Dreams for Stones (9 page)

Kathy shrugged.

Grace frowned. “I met Alan when our dog was
hit by a car.” Grace turned away, continuing to speak in a pensive
tone. “Blackie. He was hurt really bad. Alan helped me, while
everyone else, including the man who hit him, just stood around or
walked away.” Grace took a deep breath. “He’s a good man. But
lonely, I think.”

Kathy could see no reason why she should be
concerned about Alan’s loneliness. “Yes. Well. I need to get going.
You send in your manuscript. I’ll take a look.”

She was halfway back to Denver before she
realized she’d forgotten to pay for the lesson.

When there wasn’t room for them to run, the horses learned to
dance
. Kathy lifted her hands from the keyboard, frowning at
what she’d written. Clearly, she must still be under the spell of
yesterday’s trip to TapDancer Ranch.

She closed her eyes, trying to summon
Amanda, but what came instead was a vision of Sonoro, legs
flashing, neck arched, dancing across the wooden platform, looking
as if he knew full well how gorgeous he was.

And Alan Francini? Was she remembering him
as well? Not as conventionally handsome as Greg or the man she’d
met in the park. But definitely appealing, well, that is if she
discounted their first meeting.

But maybe she now found him attractive
because of seeing him in a ranch setting. The romance of the Old
West and all that. For sure, if she hadn’t first seen him at DSU,
she’d now find it impossible to imagine him in any setting other
than a ranch.

Odd to realize, if she’d gone with her
instincts and ditched Amanda and her
’orses
, she would never
have known riding a horse could be so marvelous. And she wouldn’t
have the memory of Sonoro’s dancing.

So, all in all, maybe Amanda did have her
uses.

Kathy looked back at the words on the
screen, but she knew she wasn’t going to be able to write any more
today. She had all the signs. That feeling of restlessness and
tension. The silence. No voices in her head, Amanda’s or anyone
else’s, clamoring to be heard. No “what ifs” niggling at her.

Better to go over to City Park and spend
some time hitting balls against the practice wall. At least she’d
get some exercise, and the afternoon wouldn’t be a complete waste.
It was chilly, but she’d warm up quickly.

With quick resolution, she shut off the
computer and gathered her things together.

But in spite of spending an hour practicing
her backhand, followed by a run, dinner, and an evening of
television shared with the Costellos, Kathy still felt out of
sorts—an uncomfortable jostling mix of irritability and sadness
that had to be more than simple frustration over being unable to
write this weekend.

Maybe it was seeing that little girl
yesterday. Delia. An unexpected reminder that when she lost Greg
she’d also lost the possibility of family, at least anytime
soon.

Kathy shook her head, trying to banish Greg.
She’d had a lucky escape. She knew that. But even knowing that,
there were still times when she felt an emptiness that was more
than simply his absence from her life.

She said goodnight to the Costellos and,
since she wasn’t sleepy, she went through the stack of books in her
reading pile.

None quite fit her mood. In desperation, she
fell back on her old standby: Emily’s diaries.

Funny now to think how disappointed she’d
been the day she’d unfolded that piece of paper and discovered the
interviewee she’d been assigned for her twentieth century history
class was a ninety-year-old housewife named Emily Kowalski.

But it had turned out to be one of the best
things that ever happened to her, because Emily was the one who
gave her the courage to follow a riskier path. “Life is full of
uncertainties, my dear, no matter what you choose,” Emily had said,
pushing a plate of chocolate chip cookies toward Kathy the day they
met. “Better then to choose what you love.”

“But if I follow my dreams, it will be
really difficult.” Kathy, a computer science major when she met
Emily, had always wanted to be a writer.

“If you give up your dreams, Kathleen,
nothing else will matter very much,” Emily had said.

When they finally got around to discussing
Emily’s choice of historical event for the term paper Kathy was to
write, she had expected Emily to choose something dramatic, like
the bombing of Hiroshima or men landing on the moon.

Instead, Emily had talked about the
discovery of penicillin by Alexander Fleming.

“A miracle. But not soon enough to help our
dear Bobby.” Emily’s eyes misted. “Only five when he had the
meningitis.”

