NOW:
The story Peggy told about her mother's death changed everything.
It fixed the problem of what to do with Will, and slightly mended Virginia City's opinion of Adam. But it did not eradicate the pain of the past, or prevent more from being endured. It did not soothe things between Eddie and Adam, rather it pushed them further apart, because telling the truth about Will did not liberate Peggy from the agony of the torturous past; it prompted her to fall into its infinite, desolate depths. There was just so much about that time, when Laura had been married to Will, that those around her had hoped she had remained ignorant to, and so much more, it seemed, that she had longed to be ignorant to herself.
Telling the truth, sharing her diary first with Roy Coffee, Adam, and Ben, and then with a circuit judge in front of a jury—a collection of the same people who had once been quick to condemn Adam for her mother's death based on rumor—changed her. It destroyed her, and in turn, it destroyed Adam, too.
Adam had been quick to advocate against Peggy sharing what she knew. Looking back, Ben believed it was obvious his oldest son knew at what cost such a thing would come. Adam simply was not willing to save himself at his daughter's expense. It was Eddie and Ben who supported Peggy in telling her story; it was Roy Coffee who ventured to the Running D and placed Will in official custody and then facilitated the arrival of the judge. Everything that happened after that seemed to take place at a maddening rate, each day unfolding quicker than the one which came before.
"It's funny," the aged lawman would muse to Ben in private. "With Peggy coming forward, and the diary she wrote making her an indisputable, credible witness to her mother's death, this almost seems like too easy of a solution to a very complicated problem, seeing as Will's past wrongdoing exonerates any of Adam's more recent questionable choices and behavior. It don't make keeping his cousin hostage morally right, but it does make it acceptable in the eyes of the law."
Ben cast his oldest friend a grim glance. "No, Roy," he said. "Nothing about any of this is funny or easy."
And it was not.
The story Peggy would tell was more gruesome and haunting than any of them could have ever conceived of. The abuse she suffered at Will's hand was much grimmer than any of the adults surrounding her had ever wanted to believe. The memory of him was the monster that had always existed in the darkness of the periphery of her life. Speaking about it, and him, now pulled that monster out of the shadows only for the teen to find that no amount of light was enough to protect her from the brutal memories, or consuming emotions they awoke.
After telling her story for the purpose of saving her father, she remained intent on not speaking about it again. She stood alone in the face of her haunting past, pushing away Eddie and Lil, Ben and Jamie, Hoss and Joe, both of whom she had never really allowed to grow close to her in the first place. She remained as far away from Adam as she could get; she ran from his enduring once so stabilizing and protecting presence. He could do nothing to protect her now.
Watching his granddaughter pull away from her father, Ben felt Adam begin to slip further and further away from him for a time. Not that he could blame his son stepping away. The only thing stronger than a father's desire to protect his child, was the hatred a man could feel toward the person or people responsible for harming them. Years ago, Ben had failed to help Peggy, and more recently he had been instrumental in the events leading to her unraveling. The past and the present were too intertwined now, Ben's failures, Peggy's fear, pain, and grief so clearly excavated for anyone and everyone to see. In a town where rumor and falsehoods had once run amok, there was now not a single soul in Virginia City who was ignorant to the truth of what had happened to Laura Dayton-Cartwright, the role Ben himself had inadvertently played in her demise, and the one Adam had not.
Things should not have had to be this way, but they were. Still, the tone of the town would not shift so quickly or drastically where Ben Cartwright was concerned. He was prestigious, a pillar of the small town; a man who had a direct hand in building and shaping it into what it had become. As much as it disgusted him to see and admit, the townsfolk were much more forgiving of his actual sins than they ever had been of his eldest son's alleged ones.
Even with his once perceived guilt regarding Laura's death fully eradicated, neither the townspeople nor Adam seemed confident in how to interact with one another. The lies of Laura's diary may have been successfully disputed and disproved by her daughter, but the scars of such events would live on. Ben doubted Adam would ever trust or respect the opinions of the folks of Virginia City—or if it was a wise notion for his son to entertain in the future, whatever that was destined to look like for him now.
