Chapter Three
Three
It was the familiar noise of the train that woke Kyle the next morning, starting with the blast of the horn, followed by the rush of wheels bumping over the tracks outside his window. When someone grows up next to a railroad crossing they learn early on that locomotive engineers are required by federal law to sound the horn in advance of all public crossings, even in rural areas. But some engineers, like this one, took delight in really laying on it, longer than necessary.
The first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was the original NHL poster of Wayne Gretzky that had hung on his childhood bedroom wall for more than thirty years. It was from 1988, Gretzky’s first year playing for the LA Kings after being traded by the Edmonton Oilers. By then the Great One had broken several scoring records and led his team to four Stanley Cup Championships. But what Kyle had always loved about that particular poster was that it wasn’t staged. Or, at least, it didn’t seem to be. Someone had caught Gretzky unaware as he made his way around the arena, the stands behind him filled with onlookers. His stick wasn’t quite touching the ice, and his eyes focused off camera somewhere, probably anticipating exactly where the puck was going next. On a yellowed piece of curled loose-leaf paper taped up next to the poster was Gretzky’s best quote, scrawled in Kyle’s sloppy middle school handwriting: You miss 100% of the shots you don’t take.
He turned over on his back, careful not to go too far and roll off the side of the old twin spindle bed. The Gretzky picture was the only decoration on the pale blue walls, and it had always been that way. Some of his buddies’ rooms used to be slathered in pictures of It Girls and blockbuster movies from the 1990s, but to Kyle that would have diminished the importance of hockey. And back then, for a long time, hockey was everything.
The room looked the same as it had the last time he slept there, which was more than twenty years ago. His bed was covered in the old plaid flannel sheets and comforter. The timeworn wooden desk and chair were still there, as well as the matching bookcase, which didn’t hold a single book, just all his old trophies and team photos. It was a curious thing being in that room again. He felt a little lost in time, like he was visiting the boy who used to inhabit this space and dream about his future. When most people visited their childhood bedrooms they probably thought about how far they’d come. But Kyle was pretty sure his younger self would only shake his head in disappointment.
He sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed, reached for his phone on the nightstand. Not even 7:00 A.M. yet, but he’d slept hard for nine hours. He’d gotten no sleep the night before, what with changing planes three times before finally landing in Ogdensburg yesterday afternoon. Then there was a forty-five-minute taxi ride to Potsdam.
He’d been relieved to arrive under cover of darkness. It had given him a chance to take it in and ride a wave of emotion that came over him as the cab crossed the Maple Street Bridge into the town that had always been home. The Clarkson Inn, with its Victorian brick facade and iron accents, sat on the corner of Main and Market, greeting everyone as they arrived. It was where seasonal tourists stayed, as well as wealthier parents and alumni of the two local universities when they were visiting. The exterior of the Roxy Theater across the street from the inn hadn’t been updated since it opened in 1950, but the tickets were cheap, and it had always been well maintained. Little Italy Restaurant was still operational after twenty years. It resided in the oldest standing sandstone structure in town, which had been built in 1821 as an experiment to see if the colorful stone found along the banks of the Raquette River was a viable construction material. The old Pizza Hut Kyle had frequented in high school was still there, though a new Five Guys down the road was probably giving it a run for its money.
When they drove past Pleasant Street at the north end of town he had to smile to himself at the sight of old Mr. Robar’s toilet garden. Back in 2001 Dunkin’ Donuts had made a generous offer for Robar’s land, but the village board denied the request to rezone the property to commercial, so Robar lost out on the deal. He protested by setting numerous toilets around his large corner lot, all the bowls stuffed with dirt and fake flowers. For two decades it had been a contentious issue, and everyone in the North Country had an opinion on it. City politicians and business owners continually pressured him to get rid of the toilets. Some locals called it art and supported Robar’s right to free expression. Others had a sense of humor about it, sold commemorative commode T-shirts at the summer farmers market. A local guy had even written a song about it—“Robar’s Blues.”
For an extra twenty bucks the taxi driver had agreed to wait while Kyle went inside the hospital to see his father. Sitting on the edge of his old twin bed now, Kyle dropped his head into his hands as he thought back to that reunion. If you could call it that. The nurse who gave him directions to his dad’s room had warned him that visiting hours were over soon, but it didn’t really matter because it was a one-sided visit. His dad had been asleep, looking frailer than Kyle had ever seen him, shrunken and pale in that bed, hooked up to beeping machines. His gray hair had thinned on top, and the lower half of his normally smooth face was covered in whiskers, a sure sign of how incapacitated he must have been the last few days. It was a far cry from the vigorous figure wearing a firefighter uniform that had always loomed large in Kyle’s mind. Until that moment he had never thought of his dad as old.
There was a slew of get well cards on his nightstand, along with a big bouquet of flowers from the guys at the firehouse. His dad had retired eight years ago, but he still helped train rookies and would always belong to that brotherhood. It’s in my blood , he was fond of saying.
