Rik's Creek
by
Robert Wallace Paolinelli
I met Ruth
completely by chance. I was teaching English literature at a boarding school, a
small, private high school for girls. My first week of the semester had been
hectic and I had had no time for
anything else. When Friday afternoon rolled around, I was ready for a stroll to
be alone with my thoughts, and to visit a swift-moving creek one of my new
colleagues told me about, for I am an inveterate fisherman. Aside from playing
classical and flamenco guitar, fishing is my second passion, a lifelong one I
never grow tired of.
So, after class, I walked back to my bachelor's cottage, changed
into my field clothes and, with rod and reel, creel, tackle box, and a sandwich and two cans of beer, I
followed the directions of my colleague: Across the sports field, into the wood
of laurels, oaks and madrones, until I saw a
well-trodden path, go left and follow it to the creek, which he said was called
Rik's Creek.
It was autumn,
late September; the sun was warm; there was no wind; all was still. The path
zigzagged through the trees; there was a pleasant smell in the air. Then I
heard the sound of running water. I stopped, held my breath, closed my eyes,
and for a few moments listened to the flow of Rik's
Creek. I felt at peace with the sound of the water, it eased the tensions of
the hectic first week and I felt happy. Opening my eyes, I continued my march
and at last found myself on the banks of Rik's Creek which was running fast and deep. The creek was lit up
in spots by narrow shafts of soft September sunlight cutting through the trees.
I continued up
stream, keeping my eyes peeled for a likely spot.
Having
reconnoitered as far as I wanted to go, I put my beers in the shallows with a
heavy stone on top, rigged my line, baited my hook, cast out, sat down, took
out my sandwich, took a leisurely bite and waited. For me fishing is mainly waiting,
and I don't mind waiting. If I caught a fish, I caught
a fish. If I didn't catch one--well, there would be
other days. I leaned back on the trunk of an old laurel tree, looked up to the
sky and felt good for having accepted the teaching position when I needed it
most. I had wanted to get out of Southern California, so when the position at
the Josephine Brawley High School for Girls became available, I applied and was
accepted. I was offered a one year contract--which
included a small, on-campus, cottage.
Now I was at
peace and fishing. The beer was cold. I took a long drink of it, and another
bite of my sandwich, washed down with another slug of beer, cooled by the chill
waters of Rik's Creek.
I guess the
peace I was feeling, the sandwich, the good beer and the laziness of the hour
put me to sleep, for when I awoke, it was almost
sundown and just enough light to see silhouettes. The fishing reel was not in
my hands nor was it at my side and I was not alone.
Sitting on the
banks of the creek I could see the head of a girl with
long hair and she was holding my fishing rod. I was a bit surprised and did not
make a sound or move; I just lay there against the tree watching. The girl was
humming "My Old Kentucky Home." She seemed to be very much at home herself,
and I sensed her contentment and it made me feel good that someone enjoyed
fishing as much as I do.
Nevertheless,
I simply couldn't sit where I was, so I pretended I
was just waking up and yawned louder than necessary.
She turned
around; I could barely see her face but I could see she was smiling.
"Hello," she said in a cheery voice. "Hello, yourself," I
replied. "What are you doing with my rod and reel."
"I'm
fishing--I was walking along the creek and saw you dozing and the rod was on
the ground and the line was moving, so I grabbed the line and really hooked the
fish then reeled it in," she said, all in one breath and very
quickly--then added in a contrite voice, "Are you angry?"
"Angry"
How could I be angry? No, I'm not angry. Where's the
fish?"
"In your
creel," she answered, "along with the other ones."
"Others?" I jumped up and was at her side. I
fumbled in my pockets for matches, found a box, struck one and in the orange
glow of the match saw three, pan-sized trout!
The match went
out, I struck another, but this time, instead of the fish, I looked at my
mysterious angler and saw a young girl, about sixteen, with long, dark hair, an
unblemished, pretty face and green eyes, which took my breath
away. I stared at her eyes as if I'd never seen
green eyes before, and the flame of the match, which was about to burn my
fingers, made them stand out like two rich gems in the fast falling darkness.
Then the match went out. But I didn't light another.
"Well,"
I said, "since you've done all the work, you can have the fish."
"Oh no;
you keep them. We've got a freezer full of them."
Then I asked,
"Are you a Brawley student?"
"No,"
she replied, "I live over there," and she pointed across Rik's Creek through the trees.
"What's
your name?"
"Ruth
Canfield. What' yours?"
"Bob Durrell,
pleased to meet you, Ruth," and I offered my hand. Her hand was soft, and
her grip firm, confident.
"Pleased
to meet you, too," she answered.
Suddenly it
was dark and I wondered how she was going to cross the creek to go home and how
I would make my way back to the campus through the dense and now dark wood.
"How will
you get home?" I inquired.
"The same
way I always do, walk," and she giggled in her girlish way at her
matter-of-factness.
I struck another
match. "That's well and good for you, Ruth, but I've just been here for
the first time today and I'd appreciate it if you would suggest an alternative
way back to the campus."
"No
problem, Bob, we take the footbridge a little ways up stream, then we go back
to my place and my mom can drive you back," she said, again with her
matter-of-factness.
"A
deal," said I, handing her the box of matches, "Keep striking matches
while I get my things together."
"Don't
forget your other beer in the stream," she said, striking a match and
holding it close to the water and illuminating the shining can.
