Gathering her skirt in one hand, Elise moved through the barn as if she’d never seen one. Her fingers trailed the poles, and she stopped to read what the Birch boys had penciled on them over the years.
Suddenly, she burst out laughing.
“C dropped the baby 1900.”
Julian said, “He probably wasn’t the only one.”
Still giggling, Elise tipped sideways to read another.
“H broken arm 1908
.
”
Julian sat on the swing and pushed his crutches back into the dark. “He likes to say Sam pushed him out of the hayloft, but it’s not true. Old Man Henry lost his balance. Lucky he didn’t crack his skull open.”
“I don’t remember that,” Elise said. “
C + S 1910
. That one’s in a heart. Was that Sarah?”
Julian shook his head. “A girl from out of town; came out to stay with Mr. and Mrs. Routh a while back. Sofia, I think? Brown hair, done up in a bunch of loopty braids . . .”
Pressing against a pole, Elise laughed. “
Loopty
braids.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I do. I’m just reeling at your way with words.” She cast her gaze toward the loft. There were notes written there, too. “Aren’t any of these about you?”
Heart racing, Julian patted the empty space beside him. “Most of mine are up top. Come here, I’ll show you.”
The mourning doves chirred in the rafters as Elise crossed the floor. It seemed like a faint buzz surrounded her, as if she carried open current on her skin. Pinning her skirts between her knees, she sank down with him and smiled. “Hiding a telescope over here?”
Feeding off that current, Julian grabbed the secondary rope and pulled. With a faint squeak every half turn, the pulley above them rolled, and the swing rose into the air. It was perfect for loading hay into the loft, and for scribing secrets into raw wood.
Julian hauled them up easily, savoring the burn of exertion. There was something primal about proving his strength to Elise. He wanted her to notice the breadth of his shoulders and the certainty in his hands.
They’d grown up together, and he remembered when Elise was nothing but elbows and knees. Whatever memory like that she had of him, he wanted it to burn away for good.
A little below the loft, Julian wound the rope on its hook. He tested the knot, then looked to Elise. “All right?”
Twining her arm around the rope on her side, Elise leaned forward to measure their height. The swing tilted with her, and she laughed in surprise. It sounded delicate and thin, nothing like her usual laugh. “Don’t let me fall.”
“I wouldn’t ever,” Julian swore. Then, brazen and brave, and perhaps a little crazy, he slipped an arm around her. His hand fell to her hip; his thumb grazed the curve of her waist. That glancing touch, drawing off her warmth and her softness, intoxicated him.
Elise swallowed a soft sound, craning to look past him and behind herself. “You promised me inscriptions.”
“I did, fair enough,” he said. His knee brushed hers as he turned the swing. “All the way that way, at the corner. Do you see it?
J can fly 1907
.”
“Julian, how did you get that there?”
“I flew!”
With an expectant smile, Elise leveled a gaze at him. She didn’t say anything, and she didn’t have to. Her quirked eyebrow spoke for her.
“I laid out in the loft. I have a gift for writing upside down,” he admitted.
Relaxing, Elise searched for another marking. The thin light danced, revealing and hiding handwriting that went from unsure to confident, growing bolder by the year. Crinkling her nose, she puzzled over another cryptic note.
“J DITV 5-6-1911
.
”
“The first time my father let me play ‘Down in the Valley’ on his fiddle after Sunday dinner.”
“I do love listening to you on that fiddle,” Elise said. She leaned against him, her head brushing his shoulder.
The lantern below was only so bright. It cast its fullest light on the floor and faded to an intimation of illumination above it. Elise and Julian were drawn in stark lines—faint light, but inky shadows. Her soft mouth became lush; her brows arched in pure, clean strokes.
Julian drank in her every detail. But for all his admiration of her clear eyes and the sable wing of her lashes, his gaze ultimately lingered on her lips. She was so close—so warm—he skimmed his thumb against her waist again. Everything inside him tightened, like he was being tuned to her key.
Fingers fluttering against his arm, Elise filled half the space between them. Julian filled the rest, his breath tracing warm against her skin as their lips met. It was barely a caress, more discovery than anything else.
Hanging above the barn floor, the swing drifted a lazy pattern. Nudged one way when Julian finally kissed her, it jolted abruptly when Elise broke away.