After Emily told Kathy the story of Bobby’s
illness and its aftermath—years spent caring for her invalid
son—what Kathy most wanted to know was how Emily managed to have a
happy life. Because there was no question in her mind, Emily and
her husband, Jess, were happy.

Kathy planned to ask about that when she
took her finished paper to show Emily.

That day, Jess, looking more stooped than
Kathy remembered from her last visit, had answered the door.

“Hi, Jess. I’m here to see Emily. To show
her my paper.”

The house framed Jess with dark and quiet,
and no smell of fresh baking floated in the air. He’d stared at
her, his silence stretching like a cobweb pulling against her hair.
“Em.” He stopped, cleared his throat. “She died. A week ago.”

Kathy didn’t really need the ordinary words
Jess used to confirm what she already suspected, but the pain she
felt on hearing them was sudden and extraordinary.

“What happened?” The words seemed to come
from a distance, as if someone else were speaking.

“Heart just gave out.” Jess stopped, then
went on, his voice wavering, his throat working. “Nearly killed me
too.”

Kathy reached out to touch his arm, before
she remembered. Jess didn’t seem to like to be touched. Emily was
the hugger. “Oh, Jess, I’m so sorry.”

He motioned her to come in, leading her
slowly back to the kitchen, Emily’s kitchen, where he fixed
tea.

Kathy sat, fighting the tears that were
making her throat tight and her head ache. Finally, she gave in and
let the tears run down her face.

After Jess poured the tea, Kathy warmed her
hands on the cup, and she and Jess sat in silence until Jess
cleared his throat. “Emily left something for you.” His hand
trembled as he lowered the cup onto the saucer with a click. “I’ll
get it.”

Kathy waited in the quiet of Emily’s
kitchen, staring at the pink and purple blossoms of Emily’s African
violets lifting their petals in the breeze from the kitchen window.
The ticking clock and an occasional drip from the faucet were the
only sounds, until Jess returned, that new uncertainty altering his
step.

He carried a large shoebox. “It’s Em’s
diaries. I came across them the other day when I cleared out her
desk. She wanted you to have them. Took a real shine to you, Em
did.”

Later, when Kathy opened the box, she found
a number of small books along with a note, written in a neat, clear
hand, lying on top.

November 12, 1990

My dearest Kathleen,

I know from our talks, you worry about making the right choices in
your life. I cannot, nor should anyone, tell you what to do. For
that, my dear, you must listen to your own heart. And, never fear,
it is speaking to you.

Perhaps I can help a little though, by showing you how I found my
own way. There is no one I would rather share that with.

I also want you to know, Kathleen, your visits brought this old
woman so much joy.

Love,

Emily

After she read Emily’s note, Kathy started
to cry again, which was strange. After all, Emily wasn’t family.
Only, that’s what Kathy’s sorrow felt like. Like she was mourning a
death in her family. Of someone precious to her.

Eventually, Kathy came to realize that piece
of paper with Emily’s name on it was the fulcrum on which her
entire future tipped. Just like the nursery rhyme, the one that
went. . . for want of a nail the shoe was lost, for want of a shoe
the horse was lost...all the way to the end with the country being
lost, if she hadn’t met Emily and learned to trust in her dreams,
her life would have been something else altogether.

And tonight, when the consequences of the
choice she’d made to let Greg go to San Francisco alone was a heavy
burden on her heart, she needed Emily again.

She sorted through the box of small
leather-bound books, looking for the beginning of Emily’s story.
When she located the right book, she curled up in her easy chair
and opened it to the first page.

January 1, 1925

Well, here I am, starting a diary, of all things. When I told Jess
I didn’t have any idea how to do that, he said I ought to start by
telling where I came from and how I came to be Mrs. Jess Kowalski,
living in Cincinnati, Ohio.

I guess that’s as good a way as any.

I grew up on a farm near Red Oak, Iowa,
never expecting to do anything different than live out my life as a
farmer’s daughter and a farmer’s wife, until I had that talk with
my brother, Bill, the autumn I turned seventeen.