When all was
packed and ready, she lead the way striking matches
and cupping them and I followed. The bridge--if it could be called that, was two six inch wide planks, side by side, across the
stream. Our weight made them sag but we made it across. She walked straight
ahead through a small stand of trees on the other side of which was a light
about a hundred yards away. Our line of march was
clear. I trusted her knowledge of the terrain and walked at her side.
"You
teach over at the school?" she asked.
"Yes I
do; it's my first week."
"What do
you teach?"
"English literature."
"Boring,"
she said, "English lit is boring."
"How can
you say that?"
"Because
I like to read and the teachers make reading boring with all their comments
about what you need to look for and silly comparisons that don't have anything
to do with the story."
She did have a
point, but I was not in the mood for debate, so I changed the subject:
"What's your favorite subject in school, Ruth?"
"I've got
two of them: Music and history--I want to be an opera singer and go to La Scala some day."
I was
impressed. A fledgling opera singer and histo-rian.
My curiosity about her was now increased. "And do your parents know you
want to sing opera some day?"
"I don't
have parents, there's only my mom--dad left us when I was six." She
answered with no further comment.
As we neared
the house I saw a small pick-up parked in front. "Mom. I've got company!" she called out.
A moment later
the door opened, "Is that you, Ruthie?"
I saw a woman with long hair,
just like Ruth's standing in the doorway the light was behind her so I couldn't
see her face at first, but I could see the outline of her body, which was
well-proportioned. She walked out to greet us with a puzzled look on her face.
"This is
Bob Durrell, mom, he teaches over at Brawley; this is
my mother, Janet."
"How do
you do," I said, extending my free hand, which she took.
"Pleased
to meet you," she said with a slight hint of suspicion in her voice.
"How is it that you've come home with my daughter?" But before I could explain, Ruth explained in my stead:--
"I'll
tell you all about it, mom, but could we go in? I've got to go to the
bathroom," and Ruth pushed past her mother and half ran into the house.
"Won't
you come in, Mr. Durrell?" she said, stepping
aside and allowing me to go first. I waited for her just inside the door. When
she entered into the light I saw the unmistakable
features of Ruth in Janet's comely face and the same kind of green eyes which
had captured me by the orange glow of the matches at Rik's
Creek earlier. Again I stared at green eyes because
they are not common among dark-haired people. But I
also saw that she was looking at me very strangely, eyeing me up and down.
"Excuse
me for being so direct, Mr. Durrell, but I would like
some explanation." Her arms were folded and she did not take her eyes off
me. I had my creel over my shoulder, my fishing rod and tackle box in one hand
and I felt a little foolish. Perhaps I should have just tried to find the way
back myself and I would have spared myself the maternal scrutiny I was now
going through. Just then a door closed and footsteps were heard approaching us
and out walked Ruth with her cheery smile and in her friendly voice began
explaining how it was that we had met. Janet Can-field's face softened as the
story unfolded until at the end she burst into genuine laughter and asked, "Let me see the fish."
I was
relieved. I took off the creel, opened it and showed her. "By rights,
they're Ruth's; she caught them," I said.
"Mom, I'm
hungry. Is dinner ready?"
"It will
be--but I wasn't expecting company. I hope you don't mind just some soup, bread
and salad, Mr. durrell."
"Oh, you
needn't put yourself out, ma'am; but if you'd drive me back to the campus, I'd
appreciate that."
"Let's
cook the trout, mom--and you stay for dinner, Bob, we hardly ever have any
company--and then she can drive you back. Can we have the soup, mom?"
"Well, I
guess it's settled, Mr. Durrell," she said
good-naturedly, "let me take your things. Ruth, show him where to wash
up."
She took the
rod, stood it up by the door, took the creel, and,
walking to the sink, took out the fish and put them on the counter.
While I washed
up, another place had been set for me; and upon returning, I found a steaming
bowl of vegetable-barley soup and slices of what turned out to be delicious,
homemade bread.
"Start
without me," said Janet, "I'll clean the trout; it won't take long,
please, sit down, Mr. Durrell, don't be shy, you're
welcome at our table." She spoke with that same matter-of-factness I'd heard in Ruth's voice.
The soup, the
bread and butter, the salad and the fresh trout were excellent. After dinner Ruth made us all tea.
"May I
smoke?" I asked.
"By all means. Make yourself at home," said Janet.
Ruth raced for an ashtray and placed it before me and I took out my pipe.
All during dinner Janet Canfield had been silent except, of course, to
offer more food. She was a gracious hostess to a most unexpected guest. But after dinner, while Ruth, without prompting, cleared the
table and washed the dishes and tidied up the kitchen, Janet, now more relaxed,
became friendlier.
"We don't
have many guests. Why I'd venture to say you're the
first dinner guest in --well--maybe a couple of months. You must excuse me if I
seemed a bit withdrawn. I apologize."
"I'm the
one who should apologize," I answered politely. "And I appreciate
your hospitality--and the way you cooked the trout. I've not tasted such good
fish in ages."
"No
secret about the fish--just some garlic and butter and a dash of white
wine."
"Nonetheless,
it was delicious. Ruth told me you have a freezer full of trout. You must be
quite the angler your-self."
Ruth turned
from the sink, "Mom's a great fisherman--or woman--I should say,"
then returned to her dishwashing."
"Now I
know where Ruth got her skill. She's quite good."
