What Love Sees (16 page)

In the patio with Chiang snoozing, Jean and Dody talked steadily until Dody mentioned Jimmy. Jean braced herself. She knew it would come up sometime. “I have something to tell you and then I don’t want to say any more about it. He sent a letter to Mother saying it would be better if we didn’t see each other any more.” Then she waited for Dody to change the subject. She was determined not to carry that grief across the continent to ruin her trip. This was her first great adventure all by herself with only Chiang to rely on. Leave Jimmy on the east coast, she’d told herself. This is California.

“Did you ever write to Forrest Holly?”

“Once.”

“Do you want to meet him?”

“Would it hurt your feelings terribly, Dody, if I told you I didn’t come all the way across the country just to visit you?”

Dody gave her a quick hug.

The next morning Dody phoned Forrest who lived thirty miles east in Ramona. “Jean’s here. Do you want to come to dinner soon?”

Apparently his answer was enthusiastic; his sister Alice dropped him off that afternoon. Dody led him into the living room and introduced him. Jean stood up and turned toward the direction of “Glad to meet you, Jean.”

“Hello.” The word caught in her throat. How stupid, she thought. Speak up. She held her hand out as she always did but no other hand grasped it. She moved it to the right and then left. Still nothing. Then she raised it and it touched the back of his. In a momentary scramble, their palms met. She giggled nervously. His hand was large and warm. The skin was rough but his touch was gentle. He smelled like leather.

“Wish I’d heard from you two last week. I just got back from fishing in Guymas. Caught half a gunny sack of halibut. You could’ve had some.” He certainly didn’t wait for formalities. Maybe this was the western way.

“Where’s Guymas?” Jean asked.

“It’s on the gulf, the mainland side.”

“Of Mexico?”

“No. Of California, but it’s in Mexico.” He spoke easily in what she presumed was a western cadence. His voice was rich and mellow.

“Is your ranch near Mexico?”

“No. It’s in the foothills northeast of here about an hour and a half. We raise milk cows. Also have twenty head in pens. Some are veal calves, some steers. We feed ’em on corn we grow on rented acreage.”

“I thought you raised turkeys.”

“My brother Lance does. In fact, he’s Turkey Judge.”

“What’s that?”

“Nothing much. Judges turkeys is all. He rides with my sis in his western duds in Turkey Day parades.”

Tready was right. He did sound like a hick.

“I ride, too,” he continued, “but not in any parades.”

“Where?”

“All over the valley and in the foothills. Mostly with Alice, but sometimes not. Horses know their way and I can remember a lot.”

“Do you ride a horse whenever you need to go anywhere?”

“No. Used to. Now I have Shasta.”

“What’s that?”

“She’s my car. Used to drive her myself, but now my Indian buddy drives for me.”

“Why do you call it—her—that?”

“B’cause sh’ hasta have gas and sh’ hasta have oil.”

Dody groaned. “I thought Shasta was a mountain.”

“I thought it was a horse,” Jean said.

“No. That’s Snort. Can you ride?”

“I did a little at school in New York.”

“Western?”

“No. English.”

“Well, then, I think Dody ought to bring you out to the ranch and we can take a little ride. I’ll teach you to ride western. Whaddya say?”

“Okay,” she said weakly. Her mind flashed to Andrebrook and the controlled riding ring. She hadn’t ridden since, but to say no would be to close a door that was being held open for her. Miss Weaver would push her right through it. “Of course,” she said more loudly. “I’d like to.”

With Dody keeping the conversation moving at a good clip, dinner passed quickly. Jean did not feel unhappy or uncomfortable the whole evening, only curious. Too soon, it seemed, Alice returned to pick him up. “See ya’ Tuesday, Jeanie,” he said, and then he was gone.

As soon as Jean heard Dody close the door, she asked, “What’s he look like?”

“Oh, about six feet tall with dark hair and a high forehead. He always wears sunglasses. He stands differently than most men, with his chest out as if he’s ready to do battle with the world. He keeps his head high. I’ve noticed it more lately. Sometimes he looks like a man fighting against becoming cowed by life’s troubles. Other times he looks like a boy just grown into a man’s body. He’s kind of lanky.”

“Is he handsome?”

“Jean, you’ve never asked that before about any man.”

“Quit teasing. Tell me.”

