Closer Home (21 page)

She shakes her head. “There’s nothing there. I can’t ever go back to school. Not after this. What’s left? Ricken?”

“We fired him, remember?”

She chokes on a half laugh at that, and the corners of my lips twitch, despite myself, despite everything. But then her shoulders lift in a gesture that falls short of a shrug, and a perfectly matched set of tears well up in her eyes and spill over. “You see? There’s not even Ricken.”

Dale and I exchange a look. I know what he’s thinking, and I’m not sure how I feel about it. But where else is there to go?

“How much gas have we got?” I ask him, as he exits onto the tight, curving on-ramp marked “Spokane.”

“How strong is your bladder?”

“Depends how fast you drive.”

Ariel leans forward to look out the front window. “Where are we going?”

I look out the window at the endless expanse of flat spreading to the horizon, already turning brown, and my heart surges at the thought of mountains and green, green trees. “Home, Ariel. It’s time to take you home.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

By the time we hit the roundabout that marks the south side of Colville, every muscle in my body is clenched tight. Even my toes are curled. Besides that, I really need to pee, and I look with longing at the Shell station as we roll on by, but there’s no stopping now, not with the paparazzi still on our tail.

We lost the panel van at the gas station just past Spokane, and the Chevy at Spoko Fuel in Chewelah. But there are two cars still hanging in there, a little white compact and a dark-green sedan. Both have Nevada license plates.

Dale pulls out his cell and hands it to me.

“Best let my folks know we’re headed their way.”

“I’m not so sure about leading this parade up to their place.” I glance at the cars trailing us. Mr. Elliot has a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit, particularly the type we’ve brought to town.

“Nowhere else to go. Best to give him a little advance notice, I’d say.”

I dial the familiar number. It rings and rings, but nobody answers. There’s no voice mail.

“Maybe they’re not home.”

“They’re home. Where else would they be? They’re just not bothering to answer.”

Ariel leans her elbows on the back of the seat. “How come we don’t go to Aunt Lise’s house? Or yours?”

“Because we won’t be able to get rid of these asshats at my place or Lise’s.”

“So you’re taking them to see some old guy? What’s he gonna do?”

“Trust me. He’s not that old.” In my mind I start thinking about all the things Mr. Elliot
could
do if he so chooses, and it does nothing to relax me.

Ariel makes the sort of noise that can only be made by a teenager. “You’re old. And he’s got to be a lot older than you.”

This I don’t bother to grace with an answer.

“Where’s town?” Ariel asks.

“This is it.” Dale rolls down Main Street, our entourage right behind him.

“Mom grew up
here
?” There’s a serious note of disbelief in her voice. “There’s like . . . nothing. Where’s the mall?”

“There isn’t one, kid. You can go hang out at the Walmart if you want.” Dale swings left off Main. No light, no traffic, so the wagon and the sedan both stay right on our tail. Past the steak house and the feed store. Across the truck route and the railway tracks, and now we’re moving away from town and across the flats of what was once a lake.

Despite everything, I breathe a little easier. I know this town. It’s in my bones. Already I feel a little stronger, a little more hopeful that we’ll figure things out.

“Gonna wish I had my pickup,” Dale mutters a little later, when he turns off the paved road and onto dirt. A road sign informs us that “This Road Is Not Maintained,” in case we weren’t able to figure that out for ourselves.

I grit my teeth and brace myself. Mud season is not quite over, and the road is mostly ruts and puddles. Dale grew up driving this mess and expertly navigates the car, taking us around the worst of it. Ariel has gone very quiet in the back, and I imagine how strange this place must seem to a city kid. Evergreen trees form an unbroken wall on either side of the road. Mostly cedar here. There will be pine and fir farther up the mountain. I love the trees, but even I feel a little bit small and alone whenever I drive out this way.

“That’s the worst one,” Dale says, slowing to a crawl to navigate around a mudhole that takes up the whole road. He goes to the left where there’s a little more solid ground. Ariel squeals as the right side of the car sinks. The tires catch and spin, sending up a wide spray of muddy water, but then we’re through and back onto reasonably solid ground.

The white compact follows Dale’s path closely and makes it through. The sedan is heavier and not so lucky. It sinks all the way to the right axle. The driver guns the engine, spraying mud and water everywhere. The car slides gently sideways until the whole thing is sitting in the mud.

Dale grins at his rearview mirror and keeps driving. “No cell service out here,” he says. “Hope he enjoys the walk.”