People were fickle, and, as Peggy had said, anger and shock were powerful influences. For as quickly as they had once turned on Adam himself, once they learned the truth from Peggy, people turned on Will, too. There was not a kind word said about him, or a forgiving sentiment to be extended. Even Minister Joe did not see fit to remain impartial, citing privately to Adam and Ben that he believed there to be a special place in hell for men who murdered their expectant wives, and terrorized children.
Neither Ben nor Adam shared their knowledge—or Adam's knowledge, rather, as Ben had come about the information secondhand—of the violent and untimely deaths of the other women, the prostitutes Will had supposedly killed. The information was never shared openly with Roy Coffee, the judge or otherwise. If ever pressed about why he chose to keep the information secret, Ben was not sure he could conceive of an acceptable answer. Maybe he chose not to talk about it because he did not want to invite outside opinions regarding events that could never be proven or disproven. Maybe Adam had decided upon the same thing. Perhaps, neither man chose to share the information because the truth Peggy shared was damning enough to without it. Maybe it was their way of pretending a terrible man was not as bad as he truly was. Although, if that was the case, then Ben struggled to discern who he and his son were truly protecting: Will or themselves.
At different times and locations, they had both been unwilling to see the truth about Will. They had both been complicit, if not indirect parties to the horrors he had enacted. There were so many moments in the past where Ben could have summoned the courage to see the truth about Will; he saw them all so clearly now, these instances where he could have changed how things would have unfolded, where he could have properly protected Laura and Peggy and therefore protected every woman who came after them. But he had not. He would have to live with the guilt and shame associated with his failure to act; he hoped this culpability was a feeling Adam would not have to live with, too.
He hoped, oh, god, did he hope and pray that his son would choose anger over responsibility, declaring his father solely responsible for Will's horrendous actions. Knowing his eldest son as well as he did, he knew his energies were extended in vain. There was nothing that would keep Adam from feeling responsible; he was a little too honorable and judicious for such desires to ever be allowed.
It rained the morning Will Cartwright was hung on the gallows Adam had constructed in the center of town. Except for Ben who felt it was his duty to watch and Adam who was bound by the badge he wore to complete the deed, the Cartwrights were notably absent from the display.
Ben contained himself during the event, remaining forcibly stoic. Later that night, while the rest of the inhabitants of the house lay sleeping, he sat alone in the company of a generous pour of brandy and the roaring fireplace; he shed tears as he asked the Lord to have mercy on his nephew's soul. He begged for forgiveness for all of them: Will, Adam, and himself.
It was long after his tears had dried when he heard footsteps approaching the house and a soft knock at the door. Approaching it, Ben wondered who could be calling at such a late hour; then he realized there was only one person it could be.
There was only one person missing from the Ponderosa ranch house. There was only one son who had chosen to send his wife and family to live with his father and brothers while remaining determined not to reside alongside them. This was something that Ben hoped his nephew's death could help correct; still, he did not hold very high hopes for such a thing. Adam was nothing if not stubborn, and the distance between the oldest Cartwright son and the only Cartwright wife seemed intent on widening further—despite the new child she would birth in the upcoming months.
Thrusting the door open, Ben laid his eyes, reddened and slightly bloodshot,
on Adam. "There's no need for you to knock," he said. "This house is still as much yours as it is your brothers. In the future, feel free to come in."
Though kindly offered, the statement was nothing more than filler, something benign to say in place of all the others he truly wanted to. And there were so many things he wanted to say. Adam looked terrible, as overwrought and overcome as his father had been. The difference was, though etched with exhaustion, his face showed no evidence of tears. His eyes were dull, but they were not puffy or bloodshot.
"I didn't want to come here," Adam said, his voice too even and quiet. He almost sounded numb.