"Well,
yes, we do a lot of fishing. I like to fish. It's a
good way to spend some quiet hours. But tell me, Mr. Durrell,
what do you teach over at the Brawley school?"
"English literature."
"I have
to admit that English literature was my worst subject in college. I
congratulate you on sticking to it."
"And what
is your field, if you don't mind me asking?"
"Not at all. I'm the manager and day ticket agent and
baggage handler at the bus depot," she said, "not very exciting, but
the pay is good, the work interesting and I have weekends off."
"Have you
worked there long?" I asked, not really interested--then
it struck me that my question might have seemed patronizing; but no, she didn't
seem to mind and answered me:--
"Long enough to buy this place and pay half the mortgage.
But enough shop talk, Mr. Durrell.
Since it's Friday, we usually have a music recital,
that is, Ruth sings the songs she's practiced during the week and I accompany
her on the harp and sort of coach, too, if needed, and I'm inviting you to
stay, that is, if you want to, and if Ruth doesn't mind an audience."
Again I was taken by her directness and touched by her
invitation. I was comfortable there; I had had a good dinner and had no desire
to return to my bachelor's cottage at the school. "Thank you for asking me
to stay; aside from a few faculty members, I've met no one here and I'm touched
that you've asked me to stay. Thank you."
Don't mention it. Ruth," she said, turning to her
daughter, "do you mind if Mr. Durrell
stays?"
"No. I'm glad you asked, I'll get my music. See you in the music
room," and off she went upstairs.
"You have
a music room?" I asked.
"Well not
exactly. It's just a small room down the hall where I
keep the harp--it's not exactly the kind of instrument one carries around. Come
on, I'll show you," and, guiding me down the hall just off the kitchen, we
entered a small room, in the middle of which was a concert harp, a chair and a
music sand. The room was painted a pastel lavender and
the windows had white curtains; there was a small love seat too, a bookcase
with sheet music and books; and next to the bookcase I saw a guitar case. Janet
sat in the chair and began to tune her instrument. "Have a seat," she
said, without looking up from her harp.
"Is that
your guitar?" I asked.
"No; it
belonged to my late father. He wasn't a very good player, but now and then he'd
pull it out and play a few chords."
"May I
open the case and examine it?"
"Yes, if
you're careful. It has great sentimental value."
"May I
tell you that I am an accomplished guitar player? Flamenco
and classical guitar."
"Really?"
she said, stopping her tuning and lifting her head. "Then, by all means,
take it out, tune it and give us a song or two, Mr. Durrell.
Well, well, what a pleasant evening this is going to be: A
guitarist, a harpist and a soprano. What a treat!" she said, with
absolute delight in her voice and vividly expressed on her face and in her
beautiful green eyes.
Ruth came in.
"Here's the diva," she said. I turned and looked and to my surprise I
saw her dressed in a long, dark blue gown, the kind a soloist might wear at a
recital. Her hair was combed back; she'd put a bit of
lipstick on, not much, and around her neck was a double strand of costume
jewelry pearls. She looked stunning nd I said so. She
bowed her head in genuine shyness.
"Mr durrell
plays the guitar, Ruth, and he's going to play grandpa's guitar. Won't the
evening be grand?"
"Great.
Maybe he can accompany me with one of my songs."
"I'd be
glad to. What did you have in mind, Ruth?"
"I've not
practiced it a lot. Let me get the music out."
She knelt on
the floor, spread out several sheets of music searching for her piece and I
opened the guitar case and to my surprise saw a very old Ramirez guitar, and
when I had it out and examined it, I saw that it was in excellent condition. I
began to tune the very fine Ramirez.
"Here's
the song, Bob," said Ruth, getting up and handing it to me. On the title
page was written, Plaisir D'Amour,
and old French song. I knew it well. "I know this song," I said with
enthusiasm, for I always felt good when around music land musicians, be they
professionals or amateurs.
"Good,"
she said, "it will be number three on the program
after our intermission," she continued very seri-ously.
I liked Ruth, liked her because I could see the germinating seed of a very
determined young girl who, even though far removed from a cosmopolitan milieu,
took great pains to act out her dream of becoming an opera singer and to sing
at Milan's La Scala. It was a tremendous goal, a long
arduous journey and I was proud to have made her acquaintance.
The guitar was
tuned and I announced it.
"Very
well, Mr. Durrell," said Janet, in a jocular
voice, "you've eaten, and now you must play for your supper."
"Gladly,"
said I, with a flourish of my hand a bow, "but I'll need a
chair."
"Use
mine. We'll sit on the love seat."
Sitting down and adjusting the guitar, I strummed a little to warm
up my fingers then announced to my audience: "In honor of this occasion,
and because I am sitting next to this beautiful harp and because I have been
treated royally by my tow fine hostesses, I shall play, Fantasia que contrahaze la harpa en la manera de Ludovico, by Alonso Mudarra."
"Bravo!"
called out Janet, "I know it." She clapped and so did Ruth and I felt
I was in front of a large and appreciative audience at a very important
concert.
The Fantasia I
played was a delicate piece; I'd not played it in a long time, but my fingers
were certain and because I was so happy (as I usually am when I play) I played
the simple piece with a warmth I'd not ever experienced with it before. Being a
short work, it was over in less than five minutes; but my enthusiastic audience
applauded and called out, "Encore, encore!" I stood up and bowed with
a big grin on my face, resat and prepared for my
encore.
