A
low, barely audible growl formed in his throat.
Latesha
sat on the couch and pulled Oprah onto her lap. “This play has been in the
works for months now. It’s days until the performance and there are no longer
any options. If Peter is gracious enough to help out, I’m not going to turn him
away.”
Mr.
Thomas shook his head in frustration. “How many lines does he have?”
“I
don’t know,” Latesha said shortly.
“What
I’m trying to say,” Mr. Thomas said, feeling dreadfully self-conscious, “is how
much will you be involved with him? Could he learn his lines at home and just
show up that night?”
“Yes,
that’s exactly what he’s doing.”
Mr.
Thomas sighed. “Okay, there’s no way to avoid him completely, but he does have
a minor part, so you won’t have to interact with him too much when you’re
directing.”
Latesha
faked a yawn. “Dad, I’d like to stay up and talk, but I’m just exhausted. We’ll
have to discuss this some other time.”
“Something
doesn’t feel right,” Mr. Thomas complained.
“I’m
going to bed,” Latesha told him. “And I do hope you will consider what he said
about the doors. Even if you came down and showed someone else what to do. That
would be a very valuable contribution, Dad.”
Mr.
Thomas smirked but made no reply. Latesha wanted to tell him the truth, but she
did not dare for fear it would spark the fuse to World War Three. But he would
have to find out eventually, and when he did it would not be good. It was going
to be the mother of all battles.
Chapter Ten
The
next morning Latesha secretly slipped her boots into her backpack. She finished
her morning chores, then went to her father’s room with his favorite meal of
bacon, eggs, toast and orange juice. Mr. Thomas was already awake and seemed in
relatively good spirits, convinced as he now was that Peter would soon be
completely out of their lives.
“Thanks,
honey,” Mr. Thomas said, then joked. “You must have a guilty conscience.”
“What
do you mean?” Latesha replied with trepidation.
“They
say men give their wives flowers if the man has done something bad.” He
laughed. “You must plan on doing something bad. Why else would you bring me a
spread like this?”
“Because
you’re my father,” she explained, “and families should always love each other,
no matter what.”
“Yes,
yes,” he said distractedly between bites. “Run along, honey. You don’t want to
be late.”
“I’ll
be home around supper time.”
“Sure
thing, honey. And thanks for the nice breakfast.”
Latesha
went to the university that morning, but as noon approached, she was very eager
to meet with Peter. She walked to the bench next to the Student Union Building
at the appointed time and sat on the same bench. A few minutes later he
approached the same way he had when they first met. It amazed Latesha to think
of how differently she saw this same man now.
“This
is where we first met,” he said with a sense of wonderment. “I’ll never forget
that day.”
“Me
neither.”
They
walked to his truck and he opened the door for her. She thanked him and sat
down with the distinguished air of a southern belle. They conversed the entire
way to Beechwood and when they reached an area close to the store, Latesha
pointed at an access road. “Park in there,” she said.
Peter
drove a short distance into the road and parked. Latesha took her boots out of
the backpack and put them on. She had a look of great concentration on her
face, as if she was contemplating one of the great mysteries of the universe.
Peter glanced at her, then put on his boots and closed the door. Latesha
slipped her backpack over her shoulders, looked at him with an expression of
expectation, then started walking toward a path.
“This
path goes right to The End of the Line Station,” she said, furtively glancing
at him.
“Lead
on.”
“It’s
beautiful, isn’t it?” she said as they walked across a little bridge.
“Very
beautiful,” he responded quietly.
They
strolled side by side along the path that led to the old station. Peter paused
to look at the crooked sign and the faded words. The End of the Line. They
stopped at the rundown shack. After slowly walking around it, they went inside.
The interior had been completely gutted. There was no bed, no furniture,
nothing of use. The walls were covered in spray paint. Broken glass littered
the floor, along with pine needles and the shells of acorns picked over by
squirrels. Peter and Latesha looked around for a few minutes, then walked
outside and found the beginning of the trail.
Latesha
led them along a path completely enclosed by trees, sunlight seldom shining
through. The ground was covered in moss and pine needles, and the air was heavy
with the moist smell of spruce and fir. Interspersed were gleaming white birch
trees, some with huge sections of bark peeling and waving gently in the wind.
But what impressed them most was the silence of the forest. Soon not even
passing cars on Beechwood Road could be heard.