“Do you think I’d introduce you to some dud? Apparently before he lost his sight all the Ramona girls were crazy over him. Built up his ego. Too much, Mom says.”

It wasn’t an easy drive to the little backwater town near an Indian reservation. There was no way to get there without crossing some mountains. On the winding road past the town of Escondido, Jean couldn’t anticipate the turns and had to brace herself with both hands on the car seat. Her back was tense and her arms became tired. “My stomach’s doing flip flops,” she said.

“It’s the road,” Dody said.

“I’m not so sure.” She opened the window to get some fresh air but only smelled diesel from a truck ahead. “It’s pretty warm for February.”

“This isn’t New England, you know.”

On the phone Forrest and Dody had stretched the horseback ride to a visit of three days. Jean hadn’t counted on that, but she didn’t protest. Miss Weaver’s famous “life is to be lived” doctrine made her feel ready for whatever the experience would give her. “I don’t know what you got me into,” she said, more in sport than in trepidation. “What’s it like out here?”

“Beautiful. There’s manzanita all over. That’s a bush with crooked, woody branches. It has a smooth reddish bark that sometimes peels off. It grows in dry places. Ramona is awfully hot in the summer. There’s live oak, too, all over these hillsides, and avocado and citrus trees.”

“Live oak? As opposed to dead oak?”

“No. It’s just a different variety than in New England.”

“What kind of a town is Ramona?”

“Tired and kind of ramshackle. The main street is probably only six or eight blocks long. It’s picturesque because it’s surrounded on all sides by mountains, and sometimes people ride into town on horses, but nothing ever happens in Ramona.”

“Everybody probably knows everybody else’s business.”

“When Forrest lost his sight, it was the subject of gossip all over town. People said things like, ‘What a shame about the young Holly boy.’ ‘He’s a proud one, you know. That’s what caused it in the first place, going out for a pass that wasn’t his.’ That was a couple of years ago, before I met him.”

“You sure know a lot about him suddenly. Why didn’t you tell me any of this before?”

“You didn’t seem interested.” Jean felt the tease behind the words. Dody waited a minute, then continued. “Apparently the Hollys are well known because they’re a little better off than most Ramona people, and Mrs. Holly has done some kindly things for the Indians. They call her Lady Mother.”

“Frilly name.”

“Or Mother Holly.”

“Who told you all this?”

“Mom.”

For a moment Jean forgot to keep herself braced. They went around a sharp turn and she swung over toward the door. The road crossed a dry creek, not on a bridge but right on the creek bed. It bounced the car and Jean held her hands out on the seat on each side of her. Then Dody shifted down to climb a hill. At the top she turned in at a long driveway.

“Are we there?”

“Yes. It’s a wooden frame house with a screened porch, kind of lonesome. Pepper trees, cactus garden, rail fence. Forrest’s waiting outside.” Dody stopped the engine and got out. “What do you do, stand out here all day waiting for cars to stop?”

“It’s high time you two showed up. Hi ya, Jean.”

“Hi.”

“It’s farther out here than I remembered,” said Dody.

“Bring Jean on in so she won’t get hung up in the cactus. The cholla can jump right out and get you. Are your bags in the trunk?”

“Yes.” Jean got out and let Chiang out and stood by the car door. “Cactus? Are we in the desert?”

“No, but it’s pretty dry here in summer, though you couldn’t tell that now, and cactus is easier than a lawn.” Dody opened the trunk and Forrest felt for her suitcase and lifted it out. “Most of these we brought in. Barrel cactus, prickly pear, ocotillo, century plant and yucca, and they all have thorns sharp enough to skewer a bull’s catook, so don’t make any wild moves.”

Jean laughed. His folksy speech fascinated her. She wanted to remember that one to tell Icy.

Right away Jean met Forrest’s mother. “There’s a row of field stones around the cactus so if you feel that, Jean, don’t go any farther,” she explained. That was considerate, Jean thought. Mrs. Holly’s voice sounded softly lyrical. The air smelled dusty and it was warmer than when they were crossing the mountains. Inside the house Alice greeted her but Jean hardly had time to say three sentences before both women disappeared. All too soon Dody was ready to leave too. Jean rehearsed her phone number in case—in case of anything. Three days was a long time. There she was, in a strange house, with a near stranger 3000 miles from home. She knew it was a set-up with everybody suddenly gone, but she went along with it. It was the most adventure she’d had since Europe with Miss Weaver.