"My next
piece is by the famous Francisco Tarrega, Recuerdos de la Alhambra." It is one of my favorite
guitar pieces, and I played this vibrant, slightly melancholic piece with all
my heart. I could tell Ruth and Janet truly appreciated the piece, for when it
was finished there was a silence in that small room, a reverent silence which,
some-how, bound us together in time, space and musical vibration. My head was
bowed, my eyes were closed, I felt our silence deeply and I was glad to be
where I was with the mother and daughter who had been so very kind to a
complete stranger. When I raised my head and opened my eyes, they burst out
with bravos and an appreciative clapping which I accepted most graciously
because I knew it was from their hearts.
"Thank
you," I said, standing and taking a bow.
"You are
a superlative and accomplished musician, Mr. Durrell.
You are doubly welcome to our house," said Janet; and she got up from the
love seat, walked over to me and, extending her hand, shook mine and said,
"Thank you; my father would have loved having his instrument played so
beautifully," she said, brushing away two tears welling up in her eyes;
then turning, called to Ruth. "Ruthie, now it's your turn. Come
along."
For more than
half an hour Ruth sang with Janet's excellent accompaniment on the harp. Ruth's
voice was clear and well-controlled. She had a natural
talent which I knew would develop with time, proper
training and practice. Her sweet voice endeared me to her.
That night I
sat listening to her angelic voice fill the small music room, hovering in the
air, clinging to everything. The lighting in the room seemed to get brighter
the longer she sang; and at one point I shaded my
eyes. When the last notes of Shenandoah faded, it was my turn to burst into
applause and shouts of "Brava! Bravissima!" She blushed and bowed deeply, gracefully and I knew,
as I saw her bow, she would one day have her dream come true.
Janet
announced the intermission and we all went to the kitchen
where tea was made and Ruthie served us some cookies she said she'd
made, but would not eat because she still had to sing. As we drank our tea and
ate the cookies I asked, "And you say you have these recitals every
Friday?"
"Yes, for
the last year or so--that's when Ruth decided singing was what she wanted most
in her life."
"Commendable, absolutely commendable. Your encour-agement will take her far. I compliment you. It's not every mother who would put herself out as you have.
Does Ruth have a voice teacher?"
"Yes; in
fact she's a former Brawley faculty member, Caterina Sandini--she used to direct the Brawley chorus and teach
piano; but she's retired now and lives not far from us--just down the road. I
think you'd like her, Mr. Durrell.
She likes guitar music, too."
"I'd like
to meet her. I like musical people."
"And she's funny," added Ruth with a giggle, and she
stood up, put one hand at her side, threw back her head, pursed her lips, and,
in a deeper voice, and rolling her Rs, mimicked her
voice teacher: "Now signorina, you must stand
straight and breath deeply, deeply, like this--" and Ruth breathed deeply,
exaggeratingly so, and, exhaling, contin-ued:
"Remember, the breath, the breath is so very important. No correct breath, no good singing. No?" and she burst
into laughter and so did we.
"Ruthie,
that's not kind. Caterina is the most impor-tant person in your musical life--she's your
teacher," said Janet, frowning, but, at the same time obviously amused by
her daughter's skit.
"Yes, mother,"
she answered demurely, nevertheless rejoined with her smile and wit--"but
she's still funny." Janet looked at her with a smile and a shake of her
head. It was obvious to me that there was a great affection and respect between
Ruth and her mother; it was warm and shared; not strained. The comfortableness
they felt in each other's company was transferred, also, to me, their solitary
guest.
Ruth looked at
her watch. "Intermission's over," and we trooped back to the music
room. "I'll be singing Plaisir D'Amour, so if you'll tune the guitar I'd appreciate
it."
"Very
well," I answered. When it was tuned I played the
introduction and waited for her to begin. Without missing a beat, she began the
old love song. Her phrasing was perfect. Again her
crystal voice filled the room making it magic. Janet was sitting on the love
seat; Ruth was standing, more or less, in the middle of the room facing her
mother; but then turned and faced me, her face beaming with the joy of music
and her green, beautiful eyes were staring right at me. Knowing the song well,
I did not need to look at the music, so our eyes met and when they did I almost
lost the beat, for in her eyes I could read infatuation--and, frankly--it
startled me. Nevertheless, I continued playing without mishap. But I was glad when the song was over.
The hour was
late. After putting away the guitar and after declining a cup of tea (pleading
the hour) I asked to be driven back.
Janet was
quiet most of the drive back, but Ruth went on chatting about this and that in
he girlish way. Her polished, almost professional demeanor while she had sung
and the juxtaposition of her teenage spontaneity were a marvel to me.
At my front
door, with the engine still running, we traded phone numbers and amenities.
Janet shook my hand, "Mr. Durrell, it was
sublime pleasure having had you as our guest; and I extend our welcome to you
to come and visit us again for our Friday recitals." And
Ruth burst forth: "Can you come next Friday, Bob, and bring your guitar?
Can you practice Manha de Carnaval?
I want to sing it next Friday."
"Ruthie,"
said Janet a little embarrassed.
"It's okay, Mrs. Canfield, I like her enthusiasm--and I won't
have to practice much, I know it, too. I'd like to
accompany you. You're quite a talented young lady, and
it would be my pleasure. Thank you again, both of you, for a wonderful evening.
I'll call during the week. Good night."
