he’s been involved with some really nice ladies, and he didn’t treat them like one-night stands—I mean, he’s always been very gentlemanly and discreet about his female friends—but marriage? Forget it. He’s never been interested in marriage or raising more children. I hope you don’t think I’m tacky for saying that.”

I dismissed the subject with an impatient shake of my head. She was missing the point. “You’re talking about a
man,” I emphasized slowly, “who devoted himself to bachelor fatherhood when he was barely grown himself. Family means
everything
to him.”

“I know, I know, it doesn’t make sense. I’m sorry. That thing about women—he certainly doesn’t feel casual about you. There’s never been anybody like you. For one thing, he’s never brought a woman to, hmmm, sleep over, around us before.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Listen to me. If Matthew wants to meet the family, Roan will support his decision. He’ll do what’s best for Matthew. You have to believe that.”

“Don’t get me wrong. Roan’s been wonderful to Matthew. And to me. When I lost my scholarship during my third year in pre-vet, he paid my tuition. He’s done so many things like that. Not just with money, but … accepting me. Including me. Treating me with respect.” She tapped her wineglass to mine. “Baccarat crystal. You should see the complete set. It was one of our engagement presents from Roan. And the day after we picked out our china and silver—you know, set it up with a bridal registry—the store delivered everything we listed to our apartment. One of Roan’s wedding presents. And you should have seen our wedding this spring.”

This spring
. Roan had visited me in the hospital but couldn’t stay. He had to be at Matthew and Tweet’s graduation from the university and at their wedding. Trying to do the right thing for me and for them. Two sides of an impossible situation.

“You look upset,” Tweet said anxiously. “I upset you. I’m sorry. I’m better with animals than I am with people.”

“No. Go on. Tell me about the wedding.”

“Roan paid for the whole thing. Three hundred guests, an orchestra at the reception. Lots of important people who are business acquaintances of Roan’s. I didn’t come from that kind of background. It was amazing. It was magical.” She dabbed her eyes. Her mop of shaggy golden hair danced in the firelight. One of the parakeets swooped across
the room and sat on her shoulder, picking at her hair. “Matthew asked Roan to serve as his best man. Roan was really pleased to be asked, I know.

“But he looked absolutely
miserable
during the ceremony. Everybody commented on it. He hates to be put on display in front of a crowd. That’s what he calls it. Put on
display
. In fact, he was kind of strange during the whole spring and now we understand why—he was going nuts over your circumstances, but he didn’t tell us about you until after we were married.”

Tweet didn’t understand Roan’s motivations—neither she nor Matthew could understand because they hadn’t seen how Roan grew up. He had been put on display too often in his life, and never without humiliation. He had learned to stay behind the scenes. What people didn’t know about him couldn’t hurt him.

“He didn’t want to ruin your special moments,” I told her. “You see, don’t you? He did what was best for Matthew, and for you, and that’s all that matters. Trust me. He knows the value of family loyalty.”

“I’m just saying he’s not comfortable with the whole family
ideals
thing—ceremony, traditions—he’s not interested in that. I’m just saying he’s not sentimental enough to understand that Matthew is very sentimental about relatives he’s never met.”

I chewed my tongue. Roan and I lost each other for twenty years because he committed himself to making a family for Matthew, to prove he deserved a family. I’d be damned if I’d let anything or anyone else take more time from us. I wanted to say that to Tweet, but it would only sound bitter. “You look more upset,” Tweet said. “I’m sorry. I squawk nonstop. Like a parrot.”

“At least you don’t shit when you talk.” That was a little blunt. I was thankful when she grinned. I exhaled and took a deep swallow of wine. “I’m just trying to sort through everything. About Matthew—you have to realize
that Roan only told me about him two days ago. And I’m the only person in the family who knows.”

Tweet leaned toward me. “Be honest with me.” Her round, sweet face became fierce; her voice shook with emotion. “I don’t want Matthew to visit your family if they’re going to reject him.”

“Matthew’s family,” I corrected. “And they won’t reject him.”

“Hmmm. Matthew can see Roan’s point of view. After all, his mother wasn’t exactly a pillar of the community, and she died when he was little, and apparently his … your uncle—”

“Is dead, too. He died in a hunting accident. You’d have to have known my Uncle Pete to appreciate how appropriate that was. And Matthew’s half brothers, Harold and Arlan, well, Harold died in a stock-car wreck and Arlan just sort of wandered off to see the world. I know they don’t sound very appealing, but—”

“Is most of your family really as openhearted as you? Will they be happy to learn about Matthew?”