Only a few hundred feet farther on, we turn right into a lane so narrow branches scrape against the car. A sign on the right reads “No Trespassing.” On the left, another one proclaims “Beware of Dog.” We bump and jolt uphill and around a corner before the driveway widens into a well-maintained gravel yard. Seconds after we pull in, Mr. Elliot steps out onto the porch, a big black dog at his heels. With his long hair and graying beard, blue jeans and flannel shirt, Dale’s dad pretty much looks the part of a mountain man. Especially with the shotgun in his hands.

Ariel gasps. “He’s got a gun.”

“At least it’s the shotgun and not the AK,” I mutter, looking around for the compact. It pulls in, so mud crusted it’s now brown instead of white.

“Stay in the car,” Dale says. “Hit the locks, Lise.” He steps out and slams the door shut behind him, and this once I follow orders. Ariel slithers over the back of the seat and into the front beside me. Her face is pale, her eyes wide.

Dale stalks over to stand beside his dad on the porch. They nod at each other, but neither one of them says a word. The dog butts up against Dale but gets only a quick pat on the head and a command to sit.

Nothing else happens for a minute. Then the front door of the compact opens, and a man gets out. Wrinkled T-shirt. Faded jeans. He’s wearing a baseball cap turned backwards and he’s got a camera slung around his neck on a strap. His focus is entirely on me and Ariel. I turn my back and block her with my body. “Get down.”

She slides down low in the seat, but not so low that she can’t peer up through the window. I follow suit.

“Get back in your car,” Mr. Elliot barks.

“Hey, man,” the camera guy says, smart enough to stay put but not smart enough to follow orders. “She’s got to talk to somebody, sooner or later. Might as well be me. Come on, one good picture and I’m out of your hair.”

“You’re trespassing.” Mr. Elliot pumps a round into the shotgun. He now has Camera Guy’s attention, but the guy’s an idiot and still doesn’t get it.

“Come on, old man. You’re not really going to shoot—”

Mr. Elliot lifts the shotgun to his shoulder and sights along the barrel. Dale stands beside his dad, his face like stone. The dog whines. Ariel gasps and puts both hands over her mouth. “Seriously? He’s just a shutterbug. They’re scumbags, but nobody shoots them.”

“Nobody’s shooting anybody.” At least I hope not. I’ve never seen quite that look on Mr. Elliot’s face.

“I’d suggest you get back in the car and head on back to Vegas,” Dale says. “Can’t be responsible for what the old man’s going to do.”

“You’re bluffing.” But Camera Guy doesn’t sound too certain. He glances over at me and Ariel, gripping his camera with both hands. “You shoot me, you’re in big trouble. I’ll press charges.”

“Hard to press charges if you’re dead.”

I don’t like the sound of Mr. Elliot’s voice, but Camera Guy chooses to risk it. Keeping his car between himself and the porch, he circles around, bent low, camera ready, toward our rental. I push Ariel’s head down and lean over her, screening her both from the camera and flying bullets.

It’s just the shotgun,
I keep reminding myself.
He’s not going to kill anybody.

And then, in a flurry of mad barking, the dog leaps off the porch and runs at the photographer. Ariel shrieks again and puts her hands over her eyes.

“I can’t watch.”

A laugh bursts out of me, and I pry her hands away. “It’s okay, look.”

Camera Guy shouts and runs for his car, pursued by a hundred pounds of barking dog. He stumbles and goes down on one knee. The dog is on him, licking his face with great slobbery swipes of a pink tongue. His enthusiasm and weight knock the guy off-balance, and he topples onto his side where he lies screaming, trying to cover his face with his arms.

Dale strides over and grabs the camera. “Now, I’m going to call off the dog and you’re going to get in your car and drive away.”

“Be dark soon. Heard the wolf pack out hunting last night,” Mr. Elliot says, conversationally. “Do those magazines buy animal photos?”

“Give me back my camera. I’ll call the cops!”

“And tell them you’re up here trespassing? Besides, there’s no cell service for a couple of miles, at least.”

“Better get going. Your buddy in the mudhole is going to slow you down some,” Dale adds.

Ariel looks like she’s walked through the looking glass, her expression equal parts anxiety and wonder. “Are there really wolves?”

“No. They’re messing with him.”

“But there’s no cell service?”

“The towers are blocked by the mountain and the trees.”

She looks at her phone, pushes the screen with her fingers, then shakes it, as if that will fix it. “I can’t even
text
?” Her voice rises on the last word, close to panic.

“They have this incredible invention here called a landline. Come on. I don’t know about you, but I really need to pee.”

Camera Guy is back in his car, vanishing down the driveway.