Janet put the
pick-up in gear and drove off slowly, but not before
she gave me a big, friendly grin and a wave of her hand. Ruth stuck her head
out of the window. "See you next week. Good night, Bob."
Afterward, I
reflected on the pleasant evening and the strange way I'd
met Ruth--and all the time I could see her beautiful green eyes in my mind's
eye. They were singing to me; and with that image, I fell asleep in my chair.
II
All the next
week I was the earnest task master and devoted my days to teaching and my
evenings to correcting papers and preparing lessons, listening to the autumn
winds sough through the trees outside my cottage and, playing my guitar. So
absorbed was I in my busy week that it wasn't until
Friday that I realized my work-week was over and had the weekend free. At lunch time, when I went to my faculty mailbox I found a
telephone message. "You are cordially invited, also, to dinner; and, of
course, the recital. Will you come? Ruth."
The seeing of
her name brought her gem-green eyes to mind. I'd not
planned anything for dinner. It being noon, and knowing no one to be at the
Canfield home, I got the number of the bus depot and called. Janet answered.
When She understood it was I, she said, "I'm
sorry I didn't call you myself. But it's always busy
here Fridays. Anyway, will you come for dinner? I'd
like that. We're going to have a pork roast, pasta and
Puccini arias for the recital. What do you say?"
How could I
refuse? but added: "Have you prepared a
dessert?:"
"Not
really."
"Then
allow me to bring something."
"Very
well--and don't forget to bring your guitar."
"I won't.
What time shall I come?"
"Any time after six."
So began a
weekly ritual I came to look forward to. The food was
always delicious, the music the three of us made was excellent and gradually I
began to feel a deep attach-ment to the Canfield
women--especially Janet, but there was always Ruth's almost pained look
whenever Janet and I would demonstrate our growing affection for one another. I
knew if I did not say something to janet
there might be pain and resentment should we decide to make a permanent
commitment.
Christmas vacation rolled by. For fifteen days
the school would be in recess and I would be free to indulge myself until the
fifth of January. On the first day of my winter vacation, while I was sitting
in front of my fire-place drinking my morning coffee
and trying to decide whether I should practice my guitar, go for a long walk or
read--or all three, I heard a knock on my door. Not expec-ting
anyone, I was surprised at the knock. When I opened the front door there stood
Ruth, a long, bright red scarf around her throat and head, and over her torso a
heavy, bulky sweater which made her seem plump, hiding
her svelte figure. Her visit was indeed a surprise, but I began to wonder why
she was here. I invited her in and offered her some refreshment, and as we sat
in front of the fire I asked, "What brings you out so early in the
morning?"
"I just
thought I'd come and spend the morning with you. Do you mind my being
here?"
"No; but
I wish you would've called first."
"Oh, I
thought you'd like a surprise, but I won't stay long...only...well...I
thought...I mean, there's no school and mom's at work until five...and I don't
really feel like staying alone in the house...and here you are in the same
situation..."
I decided to
be a polite host, but I had serious reservations about being alone with Ruth
whose infatuation with me was strong, and, at times, I sensed a little jealousy
in her about the affection growing between Janet and me.
There was a
long, tense silence as we two sat in front of the fire drinking our coffee. It
was then I decided to speak to Ruth about her mother and me.
"Ruthie,
your mother and I think highly of each other and...well..."
"Do you
mean you're in love? That's great! Will you ask mom to
marry you? I hope so, Bob."
"Hey,
hold on a minute. You've got us in love and married all in one breath."
She had an excited, dreamy look in her eyes and she was looking directly at me
and suddenly by what she'd said I intuited that what I thought was girlish
infatuation was not that at all but something else. But
to confirm my intuition I asked, "Do you ever think of your father?"
She blinked
her eyes and her entire expression changed. "Dad?
No; never--never think of him; he's not around and,
frankly, I don't care," she ended, turning away from me and folding her
arms and staring at her shoes. "Why'd you talk about that man; just when I
was hoping you'd marry mom and be my dad," she said almost dejectedly
There, it was
out and my intuition proved correct: She was not infatuated with me; she wanted
me to be her father! I was touched, my eyes watered and I wiped the nascent
tears from my eyes. This young soprano loved me as
would a daughter. I was moved to embrace her, but I sat and sipped my coffee
not really knowing what to say. Again we sat in a long
silence. It was not an uncomfortable silence; I rather
enjoyed it. We were like old friends between whom a lot of talking is not
necessary.
Ruth got up
and, walking up to me, put her hand on my shoulder. I turned and met her gaze.
"I apologize for having such a big mouth, Bob. I shouldn't
have said what I did. After all, it's up to you and mom if you want to marry--I
don't have any say about it at all."
"But you
do," I piped back. "I couldn't--wouldn't marry her
if you didn't like me--but now everything is different."
"It
is?" she said excitedly.
"Why
yes--everything." And I got very excited and
began to speak quickly. "Ruthie, I thought you were infatuated with me and
were sometimes jealous--especially when I'd put my arm around your mother. But that wasn't so. Now I understand."
"Of
course it wasn't so. I've liked you from the first time we met and if I seemed
to be jealous--well it wasn't jealousy, it's because I know my mom and she's a
very sensitive person and I didn't want her to get hurt. She had a boyfriend a
couple of years ago and I didn't like him; he wasn't
musical enough to suit me. Well, he used to sweet talk her, but all the time I
knew he wasn't serious. And
later they broke up and she cried a lot after Jim. I liked you, but I wanted to
be sure you weren't going to hurt mom."