Feeling the frigid outside air begin to seep into the warmth of the house, Ben wondered if he was. Adam was not wearing a coat; his shirt sleeves had been pushed up and then folded over, leaving his forearms exposed. He had donned his hat and vest, and pinned his sheriff's badge predominantly on his breast.
"That's a lie," Adam amended. "I guess, I did want to come here. I came because…" He trailed off, his expression becoming vacant as he struggled to find words.
"It doesn't matter why you've come," Ben said. "All that matters is that you're here."
Placing his hand on Adam's shoulder, he herded his son inside the house. Ben nearly shuddered over how cold Adam's body felt beneath the thin material of his shirt; he wondered how long he had been outside, how long he had been wherever he had gone before finally coming here.
After Will's hanging Adam had not remained in town for long, leaving the making of the grim after plans to Roy Coffee. It was a job the elder man accepted and completed without comment; he knew, as Ben did, how difficult of a day it was, and how challenging the ones to come would be.
Criminal or not, Will was still a Cartwright; he was still family. His death was still sad; it was still a loss. In the absence of his life, it would not be the man he was that the family would grieve, rather all he could have been had things been different than they were.
Settling his son in front of the fireplace, Ben raised the brandy bottle in offering. Adam waived it away, his absent expression not wavering.
"I didn't want to be alone," Adam said, finally finishing his previous assertion. "That's why I came here. I'm sick and tired of…" Closing his mouth, he chewed his bottom lip and failed to finish his thought.
"I'm glad you came," Ben said. "I'm glad you're here." He appraised the brandy bottle idly. Was it the drink his son was against consuming? Or had he been offered the wrong type of alcohol? With the way he looked and how he sounded when he spoke, Ben thought his son needed something to soothe the edge of the day and chase away the paralyzing listlessness overwhelming him. "If you don't want brandy, then how about something else?"
Rounding the corner of his desk, Ben made his way to the bottom drawer of the book cabinet lining the wall and procured an unopened bottle of liquor. Returning to his son, he offered him the item which Adam held firmly, his brows furrowing with confusion as he looked between the dust-covered bottle of ostentatiously expensive whiskey and his father.
"I have quite a few of them," Ben explained. "One for every one of your birthdays that passed while you were away."
"You do?"
"Of course, I do. Just because you weren't here, that doesn't mean I never thought of you. I know I was angry when you came back, but that doesn't mean I didn't long for your return. Tradition is tradition, son. Even in your absence, it did not seem right to ignore it."
"So, what did you do?"
"What do you mean?"
"If you didn't ignore my birthday then what did you do when the day came?"
"Oh," Ben said, sitting on the coffee table; facing his son, his knees mere millimeters from Adam's own as he looked at the whiskey bottle and considered how much of his new yearly tradition he wanted to share. What was the harm in disclosing it? What was the point in keeping it secret? Adam had been gone, and in the scarce moments he had allowed himself to acknowledge this fact, Ben had missed him terribly.
"Do you want to know what I did this past year?" Adam asked quietly. The question was unsolicited, the answer graciously given in the absence of Ben's own. "I went east. I spent it with Grandfather and Mrs. Callahan. That's how I found out about you, where you had come from, the things you had to do to become who you are. When the conversation became too much, I ran from it. I ran from him and the things he knew about you, and the ones I didn't yet know about myself."
Leaning forward, he placed the whiskey on the table next to where his father sat and then leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms, tucking his hands beneath his armpits as he looked upon the flames of the fire.