“When
I was a little girl,” Latesha said, stopping after they had walked thirty
minutes, “Mama told me there was a spirit in here.” She opened her satchel and
took out two bottles of water and two apples. She gave him a bottle and an
apple. “The spirit watches over you,” Latesha continued with the innocence of a
little girl, “and it makes sure you’re all right. Mama called them the ‘good Windigo.’”
Then she asked in a most serious way, “I don’t think there ever were good Windigo,
were there?”
Peter
seemed positively delighted by her youthful charm. “That is one of many areas beyond
my expertise,” he said.
“What
do you think?” she persisted. “Are there any good Windigo?”
“I
can’t speak to that conclusively,” Peter said with another laugh, “but every
time I hear about Windigo, they’re dangerous and frightening.”
She
looked at him with a bemused expression. “Well, if a bad Windigo comes, you’ll
protect me, won’t you?”
“With
my life,” he stated with resolve.
Latesha
was impressed by his seriousness. “Well, maybe Windigo are bad,” she said, “but
that would be just like Mom. She found good in everything. She was the nicest
and sweetest person I ever met.”
“I
believe you,” he said meaningfully. “My father was the best friend I ever had.
I honestly can’t remember him ever having a mean word for anybody.”
She
nodded and they shared a moment of deep understanding.
“It’s
a shame the station is so run down,” Peter said as they resumed their walk.
“No,
it’s not,” Latesha disagreed. “It’s a good thing.”
“Why
do you say that?”
“It’s
a good thing that the station is no longer needed. It should be run down.”
“I
suppose you’re right,” Peter said thoughtfully.
“Imagine
what it was like back then. Runaways could have come through here in the dark,
maybe in the rain or snow. Some were probably starving or injured, and none of
them had any idea of what awaited them.”
“How
different this same path must have looked,” Peter said pensively.
“People
had been literally running for their lives, but when they reached this trail,
they were no longer being chased. Now it was pure survival. They had no money,
no prospects, no knowledge of the area. It was like starting over with nothing.
The station, at least, offered them food and water and shelter. But beyond that
everything was unknown.”
“It
must have been terrifying, Latesha.”
“I’m
sure it was.”
“What
would we have done in the same position?” he asked. “Would we have left our
families, our friends, everything that was familiar to us, and run away to an
uncertain future?”
“You
wouldn’t have had to worry about it,” Latesha responded.
“Say
that I did,” Peter proposed. “Would I have run away? Would you?”
“I
don’t know,” she said honestly, “but I do know that in 1840 Dembi Thomas
traversed this very path to the town.” For several seconds she did not, or
could not, speak, so strong were the thoughts and emotions swirling inside her.
“There’s a lot of history here for me, Peter.”
“Yes,
there is. I’m glad you asked me on this walk today. You have no idea how much
I’m enjoying this.”
“Yes,
I do,” she said, almost in a whisper.
For
the next thirty minutes they moved through the forest, skirting around a big
lake and laughingly jumping over a little brook. Near the end of the trail,
they heard people’s voices.
“That’s
the park,” Latesha said.
They
stopped on a small rise just inside the forest and saw the band shell about six
hundred yards away. Directly in front of them were about three hundred people,
many in their thirties. A few relics from Woodstock were interspersed
throughout the crowd, some of them with long hair and ragged clothes. At the
front stood a large video screen and a big truck, the words Retro Video Dance
Party written across it.
“Hi,”
said a man, coming on stage. “I’m Rick and we’re here to entertain you!”
The
audience cheered.
“We’re
going to get you up and dancing with a couple classics,” Rick said. “We’ll get
your blood pumping with the first one, then all you guys out there find your
favorite girl for a slow dance.” He nodded to someone backstage. “So, let’s get
this party started with
Take On Me
by
A-ha.”
The
video began and music blasted from the speakers. Instantly the youngest people
started dancing, their loud laughter echoing through the trees. No one noticed
Peter and Latesha on the little wooded hill behind them.
“Dance?”
he asked her.
“What?”
she returned.
“Want
to dance?”
“I
don’t know,” she answered evasively.
“You
told me you used to dance.”
“I
used to.”
“Tell
me about it,” he said with interest.
“During
the winters we had dance classes at the community center. I was only three or
four when Mom started taking me, but I stuck with it right through high
school.”
“What
kind of dancing did you do?”
“We
were introduced to African dance at first, but over the years I’ve tried
everything from ballet to modern.”