"And when
did you decide I was serious?"
She giggled
and covered her mouth with two hands, "When I knew you liked my singing.
Isn't that silly, Bob?"
"Yes and
no--I don't care. You know, Ruthie, you've made me very happy!" I almost
shouted it. I wanted to call Janet on the phone and ask her to marry me right then and there; but I thought I'd better wait for an
appropriate time; after all, we'd known each other for only four months, but in
that time had fallen in love. I did suggest, however, we go into town and have
lunch with Janet.
Janet was
surprised to see us walk into the depot.
"We've
come to take you out to lunch," said I. Janet smiled. "That's fine
with me. I'll be relieved in about ten minutes. Did you
have any place in particular in mind?"
"Not
really. But I've always wanted to try the restaurant
in the hotel. What do you say?"
"A good choice. Why don't you
two go over and get us a table. They get pretty crowded at noon."
"Okay;
let's go Ruth."
As we started
toward the door Ruth turned and called back: "Hey
mom, what's the cost of round trip tickets for two to Niagra
Falls?"
Janet looked
at her quizzically. Then Ruth started to hum the wedding march from "Lohengrin," then skipped out the front door with a
mischievous grin on her face.
We found a
table; and in not too long a time the hotel's dinning room was
filled. A waiter, known to Ruth, approached our table. "Hi Jake,"
said Ruth. "Hi yourself. Your mom just called to
say her relief hasn't shown up yet, but for you two to go ahead and order and
she'll be over as soon as she can."
We were both
hungry, so we ordered. We were having an animated conversation when all of a
sudden, Ruth, who was facing the door stopped talking in the middle of one of
her cogent arguments and turned pale. I expressed my immediate concern at the
abrupt change in her comportment.
"Ruthie,
what's up? Are you ill?" she did not answer me but kept looking toward the
door. I put my hand on her cheek and turned her face to mine. "What's
wrong?' I asked again. She pulled her face away from my hand, but, at last,
answered me.
"The man
who just walked in, the one with the blue scarf--he's my...that man...I hate
him...my father," she said bitterly, then getting up from the table walked
toward the ladies room. Some minutes later Janet, full of apolo-gies,
walked in; and when I told her what had happend she
did not move a muscle or bat an eye, but turned and looked across the large
dinning room, stared for a moment then faced me.
"That's
Donovan. Excuse me, I'll go see about Ruthie. Order me
the chicken special. I'm hungry and his appearance
isn't going to upset my appetite. I'll be back shortly."
What went on
between daughter and mother? I never asked; but by the time our orders were
brought they were both back and ate; but we were all three of us, silent during
our lunch which had started out on such a jolly note.
Janet reached over and put her hand on mine and spoke in a low voice.
"I think you ought to know that my divorce was not a pleasant one. Donovan
had a roving eye and no sense of responsibility. I tried to look the other way,
but I finally had to confront him about his infidelities--and the next morning
he was gone"--and snapped her fingers--"just like that. Ruth was very
attached to her father. She never got over his leaving. He never communicated
with her, never. That's all I wanted to say, Bob."
I squeezed her
hand, nodded and we continued our lunch.
The lunch
crowd started to thin and between us and "that man" (as Ruthie
referred to him) were no customers. He could see us
and we could see him. Ruth kept her face down close to the plate and refused to
look up. Janet, on the other hand, showed no change in her comportment; she ate
slowly and with grace as she always did. Ruth mumbled something.
"What did
you say?" asked Janet.
"It
doesn't matter," she said surely.
"But it
must matter, otherwise you wouldn't have said
anything. Speak up. You mustn't hold back your feelings."
Ruth looked up
from her plate and, instead of responding to her mother
she spoke to me: "Why did he have to come and spoil things for us just
when you were going to ask mom..."
Anticipating
the rest of her sentence, I cut her off. "Ruth--don't say it--that's my
business. Please don't spoil things for me."
She looked at
me with eyes wide open. My voice had not been harsh but it had been forceful.
"I'm
sorry," she said curtly. "I won't let the
cat out of the bag," then lowered her head and continued eating her lunch.
Janet turned
to me. "What's between you two--and I know it
involves me? What cat was she about to let out of the bag?"
Right then and there I found myself in a rather awkward
position. "I'll explain later."
"No; I
want an explanation now--if you don't mind," she added mildly and with a
smile to seduce me into telling her what Ruth had been about to expose.
"I can't
tell you. This is neither the time nor the place--and I don't like to be pushed
into a corner," said I, shooting a glance at Ruth which
Janet saw.
"Okay,
don't tell me here; but I do believe I deserve an explanation."
"You're
right; and at the proper time you shall know all. Now let's change the subject
and address our energies to the problem at hand, namely, your ex-husband, who,
I believe, is on his way to our table."
He was about
five foot nine with sandy colored hair, a thick moustache stood out on his
sickly face, which made him seem older than his years; he wore a plain brown
suit with a green tie. I got a good look at him and immediately disliked him.
"Hello,
hello, Janet," he said in a perjurous voice,
"what a pleasant surprise seeing you, and Ruth," he said as if she
had just appeared, "how big you've grown. Mind if I sit down?"
Janet frowned.
"What ill-wind brought you to town, Donovan? The last child support check
you sent was from down south."