"The thought of you growing up in a house like you did was too much for me to think about," he continued. "I couldn't handle it. I didn't want to. So," he nodded at the whiskey, "I bought a bottle of that and I drank it in the cemetery with only my sorrow, the moon, and my mother's headstone to keep me company. I stood there with that bottle, Pa, and I drank it all. Never in my life had I ever done that, but I did it that night. Looking back at it, I've asked myself why so many times. Why was I so stupid? What the hell was I thinking doing something like that? Putting myself in the position where others could exploit my unawareness… my inebriation for their own twisted means. I guess, at the time, I thought that night was the beginning of something; I never once thought that maybe it was really the end, because, later, I cried for you and all the things you did and didn't have. I cried for me and all the things I knew I was not and never would be. I left Boston wanting to come back here, so, you see, I've been lying from the very beginning. I always wanted to come here. You were so angry at me when I first returned; I couldn't seem to find the words or the desire to admit that I wanted to be where I was. If not next to you then at least standing in your shadow. It was easier to lie and pretend when we weren't getting along. Now that we are, it's difficult to avoid the truth."
Closing his mouth, Adam shook his head mournfully. Arms still crossed, he seemed to hold himself a little bit tighter than before. Ben's heart ached to see such a thing, his most capable, self-assured son appearing suddenly so uncertain and lost.
Ben knew that, for Adam, keeping Will's presence a secret had been a fine distraction; now that things had been settled—now he was gone without the lingering threat of returning—there was nothing else to deflect attention away from all the other things that needed consideration. Like the state of things between him and Eddie, her health and that of their unborn child, and the happiness of Noah and Peggy. For a future that should have seemed so bright and full of joy, Ben knew that, to Adam, all it seemed to promise was more uncertainty.
"Will was a distraction," Adam quietly continued, unknowingly confirming his father's silent theory. "A good one, at that. It was so much easier to blame him for his shortcomings than it was to take responsibility for my own. He may have been guilty of terrible things, but I'm far from perfect. I've done things I regret. I've broken things I'm not sure I can fix. I didn't have to think about any of this while he was still here, but now that he's not I can't help but see everything I never intended to consider. Some monsters are born, and others we create, because that's what we do when we're too afraid to see the truth. As a little boy I loved him because his fear forced me to be strong, and as a grown man I hated him because my fear of him made me weak. I followed him around and then I ignored him. I don't know what kind of end I expected with actions like that."
"Adam," Ben said softly, extending his hand to grasp his son's knee reassuringly. "You didn't do anything wrong."
"I sure as hell didn't do anything right. When Will married Laura, I hated him because I didn't want to hate myself. I was so eager to pin all my shortcomings on him, to blame him for taking what I never wanted in the first place. I was so intent on disliking him that I couldn't see what was right in front of me. I never wanted to marry Laura. I never wanted to be Peggy's father; I didn't even want to take her away from him or here, not really. But I did because I didn't have a choice. He showed himself to me that day I took Peggy from him. He was belligerent when he spoke to me, and with the way Peggy looked…
there were hints of it, Pa, the nasty things that were going on out there. Everything about Peggy screamed there was something wrong, from the state of the clothes she was wearing to the dullness in her eyes. I took her away, thinking that'd be the end of it, but it wasn't, because it was already too late. I was too late; I didn't save her from anything."
And there it was, Ben thought sadly, the one heart wrenching uncertainty that was powerful enough to outweigh them all. Gracefully, Peggy did not speak in specific terms of the abuse she suffered, but with the things she did share, it was hard for one not to assume the worst. People would assume the worst; they would because they already had. Now it was not Adam that would suffer the brunt of the gossip around Virginia City; it was Will, and it was Peggy, but only one of them was alive and therefore be forced to endure it.
"I never asked her about it, you know," Adam continued grimly. "I never asked because I didn't want to know. And like a goddamn fool I let her stay here after she came back, knowing the secret I was keeping about Will, knowing that a day was going to come when the truth would have to be told. I didn't account for hers, though, because I didn't know about her hidden diary or the things she could say about what happened back then. I didn't know, because I was too afraid to ask." Shaking his head, he scoffed helplessly, his eyes filling with irrepressible tears as his voice began to slightly waiver. "I knew that my secret was going to hurt her, but I didn't…" He choked on the words and closed his mouth, unable to continue.