“I
danced a little with Shakespeare by the Sea,” Peter said. “They even had a
professional instruct us.”
About
halfway through the song, Peter held up his right hand, only his index finger
pointing at the sky. “Hello,” he said in a comical voice, moving his uplifted
finger as if it was talking. “Would you like to dance?”
Latesha
looked at him with amusement.
“Would
you like to dance?” his finger asked again.
“You’re
silly,” she said with a giggle.
Peter
encouraged her to raise her left hand and stick her index finger straight up
just as he had done. Latesha played along and laughed at him. Peter moved his
finger to the music as if it was dancing. Latesha realized what he was doing
and started moving her finger, mimicking everything he did. Soon their fingers
were bobbing and weaving in synchrony. Latesha burst into laughter and Peter
smiled handsomely, his good-natured expression irresistible to her. When the
song ended, their fingers stopped, but were only inches apart. Peter looked
into her eyes and she looked into his. Slowly he moved his finger forward. She
did the same. Their fingertips touched.
The
video,
Dust in the Wind
, by Kansas
began playing. Peter suddenly held up his left hand. Latesha lifted her right
hand and they intertwined fingers. They both looked slightly tentative, but
neither was willing to pull away. Peter slid his free arm around her supple
waist and gently pulled her fragrant body to his. They began to move in perfect
synchrony.
When
it was over, Latesha lightly touched Peter’s face with her fingertips. She
raised her lips to within a hair’s-breadth of his, her breath warm with the
scent of apple. Latesha lightly pressed her bosom against his chest, freezing
him as stiff as a tin soldier, and whispered, “We are not dust in the wind.”
“No,”
he whispered back, closing his eyes as his lips touched her hair. “Not even
close.”
Though
they separated, Latesha felt flushed with a fragile rapture. They stepped away
from each other and for five minutes watched the park below in silent
reflection. Then they walked down the hill toward the band shell, passing a
host of individuals and small groups playing everything from flutes and
violins, to acoustic guitars. A man dressed like a Russian peasant leaned
against a small arched bridge and played the balalaika. A large group of older
men and women gathered round him. Everywhere there was music, and gaiety, and
life.
They
walked to the band shell past an old man playing the spoons on his thigh, and
saw the Nova Scotia Symphony Orchestra setting up, all of them dressed in
formal attire. The master of ceremonies gave a speech about the Arts, thanked
Mrs. Georgina Rutherford for sponsoring the event, then said the orchestra
would next play
Vocalise
by
Rachmaninoff.
Latesha
drew close to Peter at the back of the crowd. “That’s so beautiful,” she
whispered thirty seconds after they began playing, her face full of wonder.
“Isn’t that beautiful, Peter?”
“It’s
my favorite piece of classical music,” he said. “This is incredible.”
While
both of them looked straight ahead, Peter touched Latesha’s hand with his index
finger. She touched his hand, feeling it, stroking it with her fingertips. Then
they slowly and tentatively held hands. Softly but snugly, they openly held
hands. She looked at him and he looked at her, and it felt good. It felt really
good. She could feel his pulse, his density, his desire, but just as with their
short dance, the classical selection ended much too quickly. They pulled away
and clapped enthusiastically, eventually walking back to the path from which
they had come.
All Along the Watchtower
by
Jimi Hendrix was playing on the big video screen. They watched until it was
over and then began their hike back to Beechwood.
Halfway
back, roughly a mile from the park and the Beechwood Road, they noticed a
couple of benches at the edge of the lake. The benches looked to be at least
fifty years old and could each hold two, but the odd feature about them was
that they were built facing each other, about four feet apart.
“That’s
a pretty little spot,” Peter said. “Can we sit for a minute?”
Latesha
walked past him without saying a word and sat on one of the benches, right in
the middle. Peter sat on the other bench, facing her. They both basked in the
warm sunshine that shimmered on the pristine lake. Latesha suddenly took off
her hiking boots and socks, and then rolled up her pant legs. She walked out a
few feet into the lake and looked back at Peter. He took off his boots and
socks, rolled up his pants, and joined her. They stood side by side and
chatted, laughing like youngsters on the first day of summer vacation. After
ten minutes they walked back to their respective benches and let the sun shine
on their naked feet.
“This
feels so good,” Latesha said, wiggling her toes and relaxing.
“It
does,” Peter agreed.
“The
music festival is fantastic.”