"That's
right: Atlanta, Jacksonville, New Orleans--the company
keeps me on the move. I'm up here on business--sales
are great this time of the year. Mind if I sit down?' he asked again as if he'd not already asked once before.
"Yes, as
a matter of fact, I do mind. I'm on my lunch hour and
I've got about ten minutes left. If you've got something to say, say it--and be
quick about it." Her tone was firm and cold and so unlike the Janet I had
come to love.
"Same old
Janet--haven't changed at all. Well, I just thought I'd
come over and wish you a Merry Christmas--for whatever it's worth. What would
you like for Christmas, Ruthie?" he asked turning to her.
She looked him coldly in the eyes and said, "I'd like you to
leave town and never come back!" and she stood up, threw her napkin on the
table and holding her head high, her shoulders straight (like a young diva
giving a performance) she said, "Mother, I shall wait for you and Bob at
the depot," with which she left the table and walked away.
Donovan stood
there impassive. He had been rebuffed by his ex-wife, insulted by his daughter
and he didn't show any kind of emotion; he just stood
there with a cheater's grin on his face which made me want to shake him.
"So
you're Bob. Pleased to met you. Donovan's my name," and he put out his
hand. I stood up and faced him. "Sir, you spoiled our very fine
lunch. Obviously you are not welcome by
either Janet or Ruth--nor by myself; so if you would kindly remove yourself, you would show you have the vestiges of common
courtesy." I was a bit hot under the collar. He just looked at me without
a change in his expression.
"Well, so
long, folks, it was real nice seeing you, Janet. A Merry
Christmas. See you around." He turned and I watched him go back to
his table. Let's get out of here," I said.
Back at the depot we found Ruth sitting in the small waiting room
reading a magazine. As we approached she looked up.
"Has he gone?"
"No,
dear; he's here on business. Let's change the subject," said Janet.
"Since
our lunch was spoiled," I interjected, "I'm inviting you both out to
dinner tonight, and then we can go back for Friday's recital." I was still
upset at what had happened. I'd worked hard through
the years to keep my life on an even keel; I had had enough turbulence in my
youth and I like peace and will go to great lengths to have it.
"Fine
with me," answered Janet, who was now back behind the ticket counter.
"Chose the hour and we'll be ready."
"I want
to eat pizza tonight," said Ruth, "can we go to the Italian
restaurant. I love their pizza."
"What
about you, Janet?" I asked.
"Italian,"
she said cheerfully and reached out her hand and took mine in hers and said in
a stage whisper, "You know what Bob? You're one hell of a guy."
I tightened my
fingers on her hand. I was gazing into her beautiful eyes and enjoyed loving
her in that moment in a way I'd not known before.
"And you're one hell of a woman...and well, I'll tell you later."
"Tell me
what? What's all the mystery about?"
"I'll
tell you later," I said, grinning and still looking into her eyes. Then a
voice from behind said, "Listen, if you love birds want
to coo, let me buy a ticket first." I turned to see an elderly woman
standing behind me and behind her other people waiting to purchase tickets. I
blushed. "Excuse me, ma'am," said I, letting go of Janet's hand, and
stepping aside telling her I'd pick her up at seven and that Ruthie and I were
going to spend the rest of the afternoon together. We left.
Instead of any
of the things I was going to do that day, Ruth and I
went for a long walk up and down the banks of Rik's
Creek. We hardly spoke. But when we stopped and sat on
a weathered, branchless, fallen tree, Ruth opened up and began a diatribe
against her father which made me wince.
"I'd
buried him long ago. I killed him, cut him up into small pieces and buried him
as deep as I could--his body parts were all up and down creek. Why did he have
to come back?!" She screamed this last outburst,
and, picking up a large stone, she hurled it with all her might into Rik's Creek, making a geyser and hundreds of rippling,
concentric circles. Ruth burst into tears and fell into my arms and wept and
wept. "I Hate him! I hate him!" she said over and over again. I kept silent but
held her and stroked her head and rocked her in my arms. She was in a
lot of pain; but I knew that nothing I could say or do would change anything.
Many years before, a little girl hurt because of her father's abandonment. had "killed" him and buried him, but now that
father whom she had destroyed long ago was back--incarnate. I
knew that somewhere inside Ruth there was still love for the man whom she said
she hated--but her youthful adamancy would not allow her to admit of that love;
and therein, I deduced, was the real reason for her tears and anger: The little
girl in her truly loved, but the sixteen year old refused to allow that love to
come forth. Person-ally, I did not like Donovan. He was unctuous, and I
found his smiling insensitivity repugnant. But I would
not insin-uate my thoughts onto this matter. I was
but a newcomer into her life--even if I was almost her step-father.
For the mo-ment, however, I was only a friend, and as
a friend I would hold her, comfort her--but she would have to come to grips
with her feelings--if not now, then one day in her life
she would.
Gradually her
crying diminished and she asked me to release her; I did. She went to the creek
and, with cupped hands, washed her face in the icy waters of Rik's Creek while I sat and smoked my pipe and hoped she
would be calmer now that she had vented her spleen and had had a good cry.
"Take me
home, please," she said in a low, pathetic voice.
"Sure,
I'll take you home, but first I want you to know that you're only feeling sorry
for yourself and hurting yourself by the way you feel. I know you were hurt by
your father, felt abandoned by him--but that was a long time ago and you're only letting the past upset your present. Get all of
this behind you or you will never have peace."