"You didn't account for hers to hurt you," Ben provided softly, holding his son's knee tightly. "Son, there's a special kind of pain that a father feels when he realizes he failed to protect his child from someone, that in hindsight, they know they should have. I first felt the sting of the pain years ago; for a long time, I continued to feel it; even now, I still do. That's why I'm the best person to offer you this advice: let yourself hurt, let Peggy hurt, too. Don't ignore what happened, allowing your fear of the past or others becoming privy to it trick you into becoming weak. You let that pain make you stronger. You own it and accept it. Lead by example and teach your daughter how to let her pain make her stronger, too."
"Pa, the whole town thinks—"
Ben tilted his head. "It doesn't matter what the town thinks. All that matters is what we know. After everything that's happened, after all we've been through, there is one thing that we can say we know for certain. The past holds no power over us if we don't fear and hide it. The only way bad things can change and weaken us is if we let them."
Uncrossing his arms, Adam leaned forward in his chair, inadvertently dislodging his father's grip. He took a deep breath, held it, and then expelled it, lifting his hands to rub his palms across his face and rake his fingers through his hair.
"Right," he said finally. The tears he had once come so close to crying had dissipated; determination had taken their place. "You're absolutely right."
He looked at the bottle of whiskey on the table, then at his father, and then he stood abruptly. Grabbing the bottle, he held it by its neck and made his way to the front of the fire. For one horrible moment, Ben imagined his son tossing the bottle into the fire; he even braced himself for the explosion that would follow the action. Then Adam turned and looked at him again.
"For what it's worth, I still wish things were different, you know," he said.
"What things?" Ben asked.
Shaking his head, Adam did not immediately respond, and when he did the words that escaped his mouth were as unexpected as the ones which had preceded them. "I want to take Will's body back to Ohio, so he can be laid to rest next to his father and his mother. I think I'd like for you to come with me."
Ben was as taken aback by the plan as he was the invitation. He had thought—he assumed—
Will would be buried here. Maybe not on Ponderosa land per say, but in the Virginia City cemetery located on the outskirts of town; he would not have thought Adam, of all people, would believe his deceased cousin was worth the effort of transporting his body to the Midwest.
"Alright," Ben said. He agreed, not because he was overcome by a strong desire to do so, but rather because he was determined not to force his eldest to shoulder the burden alone. It would be good to get away from Virginia City for a while, to give themselves and everyone else space and time to become accustomed to the way things had been and the way they currently were, the change that had consumed all of them seemingly overnight.
"You know all that time I was keeping Will hostage, I never asked him anything..." Adam looked at the bottle he held, the fingers of his free hand running up and down the label, dislodging the dust that had gathered upon it. "It wasn't because I didn't have any questions, but because I couldn't seem to summon the desire to hear the answers. There are so many things I don't know. So many answers that Will took to his grave. The questions I couldn't summon the courage to ask while he was alive are going to be the things that are going to haunt me now that he's gone. I should have asked him; I should have done so many things differently than how I did." Scoffing, he shook his head, his features clouding with disappointment and slight disgust. "Of course, that's assuming he would have told me the truth, which I know he wouldn't have. I swear, I never met a man more anxious to control the narrative surrounding himself. He was always so eager to shirk responsibility and blame others for the things he himself did wrong. Even so, I don't know that I want to believe he was all bad, because if he was, then what does that make me?"
"You're different from him. Adam, you and Will were never the same kind of people."
"But we could have been, right? We should have been, and, shit, maybe we really were. Maybe that's why we hated and hung on to each other the way that we did. During the time he was ignoring me, I wasn't ignoring him; during the time I wasn't following him, he was following me. There were times when we were so far away from each other, but still something inside of us would not allow either one of us to let the other go, not really. I followed that man, and then ran from him. I chased him eventually, and when I found him, I knew I was never going to let him go. Now he's dead and I have to. Still, I find myself not wanting to, because, like I said, he's a good distraction."