Ariel is still trying to work her phone as she climbs out of the car and I steer her toward the porch. “No wonder Mom ran away.”

“Annelise,” Mr. Elliot leans the shotgun up against the house and gives me a hug. He smells of wood smoke and trees, and my muscles begin to relax. “We were so sorry to hear about Callie.” I let my head lean into the safety and strength of his shoulder for a minute, and then I remember Ariel and pull away.

She stands at the edge of the porch, wearing the same look on her face as at the funeral, an unmistakable cloud of
leave me alone
.

Mr. Elliot respects that. He smiles at her, but doesn’t try to touch her. “You must be Callie’s girl. Not much more than a baby last time I saw you. You’ve been having quite the adventure, I understand. Come on in: Pat will be delighted to have somebody to fuss over.”

He opens the door for us and bellows: “Patty! Company!”

No matter how many times I’ve been in this house, I always have a moment of disorientation when I come through the front door. Outside, it’s a tin-sided pole building like hundreds of others around here. Inside, master craftsmen have been busy at work. The wood floors are aged barnwood, lovingly sanded and stained. The rafters are made of logs, polished and varnished to a warm glow. Each piece of furniture is handcrafted and unique. From the sitting chairs to the cedar siding, all of it is the work of the Elliot men.

Mrs. Elliot emerges, wiping her hands on an apron. Her round face lights up like Christmas morning, and she rushes over to envelop me in a hug. Where her husband is hard lines and reserve, she is all softness and warmth. She smells of cinnamon and sugar. One whiff, and a rush of longing wells up into tears that I can’t hold back. I try to picture my mother baking cookies and doling out hugs, wonder about how things might have been for me and Callie if she had been different.

The warm arms squeeze me a little tighter, and a soft hand smoothes my back. Then Mrs. Elliot releases me and turns to Ariel and wraps her in an embrace. Ariel stands stiff and unyielding, her eyes wide with alarm. But then, slowly, her arms come up and she hugs back.

Mrs. Elliot releases her but lays her hands on both sides of her face, turning it one way and then the other. “You don’t look like your mother, God rest her poor soul. Nor like your grandparents, either. Must take after your dad’s side of the family.”

Dale intervenes. “Mom, give the poor child a break. It’s been a hell of a day. No rest stops between here and Pasco.”

“Oh my goodness. You two head straight on back to the restroom, then. Annelise, there’s one in the master bedroom, so neither one of you has to wait. I’m sure you’re starving; I’ll get the food on the table. You’ll stay for dinner?”

“I think maybe they ought to stay longer than dinner, what with those reporters snooping around,” Mr. Elliot answers.

Dale starts to say something, but I don’t linger for more conversation. After directing Ariel to the main bathroom, I head toward the back of the house. Through the living room, with its high ceiling and skylights, every window looking out onto blue sky and green trees. Into the bedroom with its massive four-poster bed, handcrafted out of polished logs. And finally, the bathroom. I take my time, splashing cold water over my face, trying to smooth my crazy hair with my fingers.

On my way back, a picture in the hallway between living room and kitchen stops me in my tracks. Right in the middle of the family photo gallery hangs the tabloid picture of me and Dale kissing. It’s been neatly cut out and framed and hangs between Dale’s high school and college graduation photos. My heart takes up residence in my toes while my face heats from the inside out. I want to lock myself in the bathroom and never come out.

How am I going to explain the truth to Mrs. Elliot when I don’t know what it is myself?

My feet drag me back to the front room. Dale is introducing the dog to Ariel. She sits ramrod stiff on the edge of the sofa, the big dog sitting in front of her, not more than a foot away.

“Ariel, this is George,” Dale says.

She lifts her hand and moves it toward the dog, then draws it back. “Won’t he bite?”

“Are you kidding? Did you see how he was attempting to lick the reporter guy to death?”

He’s rewarded with a giggle. “I’ve only ever seen little dogs. They barked. One of them bit me.”

Dale makes a dismissive noise. “Those aren’t dogs. They don’t count. Go ahead, say hello. He’s going to get his feelings hurt in a minute.”

George whines and stretches his head out toward her, sniffing. Ariel tentatively reaches out to touch the top of his head, then slides her hand down to his ears. Taking this as an invitation, the dog surges forward and takes a long pink swipe at her cheek.

Ariel flings her arms around his neck to keep herself from falling over. George starts snuffling at her face and arms, taking her in, and she clings to him, laughing now. Dale is laughing, too. He looks up and sees me watching and the laughter fades, replaced by a guarded quiet that’s like a knife to my heart. We need to talk. This wall he’s put up between us is damn near unbearable.