She lifted her
head and stared at me incredulously. "Whose side are you on, Bob?"
"I'm on
your side, Ruthie. I'll always be on your side. Do you
think I like to see you upset, see you rant and rave
and weep? When I say to get all of this hatred for your father behind you, I
mean let it go! It serves no good purpose and will only
prolong your agony. If you really want to get rid of all your hurt--go
tell him and get it over with."
Again she stared; her eyes opened wide and she made as if to
speak, then checked herself, then opened her mouth again and said: "Okay. Don't take me home. Take me back to town. There's
only one hotel, he's got to be there. Let's go," she said with
determination in her voice.
I was the one
who had made the suggestion and wasn't going to back
down. "All right, let's go," I responded, equally determined to help
her put paid to this unpleasant business.
At the hotel Ruthie boldly walked up to the front desk and asked,
"Is Mr. Donovan Canfield in?"
The clerk
looked at her somewhat cautiously. "Are you a friend or relative?"
"I'm his
daughter. Is he in?"
"Then you
don't know?"
"Know
what?" she asked impatiently.
"Mr.
Canfield had a stroke or a heart attack--I'm not sure which. I called the
ambulance myself. He's been taken to the county hospital--about an hour
ago."
She turned to
me, a look of genuine sadness on her face. She swallowed hard. "Let's pick
up my mon on the way," she said as she walked
towards the door.
Janet and Ruth
talked to the attending physician as I stood listening. Donovan had had a
massive heart attack compounded by a concussion, for as he fell, he'd hit his head on something. He was conscious, but the
doctor did not express much hope. "If he lives through the next twenty-four
hours will be a miracle. I've talked to his personal
physician and was told this is the third attack this year. I"m
afraid I can't do anything more than what I've done. You can see him--but only
five minutes."
Five minutes
seemed to go on forever and I kept looking up at the closed door to his room.
When it did open Janet came out alone. "Where's
Ruthie?" I asked in a whisper. Janet beckoned me with her hand to follow
her to the nurse's station and there she spoke to the nurse in a whisper and
the nurse left her station immediately. Then turning to me Janet said, "He
said he loved her--then...then he died."
"He's
dead?" I said. She nodded. Slowly we walked back to the room.
Janet sat
outside where I'd been sitting and cried. I now
stepped into the room. The doctor was standing over Donovan talking to the
nurse in a low voice. Ruth was sitting staring at her late father. Tears were
rolling down her cheeks. The doctor closed Donovan's eyes and covered his face
with the bed sheet. He and the nurse left quietly to leave Ruth with her grief.
From her pocket she took a tissue and wiped her eyes
and blew her nose then stood up and, reaching out pulled back the sheet
covering Donovan's face, bent over and kissed both his cheeks. And then, taking a deep breath she began to sing Shenandoah,
which in spite of her shaking voice was sung beautifully, with love and
tenderness.
Donovan was
buried in the local cemetery. Only the three of us and a
priest attending. Afterwards we returned to Janet's house where we sat
around the kitchen table drinking coffee in silence. After a while
Ruth excused herself and went to her room and Janet and I were alone.
She cleared
her throat. "This is not a happy time for us, Bob. I'm sorry you've got to
suffer this with us."
"I'm glad
I'm with the both of you in this. I'm not exactly a stranger."
She smiled.
"Thank you--only you shouldn't have to be burdened with our grief."
"I assure
you, I am not burdened. I am here to support the both of you as I can. In fact,
the day Donovan died I was going to ask you to marry me--and I'm
asking you now--in spite of the circumstances. Janet, I want you and Ruthie to
be part of my life; I want us to be a family--a musical one, a trio," I
said trying to bring a little levity into the sadness of the day. "Will
you marry me?"
A look of
utter surprise came over her face. "Marriage?
I...well I need to..." her voice trailed off.
"Not
today, not tomorrow, but soon. Perhaps this was not a good time, but, why
not?" I said.
Recovering from
her surprise, she stood up and walked to the sink looking out of the window and
staring into the gray, winter afternoon. Slowly turning I could see tears in
her eyes. She stood for some moments at the sink looking at me. "As you said, 'why not'." And
rushing to me she pulled me out of my chair and we embraced a long, tender
time.
We were
married on new year's day. That was five years ago.
Shortly after our wedding Ruth received a letter from
her late father's former employer. Donovan had a life insurance policy, one of
the company's benefits, and she was the sole beneficiary of fiftythousand
dollars plus all wages and commissions due the deceased which
would be paid out to her forthwith.
Ruth is now
studying voice at the Santa Cecilia Conservatory of Music in Rome. She often
sends us tapes. Her voice is maturing and I know she will one day sing at La Scala. Donovan's death gave life to her career.
Janet and I go
fishing and walking at Rik's Creek, and we have
continued the Friday night recitals; sometimes we invite Ruth's former voice
teacher and some other musicians I have met, and we make music long into the
night.
The End
surprise, she stood up and walked to the sink looking out of the window and staring into the gray, win
{NOTE BY R. Haig: Fragmented text below retrieved from
original MS Word document}
e. "As you said,‑
!"#+3rik's creek2/16/98 2/11/98 »chair and we
embraced a long, tender time.
We were
married on new year's day. That was five years ago.
Shortly after our wedding Ruth received a letter from
her late father's former employer. Donovan