Ben was not sure what to make of the statement; he wondered if clarification of the omission would come later, or never at all. Maybe Adam's complicated relationship and history with Will during the time he spent away would be something that was never described in great detail to him. Perhaps, it was information Adam had silently deemed too personal, or painful to share.
"It's easier to condemn him for his sins and false narrative than it is to consider my own." Adam looked at Ben. "I lied about not wanting to come here. I've lied about other things, too. I didn't ask Will any questions; I didn't care about anything he had to say. But I did things to him I don't want to admit. I allowed my pain, anger, and fear to guide my actions, and by doing so I became a different kind of man than I thought I was. Lost in a series of moments, I never forced myself to take a step back and look at the situation objectively. I didn't think of the past or the future; my only focus was on the present, and making that man hurt as much as I did."
"Oh, Adam—"
"I know Roy Coffee once called me a dog," Adam continued, impervious to his father's interruption. "But I'm not a dog, Pa. I am a wolf. I wasn't before, but I am now. I've become accustomed to my viciousness, the fangs I didn't know I had, and a deep-seeded desire for blood. Me, hiding Will out at the Running D, you want to believe that was for justice. It wasn't. It was for revenge. I wanted to take something from him because of the things I believed he took from me. It's so easy to give into anger when faced with the horrors of life, too easy to look back and tell yourself that things were meant to be different than they turned out to be and that somebody needs to be held responsible for the bad things that happened, because they're just too damn hard to accept otherwise. I wanted somebody to blame; I couldn't blame myself, so I blamed him."
"I don't think anyone can fault you for that."
"Can't they? Don't you understand? I was afraid of him, Pa. Of what he could say or do and how such things would destroy what was left of the life I found. Stupid thing is, I never wanted it in the first place." He cast a furious gaze at the star pinned on his breast. "This badge or the one I wore before, I never wanted either of them. Sometimes things just happen, and if you're not paying close enough attention to the present then the future unfolds before you know it. And then you can't control it anymore, the things that come next, the decision that comes after the one you chose not to make and the others that will follow that you will have no other choice but to make. You can't ignore any of them, because one decision leads to the other. To relinquish control over one is to lose control of them all. I thought the life I had found was right, and now I look back and I wonder how much of it was wrong. When Will was still here, I didn't have to think about any of these things. All I had to do was think about him. I don't want to believe I would have kept him hidden in that house forever if Peggy hadn't found him, but I think maybe I would have. I made bad decisions, not just before coming back here, but after, too. Now, all I can do is wonder what kind of monster I've become."
"You're not a monster," Ben assured.
"You say that like you know, but you don't, because you don't know half of what I've done. You can't see through the lies that I've told. Pa, I built gallows in the center of Virginia City to scare a child. When I got shot, I made my mother-in-law a party to my crimes."
"What are you talking about? What child? What crimes?"
"When I was shot somebody had to look after Will. He couldn't be left there indefinitely. Somebody had to check in on him, bring him food, water, and such. I couldn't ask you to do it without making you aware of his presence. I couldn't ask Joe or Hoss, either."
"So you asked Lil."
"I did."
"And she was not surprised by your cousin's condition or whereabouts?"
The question within itself was the answer—which was just as well because Adam did not provide one. Of course, Ben thought, of course Lil had known about Will; she had known the secret Adam had been keeping because there were so many other things about his son she had known. She knew everything; she always had. That was the real reason she had come back to Virginia City; it was the reason she had stayed. He could have been upset by the realization, but he was not. He was relieved. All this time he had believed Adam to be alone, but he had not been, because Lil had been there to watch over him.
"She knew he was there; she always knew," Ben provided quietly. "And the child? The one you said you built the gallows to frighten."