The current faltered.
His head still all white noise, Julian stared at her. He had no words in his mouth; everything was a jumble. In retreat, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
All the warmth between them drained away. Elise looked at the ceiling, then took a deep breath. Her graceful hands turned fidgety, pulling at the neck of her dress. The pretty cream lace there cast shadowed barbs on her throat.
“Elise, what?”
“I shouldn’t have come in here,” she said. Her voice wavered, and her lips, so lush with anticipation in the moment past, now trembled. “I’m sorry.”
Numb, Julian reached for the pulley rope. With clumsy hands he unmoored them and struggled to lower them to the ground. He wanted to let go, to go crashing down and shatter on the floor.
Doubts and questions careened through him. He bled from the inside, and the only thing he could think of to say was, “I thought you liked me too.”
Elise jumped from the swing before they reached the ground. She spun, wild shadows climbing the walls as she moved through the lantern’s light. Catching the swing’s ropes with both hands, she faced Julian, trapped him. “I do. I probably love you; I’ve been sweet on you my whole life.”
“Then why . . . ?”
“I’m the only one,” Elise said distantly. She swiped tears from her face, harder than she needed to. “My great-grandfather built our farm, Julian. The house, the barn, everything we have . . . it’s been passed down to the firstborn, and sooner, not later, it’s coming to me.”
Struggling to understand, Julian stared. “What does that have to do with anything?”
Slowly, Elise backed away. “I can’t be selfish and do as I please, Julian. I have to think about what comes next.”
“I’d never ask you to give up your farm,” Julian said.
“I know you wouldn’t.” She hesitated, and two more tears slipped down her face. Finally, resignation laced into the words, she said, “But I can’t work it alone. And you can’t do the kind of work it needs.”
They both looked down. Disguised in a shoe mostly stuffed with leather, hiding beneath cotton pants, Julian’s bad leg taunted. It hung too short; in the intermittent light, it seemed not only withered but gnarled.
At a distance, Julian heard Elise talking. Explaining that fence lines needed to be walked and calving happened in fields, in the middle of the night.
He couldn’t bear to look at her. Instead, he glanced at the wagon tucked in with the plow and the cutter. Charlie used to pull him to town in that wagon. These days, Julian used it in the fields, to push himself down rows of carrots and corn, beets and tomatoes—when they needed planting, or pinching back, or harvesting.
The world, the wide, limitless world, shrank to the size of the barn where he’d once lain fevering in the night. Gathering as much pride as he could, Julian swallowed his heart and said, “I hope nothing but the best for you.”
Elise swayed, as if struck. When she spoke again, her voice came ragged and thin. “I wish you’d hate me.”
“Well, I’m sorry, I don’t.” Standing, he didn’t try to hide that he had to hop to get to his crutches. And he didn’t bother to try to hide anything else, either. Picking up the lantern, he suffocated its flame. Deliberate, he hung it on a nail, and added, “I imagine Mama will cut you a piece of cake to take home.”
He kept his back straight and his head high until he heard the door close behind her. The terrible stillness in his bones was building; a hard and ugly calm came over him. Then he dropped one crutch and tossed the other up to catch it by the foot. With perfect form, he twisted like a batter at home plate, and swung.
The lantern exploded. Hot glass and beads of kerosene marked him.
A few minutes later, Charlie popped his head inside. “Hey, Julie. You coming to your own party?”
“Yeah.” Scrubbing his sleeve across his face, Julian retrieved his second crutch and went to leave. A fine spray of fire stung his brow; he couldn’t tell if it was blood or blisters, but he didn’t really care.
“Lord, baby brother. What did you do to your face?” Charlie asked. Then he caught a glimpse of the shattered lamp and put a hand out to stay him. Concerned, Charlie lowered his voice. “Hey now, what happened?”
Brushing his hand away, Julian pushed past him. He had a plan now: wash up, have some cake, and let this day die. But because Charlie liked to worry, and worse than that, liked to talk, Julian turned back.
“Nothing. It fell off the nail.”
Charlie frowned. “Julian . . .”
“Nothing happened, Charlie. Are you coming or not?”