With his big rough hand making her arm tingle, Forrest guided her to a chair in the living room—she presumed it was the living room—and said, “Now, tell me all about yourself.”

What a question, right off. Either there was nothing shy about Forrest or he had no class. She didn’t know how to answer.

He filled in the awkward silence. “Just why aren’t you so smart? In your letter you said you were a happy family but not so smart.”

Suddenly she wished she hadn’t written that. “Oh, I don’t know what I meant. I guess I thought nothing I could say would be very interesting to you. I guess I meant we were plain.”

“How do you mean plain?”

“Well, we don’t ride horses and we don’t have cows and we don’t live on a ranch. We just live in a house and Father goes to work and we just live.”

“Sounds pretty breezy.”

His words rolled out liquid and smooth and warm. Because he kept the questions coming, she told him about Hickory Hill and school and Miss Weaver’s trip and music. At her feet, Chiang breathed deeply and shifted positions. Jean patted her on the neck and told Forrest all about her. “She’s a wonderful animal, and a good friend. She’s so intelligent and well-trained that people want to come up and pet her. I have to try to sense when that’s happening and ask people not to.”

“Why not?”

“She’s got to be responsive and responsible only to me and not be distracted. The instructors were very firm about that. But I can pet her and love her when she’s not working.”

Forrest wanted to know how she managed her, so she explained all the commands. When talking got easier, she told of the stumbling closeness between the students at The Seeing Eye and of the ache of saying goodbye, of Lee and how he expected his students to speak up for themselves and live in the real world. Forrest murmured encouragement that made her think he understood. Feeling naïve but going ahead anyway, she told him of Jimmy. She held back nothing. The last part was an effort, but it broke the ice. What did she have to lose?

When she finished, he didn’t say anything, but groped for her hand, got her knee instead and then drew back. They both laughed at their nervousness.

“I want to show you around before dinner,” he said. “This house started out as just one main room and a kitchen and bathroom, so we called it the cabin then. We still do even though it’s bigger now. There’s a screened porch you came through to get in.” He stood up. “Follow me.” They got up. Chiang followed Forrest and Jean followed Chiang, but when they got outside Forrest took Jean’s hand. It wasn’t necessary, she had Chiang, but it felt comfortable. The grasp of his big hand was firm on hers, swallowing it in tender roughness. Jean changed Chiang from the harness to the leash, which meant “off duty.”

“It’s warm even though it’s February. I can’t believe it.”

“It gets plenty cold sometimes, and it still may rain tonight. That’ll plaster down the dust some. When we were kids, we used to sleep in the screened porch. It was cool in summer, but in winter we’d heat stones about the size of cantaloupes on the oil burner in the living room, wrap them in newspaper and put them in our beds. They kept us dandy warm. But now I have my own little place out here in back. It’s a separate room detached from the house. I call it Hermit House. Here it is.”

He was careful to scrape his feet at the threshold. That surprised her. It made him seem like a gentleman even though so many things about him were rough. She scraped her feet, too. Inside, he pointed out where things were and guided her hands to feel his table with typewriter and radio, his bed, his dresser. “When I had a Hereford steer slaughtered, I took the hide to an old man, about ninety years old, and he tanned it. Feel it here on the floor, Jean. It’s a beauty. I do my push-ups on it.”

He led her outside again. They made a circle around the house. The circle seemed small to Jean. Her nostrils flared at the strong scent of horse manure made oppressive by the heat. It didn’t smell bad, actually, just earthy. “I smell horses.”

“Yup. In the back we have two barns, one for horses and one for cows. I’ll take you there tomorrow. Over here on this side of the cabin under the pepper trees are some cages. My father raised peafowl—you know, peacocks and hens—and so we still do. You’ll probably hear them before too long.”

“I hear them now.”

“I don’t mean them just walking around pecking. I mean screeching. In mating season they put up an awful racket. Let’s go in now. I smell dinner.”

The family supper was in the living room, the only other choice besides the kitchen. Forrest introduced his sister Helen and her husband Don. They lived in a tiny house on an adjacent two-acre plot behind the cabin. In a hubbub of commotion and teasing, they all got situated and settled down to say grace together. Jean hadn’t said grace for years. Quaint, she thought, and bowed her head. Just after the “amen,” Don’s voice boomed out, “Forrest, get your hand out of the muffins.” The command came like a benediction, without a pause.