Kyle had thought about trying to wake him, nudging him lightly or talking to him, something to let him know he was there. But in the end he watched him sleep, took the opportunity to adjust to this new, hopefully temporary version of his father. When the nurse came to tell him it was time to go, that he could come back the next day for a longer visit and a full update from the doctor, Kyle had slipped out quietly.
After the cab dropped him off at the house last night, he’d entered the unlocked front door, chugged a glass of cold water, and carried his duffel up to his old room. Then he tossed his boots and clothes into a pile on the floor and fell into bed. He did all of that without turning on one light. Part of it was not wanting to alert anyone to his presence just yet. River Road was a quarter-mile gravel strip with three properties hugging it, none of which had changed hands in decades. Neighbors would know Danny McCray was in the hospital and take note of lights on in the house. The other reason Kyle hadn’t turned any on was because he wasn’t ready to be hit with the memories yet, and it was easier to avoid them in the dark.
But as he glanced toward the bedroom window, which faced the road and was filling with early morning light, he knew it wasn’t so much the memories inside the house that were lying in wait for him, it was more the memories out there. He stood and walked to the window, braced an arm against the wall on either side of it, and looked to the east.
The McCray house was the first one people encountered after turning onto River Road and crossing the train tracks. The lots out here were flat and narrow, fronted by an old farmhouse, with outbuildings in the rear. Town was a mile south, and no one came out here by accident, especially this time of year, when the road was a mess of mud and slush that sucked at car tires and shoes. Despite its name, River Road afforded no views of the river; it just dead-ended in marshy land with thick clumps of trees that ran up against the winding waters of the Raquette.
He slowly turned his head in that direction, to the west, letting his gaze linger on the Foleys’ simple square white house across the road. The two rockers were there on the front porch, where Mr. and Mrs. Foley liked to pass the time, and their ’89 purple Ford pickup was parked beside it. But that’s all he noted before his full attention was pulled to the house next door to the Foleys’, the cheerful yellow two-story with black shutters and a large dormer on the second level.
Looking at that house was like looking directly at the sun, except it wasn’t searing light that caused his eyes to water, it was the rush of memories. He glanced down to shore himself up with a deep breath, which is when he saw someone walking along the road. Someone bundled up in a puffy jacket, rubber boots, and a hat.
Kyle jumped back from the window. Shit. He knew exactly who it was and exactly where she was going.
He grabbed his jeans off the floor and yanked them on, almost falling over in the process, thinking about how to stop this from happening even though he knew it was too late. He hadn’t locked the door last night, nobody around here did. After pulling his T-shirt over his head he moved back to the window, working his arms through the sleeves. Sure enough she turned onto the path that led to the side door to the kitchen downstairs. She was carrying a reusable grocery bag.
Kyle sat on the edge of the bed to tug his boots on. He didn’t feel ready for this. But, really, when would he be ready for this? He moved to the old foggy mirror over the dresser, scraping fingers through his hair, which felt long and greasy after two days without a shower. He lowered his hands to the dresser and hung his head. Maybe he’d just hide out up here until she left.
But when he heard the door open downstairs, listened to her step inside and move around, he decided to just get it over with. So he straightened up, put on his cap, and headed out into the hallway. He tried to tamp down the anxiety filling his rib cage as he descended the steps, deliberately making noise—clearing his throat, letting his weight sink into the creaky stairs—so he didn’t shock her too badly. When he got to the bottom he peeked around the corner of the large archway separating the hall from the kitchen.
Tall rubber boots sat on the mat by the door, the bottoms caked with mud, and a wool Potsdam Hockey hat was lying on the counter. Her back was to him while she went through the grocery bag, her head and shoulders swaying back and forth a bit, which is when he realized why she hadn’t heard him. She had her earphones in, listening to music. Same way she always did when she was working around the house. Makes me resent chores a little less , she used to tell him.
Pulling back against the wall in the hall, he wondered what he was supposed to do now. There was no way around startling her. Just like another time, many years ago, when he’d taken her by surprise by appearing in a kitchen.
He heard the fridge open, then she spoke. A quiet, disheartened “Oh, Danny…”
And despite the whole situation Kyle smiled. Apparently some things never changed. Dad still ignored her nagging and kept food way past expiration dates. When he heard the sound of items being chucked into the trash, he decided it was time.
He stepped into the kitchen and said her name, loud enough to be heard over the earphones. “Casey.”
She jumped and turned his way at the same time, one hand to her chest, the other gripping a small carton of half-and-half. Some of the cream sloshed out onto her jacket sleeve.
“Sorry,” Kyle said. “I really didn’t know how else to do that.”
She stood frozen for a moment, staring at him, and he decided she looked good. Her honey-brown hair was still thick and a little wild, but longer now, past her shoulders. The black sweater and jeans flattered her slim shape. Her face was clear, if a little drawn, like she’d lost weight since he saw her last. Or maybe it was just the passage of time. But the eyes were the same, lake green and piercing. She pulled her left hand from her chest to pluck out her earphones and drop them in her jacket pocket. That’s when, with a sharp twist to the gut, he noticed her wedding band was gone. “I didn’t know…” She swallowed. “I didn’t realize you were back.”
