67. Jacob
Jacob
Viola’s house grew faster than a weed in fertile soil, rising sturdy and proud on the ridge to the east. Beth took me on the promised tour, and I memorized the layout.
The house would be weathertight by the time she arrived for her visit in October.
I settled our farm in for winter and had time to focus on writing.
I pored over my map and planned an adventure to the southwestern desert.
But foremost in my mind was Viola, and I awaited her arrival with eagerness and trepidation.
October arrived with an icy wind. I turned up my collar against the gusts that sent leaves swirling off the end of the depot’s platform.
The morning sun was bright in the cloudless sky but gave no heat.
I considered my apology for the thousandth time.
On tiptoe, I peered over the rush of people loading and unloading.
I spied Viola and George as they stepped out of a car near the end of the train.
I angled toward them. I’d tucked Viola’s letter into my breast pocket—a hopeful talisman.
She would forgive me. Please let her forgive me.
Viola turned away from me, but George waved and said, “Jacob. Well met.”
Viola held her hat to her head with one hand. As she turned, the wind whipped loose hair across her face, a barrier between us. Her lips pressed into a line.
I swallowed hard and stopped before them. I raised a hand toward her but then dropped it.
George clapped me on the back, nodded, and walked away, leaving us to make our hellos.
My words rushed out. “Please, Viola. I’m so sorry. Forgive me. I’m a fool with a temper like a lame-footed buffalo…” She was too far away. I stepped closer, reaching for her free hand.
She kept her eyes hidden under the brim of her hat and her lips pulled downward.
“I’m sorry.”
Her hand sat limp and unmoving in mine.
“Please…”
The wind stole my plea. Had she heard me? I stood still as stone, my spirit weighed down, too heavy to continue speaking. Around us, the platform cleared, and the conductor called, “All aboard.”
She stood frozen with her face hidden. I squinted against the sting of the wind, pulled like a turtle into my shell.
One last plea passed my lips. “Please, Viola. Talk to me.”
In a burst of motion, she hurtled into me. She clung to my jacket, sobbed against me. Her shoulders heaved as I wrapped her in my arms and pressed my cheek to the top of her head. Her hat blew along the platform toward the tracks.
The train started forward, and the movement at the periphery of my vision threw me even more off balance. Had I caused this despair, this pain? Please let me not be the source. But if not me, what? What had happened?
When the track was empty and the sound of the train lost in the wind, Viola swayed back from my chest, and I steadied her before me with a hand on each shoulder. But still, she looked down. Her lips moved, struggling to form words.
I brushed the hair from her face, tilted her chin upward, and leaned down to meet her gaze. The anguish I found there made me want to draw a sword and rush into battle. Start a war. Instead, I cupped her face between my palms and brought my face close to hers.
She reached up to hold my wrists and whispered, “She’s dead. Mrs. Newman is gone.”
Who? Then I remembered the older lady who had been Viola’s dear friend.
“Oh, my dear. I’m sorry.” I crushed her to me and lowered my lips to her ear. “How can I help?”
She said nothing and I filled the silence with murmured phrases as she leaned all the weight of her grief into me. I hardly knew the words that poured out as I held her on the empty, windswept platform. They came from my heart rather than my head.
When she shivered in my arms, I said, “We need to get you out of this wind.” I steered her toward George, who waited with shoulders hunched and hands in his pockets under the overhang of the depot roof.
We took shelter from the wind at the nearby Inn. Viola clutched my arm, and I flushed, ashamed of my behavior the last time Viola and I stood on the Inn’s steps. She met my gaze as we climbed to the door, together, and something loosened in my chest at the hint of hope I found there.
George ordered tea and sandwiches from Ruthie, and Viola went to George’s room to freshen up.
He said, “Viola was with her when she died. A sudden heart issue.”
“Was it peaceful?”
“Sarah was there, too. Says she welcomed the end. Spoke kind words to them right before she passed.”
“So she was able to say goodbye?”
“Yes, but Viola immediately put on a brave face. She rallied to play piano at the memorial, but after… She hasn’t been herself.”
George raked a hand through his hair. “Withdrawn, barely speaking, like part of her died along with her friend. Drawn deep into herself. Reminds me of how she was after our mother passed.”
“What can I do?”
“Father wanted to keep her home, but I convinced him she needed to be here. Needed you. You and your family and this place.”
George thinks she needs me? His trust tightened my chest.
“On the platform in your arms was the first time she cried, the first time she released any of her bottled-up grief.”
George paused and wiped a hand across his face. “I know she said hurtful things to you the last time she was here, and it’s a lot to ask. But please… help her.”
I leaned in and grasped his shoulder. How could he doubt? “George, you must know. I’d do anything for her. Anything.”
“I know.” One corner of his lips lifted into a smile. “That’s why we’re here.”
Viola returned as Ruthie carried in the food.
She nibbled on a sandwich and sipped tea while George and I made plans.
I would head home to update everyone on the situation.
George and Viola would follow in an hour and get Viola settled in with us.
Viola said nothing, but her eyes followed me when I stood.
I stopped beside her chair, laid my hand on her shoulder, and nodded. She nodded in return. We agreed on something important. But I wasn’t sure what it was. Not yet.