Funny, we spend our whole lives talking, and
we don’t remember most of it for two minutes, but every once in a
while someone says something, and everything afterward is changed
because of it.

Bill was just back from the war. He went
away my strong, funny, eldest brother and came home a thin, quiet
stranger, recovering from German nerve gas. In the evenings after
supper, he took to walking to the other end of the pasture. He
always went by himself, except for one of the farm dogs that
followed him everywhere.

One evening, I went out to join him. When I
reached the fence, neither Bill nor the dog paid any attention to
me, so I just stood next to them and looked where they were
looking.

We were having one of those orange sunsets
that deepen into red that come mostly right before winter sets in,
and the bare limbs of the trees at the bottom of the pasture made
dark patterns against the sky color. I started in to thinking how
to make a picture of it.

Finally, I asked Bill if that was why he
came out here every night, to watch the sunset, and he replied he
came to pray.

Well that surprised me some. I don’t believe
anyone else in the family ever thought to go out at sunset to stand
in the pasture and pray.

I couldn’t think of a thing to say in
response, but that must have been okay, because after a bit, Bill
started talking again, although he sounded sort of dreamy-like, as
if he were talking to himself and not to me at all.

“When you’re in a war, maybe it’s the
knowing you could die anytime, but just seems like you notice
things more. Like there were these little pink flowers, used to
grow in the ruts along the road. And you start in to looking for
those kinds of signs, because it’s the only thing gives you
hope.

“If something that fragile can survive,
maybe you can too.” He leaned over and patted the dog for a while,
before he went on speaking in that dreamy voice. “And you pray.
Mostly it’s not much of a prayer. Just a, ‘Please, God, keep me
safe today. Please, God, let me see my family again. Please, God,
let me live so I can get married and have a family.’”

His voice trailed off, he straightened, and
for a time he continued to gaze at the sky. Then he shrugged and
spoke more matter-of-factly. “Finally, one day you add thanks
you’ve made it through another day, and after a while longer, you
find it’s come to be a habit.”

It was the most talking Bill had done since
he got home. Actually the most talking he’d ever done to me, and
what he said surprised me some. I stood beside him, picturing those
pink flowers, and thinking how they were maybe like the violets in
the muddy pasture in the spring.

Then I remembered the part about him getting
married. “So, are you going to marry Doris Goodwin?” I asked.

“No. Leastways not right now. I’ve been
thinking on what to do about it.”

But it was simple really, and I told him so.
“It’ll hurt Doris a lot more to be married to someone who doesn’t
want to marry her than to be told you’ve changed your mind.”

Bill looked startled, then he nodded.
“Little Emmie. Seems you grew up while I was away.” He smiled, and,
for the first time since he got home, looked like himself. “I
figure on owing you some advice in return.” The smile faded, and
his expression turned serious, almost fierce. “Don’t you go getting
yourself trapped on the farm before you know what living is all
about, you hear? And promise me. You’ll let me know if you want my
help to go take a look at what else is out there.”

When I nodded my agreement, he went back to
watching the sky, and we didn’t talk any more. I hugged tight
everything he’d said though, figuring to pull it out and think on
it later.

Shortly after that, Bill and Doris, who were
unofficially engaged when Bill went off to the war, were officially
unengaged. Then Bill left the farm for good, to go off to Omaha to
get settled before starting classes at Creighton University in
January.

When I finished my schooling the following
summer, I knew I was expected to pick one of the eligible young men
in the area, marry him, and start a family of my own. But although
I didn’t feel any particular opposition to the idea, I just didn’t
seem to actually be doing it.

Mother asked me about it when we were spring
cleaning, washing windows. “Emily Margaret, you be sure you get
that spot, right there, girl, and what about the Moriarity boy? He
comes from a big farm and only the two boys.”

I don’t recall exactly how I answered her,
but it was at that moment I knew that what I wanted to do was take
Bill’s advice and check things out beyond Red Oak. I had no idea
how to do it though, not until my best friend said I ought to be a
teacher. I decided that surely sounded more interesting than
marrying the Moriarity boy.