CHAPTER ONE

FACING THE DAY

Narrow, dust-laden shafts of light thrust between the edges of the burgundy curtains and beamed diagonally across the second bedroom on the right. The scuffed pine floorboards bathed in the rays, soaking in their offering of warmth against the chill of early morning. A gentle, light wind puffed through the open window and the curtains' shift accompanied the rays as they danced across the floor in shimmers of light. That same breeze delivered to the bedroom the smells of earth and nature and, coupled with the warmth and sunshine, the promise of yet another new day.

The night had been no more than three hours old when he'd risen from the comfort of his bed and taken a front row seat to the wonders of the darkness. He sat precariously along the slender window sill, one foot against a corner, his back supported by another. His head rested heavily alongside the window pane, each breath spreading a circle of moisture that blurred his face to the stars looking down from above. Slumber had become sporadic, leaving him sluggish and irritable. His melancholy waxed and waned, never quite swelling to a state of happiness, nor plummeting to a condition of total despair.

How can it be? How have I managed to face day after day, night after night, without him? Three months. THREE months! Dear God, how can it be? I miss him . . . so much. I need him, and you've taken him from me, from us.

His breath clung desperately to the shelter of his lungs, as if emerging into the world would only prove the aching absence. He coughed, choking as the warm air forced its way against the cool pane. He hung his head and his misty eyes clamped shut as he ran his hand through his hair, letting it rest on the back of his neck. Through the closed, carved pine door, he heard the shuffling he'd come to dread as his father made his weary way to the staircase. He swung his leg from its perch and leaning against the sill, his fingers clasping its ledge, let out a sullen sigh.

Walking toward his dresser, he glanced at his bed, the crisp white sheets pristine and taut. Determined to mask his wakefulness from well-meaning souls, he yanked at the sheet's corners and poked at his pillow, then tugged at the tan blanket and set the quilt askew. Satisfied with his endeavor, he selected a neatly folded shirt from the middle drawer and a pair of trousers from the one below. As he straightened, the day's clothing in hand, he averted his eyes from the silver-plated picture frame atop the dresser. Resting on the edge of his bed, he slipped his legs into his trousers as the breeze caressed his morning-stiffened shoulders. A yawn crept forward from the back of his jaw and he stretched his arms and shoulders as his mouth widened and a breathy sigh escaped his lips. Running his hand over his chin, he scratched at the stubble and frowned. Knowing full well that his father's eyebrows would evoke disapproval, he chose to skip his before-breakfast shaving routine. A sigh escaped his mouth and nose as he trod to the washbasin. After pouring the pitcher's tepid water into the scallop-edged bowl, he washed the night's sweat from his arms, chest, and face, the evaporating water chilling him as the slowly warming breeze wafted across the room. He toweled himself dry and shuffled his bare feet back to his bed. He lifted the shirt, his fingers grasping the fabric by the shoulder seams. With a sharp flick, he shook the folded edges loose and slipped his left arm into its sleeve. The motion was rewarded with a dull ache in the muscles of his neck as they lodged their complaint for the hours of resting his head against the window pane. His left hand massaged the offending twinge, and then lingered absentmindedly at his neck as he stared at the small, hand-woven rug on the floor.

I don't know how . . . or even if he'll get through this day. Hell, I don't know if I will either. What was it the Reverend said last week? 'Celebrate the memories'. How? How am I supposed to celebrate something that reaches into my chest and tears at my soul? . . . .Three months? How can it be?

A summons to the breakfast table beckoned from downstairs, snapping him from his numbing stare. "I'll be right down!" he yelled as he slithered his right arm into the sleeve. He stood at his bed lethargically buttoning first his trousers, then his shirt. Back at his dresser, he grasped the handle of his ivory-colored porcelain hairbrush and trailed it through his hair, pressing so that the bristles grazed his waking scalp. Satisfied by his appearance with merely a fleeting glance in the ornamental mirror hanging above the basin table, he pulled on his socks and boots. Reluctantly, he twisted the doorknob, opened the bedroom door and trudged down the hallway to the top of the staircase. The sight of the dining table set for two and the smell of fresh baked bread, coffee brewing, and sweet, salty ham frying pervaded his senses. He inhaled deeply as his father entered from the kitchen balancing his first cup of coffee on the delicate, pink-trimmed saucer.

I can get through this. I have to. For Pa, I just have to.

With a sharp exhale, he descended the stairs, the bounce in his step an attempted charade, and as he crossed the great room, he coerced a pleasant smile to his lips.

"Morning, Pa," he said as he settled into his chair.

"Morning," Ben said, his voice straining against the burden growing in his throat, "son."

Over the past three months, each meal together left him hankering for familiar voices laughing and sharing tales of the day and memories from the past. Today's breakfast was no exception. There was talk of the day's chores: talk that was void of emotion. There were inquiries about mail and supplies and such: inquiries of 'things' and duties. But as had become the norm, there was no conversation.

Nearly finishing his second cup of coffee, he drew the cup from his lips and stared at the scattered grounds floating on the bottom. He swirled the brown liquid and the grounds spread apart, clinging to the inside of the cup, each one isolated from the others. He looked from one teeny speck to the other, saddened by their distance at his own hand. It was at that moment that his father pushed his chair from the table, stood, and without pardon, walked as he had every morning for the past four months to his burgundy chair. He considered his father, plunking down against the worn upholstery and settling in to stare blankly at the ghostly flames of the fireplace.

What do I say to him? Do I say anything at all? He remembers. I know he does. What will make it easier on him? Mentioning it, or ignoring it? Will it hurt him to think I've forgotten? Surely he knows I could never forget!

He tipped his cup, forcing the droplets of coffee to wash over the grounds, inviting them to reunite in the bottom of the cup. One tip of the cup followed another and another until all of the grounds, save one, floated closely together in the base of the cup. Several more attempts resulted in the same. One solitary ground lingered against the side of the cup, unable to join the gathering, unable to reunite. Heaving a sigh, he gently placed the cup atop its saucer. With his elbows resting on the table, he laced his calloused fingers together and sank his chin heavily onto his hands. He heard his father shift in his chair, and he longed for some bit of meaningful conversation with the man he admired and loved. But the exchange did not take place, and he closed his eyes to the hollowness he felt inside.

When the front door opened, he turned lifeless eyes to the man who entered. His father raised his eyes to the man, nodded and returned his gaze to whatever tale he saw unfolding in the flames.

"Morning, Mr. Cartwright. Morning, Joe," Candy said, hurrying to the table. He lowered his voice as he continued. "Anything?"

Despondently, Joe shook his head as Candy glanced toward the hearth.

"I don't appreciate the whispers," Ben said roughly. "If you've got something to say, just say it!"

Candy and Joe exchanged worried glances. Together, they walked the short distance, dreading the destination with every step. Candy flanked Joe as they stood behind the settee, eyes lowered, neither knowing what to say or do to cut the tension in the room. The crackling of the fire was softened by the sounds of their breathing, but no one uttered a word. When Joe mustered a hidden pocket of strength and opened his mouth to speak, his father said the words they'd been afraid to speak aloud.

"I remember."