With another quick look at the wreckage, Charlie nodded. He was careful to shut the door firmly and to drop the pin in the latch.
Julian went back to his party and faked a hundred smiles. He ate cake, but skipped the ice cream, and opened his gifts slowly. There was a new watch from his parents and a chain from his brothers.
The sheet music from Elise, he burned later in private.
As long as he moved from bench to bench through the night, Caleb found he could sleep in Central Park in downtown Los Angeles.
Bay trees hung low, crowded by sycamores and palms alike, darkening the paths in spite of the globe lights. The traffic on Olive Street never ceased, but then, the ocean had never been silent either. The constant hum of automobiles could seem like waves as long as Caleb closed his eyes.
Looking for work at The Pike had been a bad idea. A place like that let anybody hawk their wares; they didn’t care if good people were abused or tormented or worse. Old rage ran in hot tributaries beneath his skin.
Unreeling himself, Caleb stretched his back and his knees, and both still hurt as he approached the marble fountain in the middle of the green. Today would be better; today, he’d stay in the city.
As he took off his hat, he stared into the uneven water, then dipped his hands into it. Splashing his face and neck, he hissed at the cold shock. It didn’t clean like seawater. There was no scrub to it, no raw brace afterward when he lifted his face to the wind.
But this is what he had, and he would make do. He ignored the sideward glances thrown his way. He raised another handful and ran it through his hair. Let all of them in ironed shirts and new hats stare. They didn’t work for a living, did they? Load of princesses, all of them, hands silky and perfumed.
When one hesitated, as if he might dare say something, Caleb made a rude gesture that sent him scurrying away. Who were they to say
anything
to him?
Dipping another handful of water, Caleb drank deep. He swished it around to chase the old, sour taste from his tongue. Right before he leaned over to spit it back in the fountain, a nearby police officer cleared his throat.
After The Pike, Caleb couldn’t afford to draw more attention. He needed work; he needed a dollar to pay for a room, and a dinner that came hot on a plate instead of warm from the bins behind the Chinatown groceries.
Swallowing the water, Caleb put on a fake brogue and said, “Top of the morning to you.”
The officer narrowed his eyes. “On your way to work, then, are you?”
Caleb didn’t answer. Instead he wet his hand again and ran it through his hair as he stood. He knew he was being run off, but he couldn’t be forced to do it quickly. He leveled his black eyes to meet the officer’s gaze, a challenging cant to his shoulder.
In reply, the officer stroked his thumb down the gleaming club that hung at his hip.
Straightening his hat slowly with both hands, Caleb didn’t even blink. He smoothed his vest, patted his trousers dry, then even took the time to retie both shoes.
“Daylight’s burning,” the officer said. His face dimmed in splotches, little crimson signs to confess his discontent, even if his voice stayed milky calm. “Don’t want to be late, now, do you?”
“No, sir,” Caleb said, his voice thick with sarcasm. “Be downright stupid to stand around wasting time for no reason. I’m not a stupid man.”
No matter how fresh the morning air, no matter the spice of bay that clung to the park and freshened each step through it, Caleb couldn’t enjoy it. He was down to the clothes on his back, the shoes on his feet. Down to sleeping in parks and having nightmares about blood-wet calling cards.
Still annoyed, Caleb cut across the manicured lawn to the sidewalk. Cars jounced along beside him, the call of their horns like a flock of overexcited geese. They were stupid, graceless things, automobiles. Not like a ship on the waves, not graceful like those fine sailing girls at all.
Stepping in front of one, Caleb scraped his chin at the driver. Then he darted through a crowd of morning walkers to reach the shelter of a gold awning. The doors were locked, but Caleb waited until he saw motion inside and tapped on the glass.
“Not open,” the man called through it. His disheveled tie and unbuttoned vest testified that he hadn’t expected to see anyone so early.
Tapping again, Caleb pointed at the sign in the window. “Looking for work.”
The man lit up and he hurried to unlock the door. His watery eyes skimmed Caleb’s face, his damp shirt. But something made him smile anyway. “It’s only service and maintenance right now, so you know.”
Once, Caleb thought he might become a musician. Now his hands were hard, trained for hauling fishing gear or lathing wood . . . or mopping floors and fixing chairs in Clune’s Theatre Beautiful.