"The kid that shot me," Adam said flatly. "Little boy, Pa, all of ten years old. I never forgot who did it; I never didn't know why I didn't pull my gun to defend myself. I couldn't shoot a kid, certainly not a kid who was overcome by the alluring gossip in town. I could have brought him in after the fact, but I didn't. I decided to scare the shit out of him instead. Doesn't sound like me, right? You look at me and wonder how in the world I could do such a thing. But I did, and that's what makes me worse than Will. I hide behind a quest for morality and virtue; my overt goodness distracts from the bad lurking beneath the surface, and there is bad lurking inside of me, Pa. I know it's there because I fight with it every day."
"Well, if you grapple with the bad, then that means there's good inside you, too," Ben soothed. "For what it's worth, I don't think you decided to frighten that child with the gallows because you were angry at him. I think you were trying to protect him."
"Protect him?"
"Yes, protect him. You saved him from the true consequences of a bad decision by frightening him badly enough that he would never dare repeat it. After all, you are a sheriff. Shooting someone of your repute comes at a steep price. I know of no court of law that would make a distinction between a boy and a man under such circumstances, at least not a boy of ten; that's old enough to know that poor decisions come with consequences."
"Yeah. So's forty-three."
As the gruff response seemed to echo around them, Ben assessed his son, noting his guilt, pain, and fear. He saw it all. All the things his son was afraid of being; all the things he really was and always would be.
"You can't go back, Adam; you can only go forward," Ben reminded gently. "You can judge yourself harshly for the things that you did now, but I think time will reveal the truth to you."
"And what's that?"
"You're a good man, even if sometimes you don't feel like you are. Everyone makes mistakes, but that doesn't mean that our worst moments should cost us everything. They shouldn't be the instances we use to define ourselves. Will was who he was, and you are who you are. He may be dead, but you're alive, which means you still have the power to change or fix the things you don't like. You can be whatever kind of man you think you should be; you can mend anything you believe to be broken; you just have to find the desire to do so."
"And what if I can't?" Adam whispered, his expression contorting uncharacteristically with uncertainty and apprehension. "What if I don't have anything left to give anybody; what if I'm too tired to change, too beat up to fight for anything."
"Son," Ben said gently, "you have been through so much in such a short amount of time. I think there is a high likelihood that the powerful emotions you feel now will pass. Things won't always feel the way they do now. You are tired; you've been through a lot. Take a moment, catch your breath, allow yourself to rest and then see how everything around you feels."
Adam appraised the staircase leading to the upstairs bedrooms. Eddie was up there; Noah and Peggy were, too. Ben thought his son was taking his advice to heart and considering joining them, finally taking that first step, planting his feet firmly and optimistically in the present to favor the future over the past. He simply was not prepared for what his son said next.
"We had stairs outside of the house in San Francisco," Adam whispered. "They were formattable, the corners of each step sharp, the entirety of them steep as hell. Charlie used to run down them. It would make Eddie and Lil crazy, because, well, small children tend to be clumsy under the best of circumstances. I don't know how many times they told him, how many times I told him, to be careful on those stairs, that it was dangerous to race down them the way that he did. We had reason to be afraid. He had tripped and fallen before. Both times he had been running to greet me when I came home after being gone for months. Both times I had been there to catch him before…" Pausing, thoughtfully, his expression became pained. His voice was thick with emotion when he continued. "That child was always in such a hurry to get to the places he was determined to go, to see whatever it was he wanted to see. Back then, I didn't understand his haste; now I wonder if it was because he knew he hadn't been allotted a lot of time. He had to see things when he had to see them, or he never would."
Heart aching, Ben opened his mouth but no words came out. None seemed appropriate or adequate to soothe either of them. A part of him was disgusted with himself and another was grateful. He knew from experience that speaking about the gravity of one's loss was an important part of the grieving process. It was better to talk about the loss of a loved one than to ignore their existence. Avoidance never helped anyone or anything; it only intensified pain, that deep, hollow sting that accompanied terrible loss.
