DOES THE HEART EVER HEAL?
Chapter One
"Maybe he will, maybe he won't. But we'll never know unless one of us asks him!" Joe said, wrenching his hands together.
"Ya don't hafta bite my head off, Joe. You ain't the only one who's rememberin', ya know!"
Joe Cartwright looked into his big brother's sparkling blue eyes and saw within them the mirrored anguish he himself was fighting to contain.
"Sorry. We're all hurtin', 'specially Pa. He's been pacing out on the porch for hours. Why don't ya go ask him. Maybe this time will be different."
Hoss nodded to his little brother, raised his broad shoulders and steeled himself for the task at hand. The front door creaked as he swung it open and the floorboards on the porch groaned as Hoss made his way toward his father.
"Pa? You okay?"
"Yes, Hoss. I'm fine."
"Joe n' me…we're gonna play some checkers. Wanna come inside n' watch?"
"Maybe in a while. You go on. And don't let Joe cheat!"
"I'll try, Pa. I'll try," Hoss promised as his shoulders slumped in defeat.
The dusty wooden planks mumbled once again, the lonely sound of one set of footsteps on their way back inside. Joe had just placed the last red checker onto its starting position. Although he heard Hoss's approach and the click of the front door's latch, his eyes remained locked on the flames writhing in the fireplace, fueled at the bottom with strength but weakening as they climbed further from their source.
"He's not coming in, is he?" Joe asked, sounding like a little boy who'd once again been disappointed by someone important in his life.
Hoss silently shook his head. "No, Joe, he ain't."
"Every year, Hoss! Every year!"
"I know, Joe. I reckon it's the only way he kin git through it. Best ta jist leave 'im alone like we always do."
~~~
On the moonlit porch of the Ponderosa's main house, Ben Cartwright stood still and silent, like a monument marking a solemn, sacred spot. His weary eyes glistened with tears; tears he was unaware of until the slightest blink sent them drifting aimlessly down his cheeks. A balmy breeze, a sudden, brief movement next to the barn and the monument flinched as his eyes drew better focus. A swaying tree branch bowing in the wind. Nothing more. His chin dropped slowly, disappointment showing in his sad, brown eyes. He assumed another pose, that of a man aging more rapidly than nature should allow, that of a father absent a part of himself. Ben Cartwright, the successful businessman, a powerful influence in the Nevada Territory, a law abiding and moral man. Ben Cartwright, the father who would give it all away if his eldest son would return home.
Three years had gone by since the day Adam left the Ponderosa. For Ben, most of past three years had robbed his soul of its previously unending capacity to love life, leaving him bitter and hurt, desperate and depressed. As he looked back over the recent past, there were visions of day-to-day life, visions of mindless repetition of the daily chores and responsibilities of running the Ponderosa empire. But these sometimes tedious days were always clouded by the lingering fog left behind when a part of one's heart and soul is missing.
As the first seven months had passed, the letters and packages from Adam arrived regularly, nearly every other week. His letters told of beautiful historic cathedrals, snow-covered, majestic mountain ranges, landscapes overflowing with flowering plants and trees and others that were barren deserts. They recounted colorful tales of the people living in these foreign countries, their similarities and cultural differences. Several spoke of friends he'd made by merely doing the right thing as he'd been taught to do by his upbringing, simple acts of Cartwright kindness.
The packages that arrived carried special mementos for each of his brothers and his father, things that had sparked familial memory, things that would bring a smile, things he'd gathered along the way just so they'd get a sense of his adventures. The letters and packages brought him once again into their lives.
With his hands tucked inside his back pockets, Ben crossed the porch and lowered himself into the old wooden rocker. He glanced at the worn surface of the armrests, remembering a time when Marie sat reading to Joe, Hoss and Adam seated alongside. Instinctively, he reached into his left shirt pocket. His long, calloused fingers gently removed a carefully folded piece of paper. He opened the paper, lifting each section delicately, as if removing petals from a fragile spring flower. He gasped slightly at the sight of Adam's handwriting and a shudder traveled through his body. The content of the letter, though precious and irreplaceable, was not the focus of his consideration. As Ben's fingertips traced the lines of thoughts and dreams across the thick, yellowing paper, his eyes grew blurry with tears. For at the bottom of the paper was Adam's familiar signature-closing, four sentences that could be found at the bottom of every treasured letter he'd sent, sentences that fed Ben's hope that his son had always planned to return home, sentences that prevented Ben from moving forward into a future that did not include his eldest child. The letter ended as they all had: I miss you terribly. More than I could have imagined. I'll return soon, to the family and the home I cherish in my heart. I love you all. Adam.
Blinking back his tears, Ben folded the letter with great care. Looking down at the blank rectangle that had just seconds ago transported him closer to his son, a rush of anguish-driven adrenaline pressed hard against his chest. The anniversary of Adam's birth coming to a close, with heavy-hearted resignation, Ben placed the treasured letter safely inside his left shirt pocket. Sitting motionless in Marie's old rocker, he inhaled the cool, crisp night air then exhaled with a sigh as a single tear trickled from his eye.
Around the eighth month after his departure, the packages stopped. The letters arrived less frequently, each one with fewer descriptions, stories and enthusiasm. Adam's closing signature on each eagerly-read letter remained the same: I love and miss you all, yet offered no explanation as to why the letters had become so sparse. Eventually, after long months of receiving only a rare letter or two, Adam's final one arrived on May fifteenth, exactly three days shy of the three-year anniversary of his departure. Though its brief content was still well-written, as Adam's always was, an attitude of uncertainty prevailed amidst the few words he'd sent.
Now, six months had passed without a word from Adam, and on the eve of what should have been Adam's birthday celebration, Ben sat on his porch for the fourth year in a row watching the empty trail leading from the yard to the main road, wishing that at any moment a familiar silhouette would appear.