He pulled his eyes from her bare finger. “I got in late last night.” Then he took an uncertain step toward her, wondering about the right move here. A hug?
But she blinked and looked down at the cream on her sleeve, some of which had dripped to the floor. She turned to place the container in the sink and pulled a paper towel from the roll hanging under a cabinet. “Have you seen him yet?” she asked, dabbing her sleeve.
“Last night, for a few minutes. But he was asleep.”
She bent to the floor to wipe up the cream.
Kyle flipped his cap around so the brim didn’t shade his face. “How are you, Casey?”
“Fine,” she said, standing up and tossing the paper towel in the trash. “I’m good.”
“And Wyatt? How’s he doing?”
“He’s the same. He’s just Wyatt.”
He nodded and smiled at that. Wyatt had always known himself, and he’d been the same person since he was ten years old. A constant in a world full of change.
“What about you?” she asked. “Last I heard you were in Washington.”
“Spokane. I work at a garage there.”
She waved toward the grocery bag. “Well, I just came by to clean out the fridge and put a few meals in the freezer for when he comes home.”
“You still doing that stuff for him?” Kyle asked.
“Sometimes.” Her tone was defensive, which made sense. This topic swerved toward an old argument. He hadn’t meant to sound accusatory, but saying so wouldn’t help anything. It had been a long time since he and Casey had been able to communicate effectively with each other.
They were saved by a loud scratch on the door. Kyle walked over to open it, already excited. He knew that scratch.
As expected, standing on the other side of the threshold was an eighty-pound German shepherd.
“Star,” Kyle said, leaning down and bracing his hands against his knees. “Hey, girl.” He heard the emotion in his voice, but he couldn’t help it. She was likely the one living being in Potsdam who would be truly happy to see him. He’d always been her favorite person.
Star’s head tilted hard to the side while her dark eyes took him in.
“Yeah, Star,” he said, reaching out his hand for a sniff. “It’s me.”
She stared at him, her silver dog tag swaying slightly.
He crouched down on one knee. “Come here, good girl.”
Star took one tentative step toward him, but then her head dipped down and her pointy ears flattened, the way they did when she wasn’t sure about someone. She walked right past Kyle to stand by Casey’s leg.
“What’s that about?” he asked Casey.
“I don’t know. Maybe she just needs some time.”
He stood. “Maybe.” Star was slow to warm up to people, and it had been two and a half years after all. Which put her at seven years old now. She was still barrel-chested and trim, thick black fur running down her back.
“I should go,” Casey said, zipping up her jacket. “I have to get to work.” She moved near the door to pull on her boots. “When you go to the hospital today, tell him I’ll be by to see him later this afternoon.”
“I will.” He had to fight the urge to ask her to come to the hospital with him, to be the buffer she used to be for him and his father. He tried reaching out to Star again, hoping she’d at least nudge his hand with her snout, but she stayed close to Casey and watched him with a wary gaze.
Casey offered him a helpless shrug and pulled on her hat. It settled just above her big eyes, the puffy ball sitting on the crown of her head, waves of hair framing her face, and for just a moment the past several years and everything that had come with them melted away.
“It’s good you came home,” she said. “I’m sure he’ll be happy to have you here.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Her lips pressed together in understanding. Regardless of the time and distance she still understood some things better than anyone else.
When she started patting her pockets and searching around her for something he said, “It’s on the counter by the sink.”
She looked from him to her cell phone, which was sitting right where he said it was. Another thing that never changed—she was incapable of keeping track of her phone. Or her keys, or her wallet…
“Thanks.” She grabbed the phone, then opened the door, and Star trotted out, not even bothering to shoot Kyle a parting glance on her way. “See you later,” she said, following Star.
Kyle stepped outside onto the cement stoop, watching them go. When they reached the front of the house he called out. “Case?”
She stopped walking abruptly, like she was startled by hearing his old nickname for her. Then she turned to him.
“Maybe we should catch up at some point.”
“Catch up?” she asked in a flat voice, which is when he knew what was coming. “You mean, fill each other in on the last two and a half years and talk old times?”
He sighed and looked down. She was right. There really wasn’t much to talk about anymore.
“I don’t think so, Kyle. I’ll see you around.” After that she started walking again, Star following close behind. They made their way across the road.
He continued to watch them, relieved that reunion was over. He’d survived seeing her, being in the same room, making conversation. She seemed okay. Though there was something different, or missing, something he couldn’t put his finger on…
Then he realized what it was. He never saw her smile. Not once during their conversation did he see the smile that used to light up the room for him. The smile he’d chased through the twenty-one years they were together, including the sixteen they were married.
Despite the cold, Kyle stayed on the stoop and continued to watch his ex-wife and his—apparently—ex-dog until they reached the two-story yellow house with black shutters that he used to call home.