Easter In Dry Creek. Janet Tronstad
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her mother died, Allie felt like she was the one in charge of keeping the family together. So far, she hadn’t done very well.
Allie didn’t like being on the spot again, because one look at Clay’s eyes and she knew he wouldn’t be satisfied with some half-truth that she would tell him, hoping to satisfy his questions.
“Don’t worry about it,” Clay said to her softly then. “Your father will tell me.”
Allie could only hope that would be true.
The kitchen was gaining light, Clay noticed as he stood there in the silent room. The clock read seven o’clock. The room looked like it hadn’t been touched since he left here four years ago. The same beige paint was on the walls, and the windowsills were a chipped white. He had noticed a nail by the refrigerator. It held last year’s calendar, and it didn’t appear like the months on it had even been changed.
“Tell me about Mark,” Clay finally asked again as he turned his attention to the older man. “If he doesn’t make some hand motions, how does it work?”
Clay figured the rancher must be imagining some kind of response from his son. The signs of depression were all over this kitchen. Even in prison, the officials became concerned when something as simple as a calendar wasn’t kept updated. Clay guessed Mr. Nelson was telling himself he knew what Mark thought. It was like people who decided their cat was an opera fan because the animal sat there and purred when a song was being sung. He supposed it was very human to imagine that one could know the thoughts of a being who couldn’t communicate.
Mr. Nelson didn’t say anything. Allie, on the other hand, was standing there with a blank look on her face that was so uncharacteristic of her that Clay suspected she was unwilling to tip anyone off to her father’s strange beliefs. Maybe she was embarrassed.
“I know it’s been hard,” Clay said, trying not to let his disappointment show. He might be having those flights of fancy, too, if he was father to someone in a coma. But desperate hope could mess with a man’s mind; no one knew that better than men who had spent time behind bars.
“Oh, no, Mark is talking,” Mr. Nelson said with strength in his voice. He seemed to have understood what Clay was thinking. “It’s not easy. He has to come up with the words, and it’s slow. But he’s talking.”
“He says actual words?”
Mr. Nelson nodded. “More now than when he started.”
Clay looked at the man for a long moment. Then he turned to Allie. She nodded, as well. It was a wooden nod, like something was holding her back, but she did confirm the words.
“He used to just make sounds and we had to guess at the words,” Allie offered.
Clay felt joy start to blossom inside him. “Well, what do you know?” Clay said as he lifted his fist in a gesture of triumph. Mark—his friend, his buddy—was free from the blackness of being in a coma. He’d heard enough stories from men who had spent the night in solitary confinement to have some sense of what that release must feel like to Mark. Not to mention the hope it would bring to his family.
Clay had a sudden impulse to wrap his arms around Allie and coax her into dancing an Irish jig with him. They’d done that once in the rain when they’d clocked a good time racing some of the horses. He, Mark and Allie, all dancing in a circle in the barn and laughing like fools. He needed to do something to celebrate. But he said nothing because he saw Allie was blinking back tears.
“What’s wrong?” Clay asked anxiously. “Am I missing something?”
He supposed Mark could be talking and dying at the same time. That would explain the pinched look on Allie’s face.
She shook her head. “Oh, no. These are happy tears.”
Clay never had understood those kinds of tears. But he was glad Mark was apparently all right.
Suddenly Clay could feel the cat stirring. He put his hand over the place where the feline struggled against the coat, hoping to calm her until he could get her out from inside it.
Then he heard a sound and glanced down in time to see a movement out of the corner of one eye. A young boy was sneaking into the kitchen from the hallway. His flannel pajamas had pictures of galloping horses on them. His dark hair had a cowlick on the left side and was not combed.
The cat seemed to be calm now. Clay relaxed.
The boy slid forward and stood beside Allie. She put her hand on his head without even seeming to realize he was there. Then she stroked his hair in absentminded affection.
“I couldn’t find my clothes.” The boy looked up. “I want the blue shirt.”
“So you’ve been playing instead of getting dressed like Grandpa asked,” Allie said with strong affection in her voice as she leaned down to kiss the top of the boy’s head. The boy nodded sheepishly. Then Allie straightened up.
Clay had never imagined that Allie would have a son. But just because time had stood still for him during the past several years, it didn’t mean it had slowed for anyone else.
He knew Allie well enough to realize that if she had a son it also meant she likely had a husband. He supposed he’d never had a real chance with her, but it still left him empty. He’d pictured her so many times when he was in prison; there was something about her that reminded him of fireflies. Delicate yet bright, flitting from place to place. She always lifted his spirits. He would have given anything to be able to date her. Maybe give her a first kiss.
Clay must have shifted his shoulders as he stood there staring because the cat twisted inside his coat again. He saw that she’d pulled at one of the buttons until it was open. Before Clay could reach down and grab the animal, she flew through the air, landing on her feet atop the worn beige linoleum floor.
“What’s that?” Mr. Nelson demanded to know. He looked around like more cats might be flying toward him from everywhere.
The tabby, its rust-colored fur bristling, stood there in the middle of the kitchen arching her back and looking pleased with her flight. Then she hissed. Clay had no doubt the cat was ready to defend herself from any scolding. But the young boy slid down until he was sitting in front of her.
“Don’t touch her,” Clay cautioned as he bent down and put his hands out to protect the child. “She’s partly wild.”
The cat had likely been tame at some point, but Clay figured she’d forgotten any softness she’d ever known. It had been a long time since she’d had an owner, and he knew how quickly home manners could be forgotten. The boy was already pulling the cat toward him, though. Once he had her in his arms, he rubbed his face against her matted fur.
The feline looked up suspiciously, but she didn’t fight.
“I always wanted a kitty,” the boy said and gave a satisfied sigh. “And this one has orange stripes. That’s my favorite color. Does that mean she’s for me?”
He patted the tabby gently, as though he’d already claimed her.
Clay was glad the boy had never seen a tiger.
“Orange is a good color,” Clay agreed, noticing that the cat had relaxed in the boy’s care. Maybe she remembered more than he thought. “It’s the color for caution, though, so be careful.”
Clay braced himself to make a grab if the cat started to claw her way out of the boy’s embrace, but she stayed where she was. “I expect you’ll want to ask your father if you can keep her.”
Clay knew he shouldn’t have asked it that way. But he wanted to know. He tried to keep his expression neutral. Allie looked like someone’s wife, with her hair pulled back in a barrette and a faded apron covering her jeans. He hoped that whoever the man was he was decent toward her and the boy.
“We