"The series of events that Lil retold," Adam continued, his voice wavering with emotion as he
clenched the neck of the whiskey bottle with such force his knuckles turned white. "The way that she explained it, was that Charlie had seen a man on the street below. He thought that man was me, so he raced out the front door and down those stairs. He fell, and nobody was there to catch him, because that man wasn't me. It couldn't have been because I was nearly on the other side of the country, in fucking Ohio. Will had talked to Eddie about the past; she couldn't seem to find any other way to talk to me about it other than asking me to take her there. So I did, and neither of us were with that boy when he died. We were thousands of miles away. We came back and found him gone. Eddie said she blamed me; she said my inability to deal with my secrets had cost us our son. She said she hated me, but I didn't hate her. Not really. Not then. She left; I didn't go after her. I could have, but I didn't, because it was just easier to let her go. With the things she said to me, I didn't think she'd ever come back. I sure didn't think she would be with child when she did. I didn't account for how the time that passed would make me feel. I didn't hate her back then, Pa, but I sure as hell do now. I hate her for choosing to believe Will over me. For dragging me across the country to have a conversation that could have taken place in San Francisco. I hate her for taking me away from our boy when I had finally decided to abandon the road and making me be so far away from him when he needed me the most. She may have decided she still loves me, but I hate her. So, you tell me, how am I supposed to fix that?"
Standing up, Ben made his way to his son, liberated the whiskey bottle from his constricted grasp, and placed it on the table.
Hands free, Adam crossed his arms again, sunk to sit on the mantle, and pressed his palms tightly to his sides, an obvious self-soothing motion as tears fell from his eyes to trickle slowly down his cheeks. "What if…?" he began and then hesitated, his voice thick and small as though he was a child sharing a secret. "What if I always hate her? What if that's something that can't be changed now? What if it's something I can't fix?"
"Adam," Ben whispered, "Son, that's just your grief talking. You've suffered a terrible loss; it's natural to be angry or resentful at first; those feelings will pass. Things won't always feel the way they do now."
"But what if they do?"
"They won't."
"But what if they do?" Adam repeated insistently.
"Then we will find a way to deal with it," Ben assured as he sat next to his son, the heat of the fire behind them, warming their backs as he spoke. "There are solutions to any problem if you look for them. It isn't that uncommon for a husband and a wife to live apart. It's less than ideal when there are children involved, but it is a fine arrangement. It is possible for Lil and Eddie to return to San Francisco while you remain here."
"I don't like that solution. Eddie won't either, not with children involved."
"Then we'll find one you both do. If truly needed," Ben amended, remaining silent on the glaring fact that neither seemed intent on drawing attention to in the moment. Eddie had a history of child bearing complications; still carrying her unborn child in her protective womb, there was so much about the future that would remain uncertain until it arrived.
"What about the things people will say?" Adam asked.
"Adam, never a day in your life have I ever known you to care about such things. Don't you dare begin now. Everything will be okay; I know that it doesn't feel that way right now, but it truly will. Time has the ability to soothe all sorts of things; you just have to let it."
Still holding himself tightly, Adam's tears had calmed as quickly as they came. He made no effort to wipe the evidence of the emotion off his face as he leaned into his father and rested the side of his head upon Ben's shoulder. "Pa," he whispered, "Will may be dead, but I'm still afraid. I'm afraid I can't be a good husband anymore; I'm afraid of failing to be a good father to the new baby when it comes."
Wrapping his arm around Adam, Ben pulled him close. "I know."
"All this time, I thought I was afraid of what was in Will's heart, but I think what I was really afraid of was what was in my own."
"I don't think that's the case."
"Neither do I, but not thinking something doesn't make it untrue."
"No, it doesn't, but fearing the worst about ourselves doesn't make it true, either."
"I wish I believed you."
"I'll tell you what, how about you just trust me for now, give it a little time and maybe you will."
"Okay."
Later, Ben would look back at this moment and be overcome, not by grief, shame, anger, or resentment, rather appreciation and a tremendous amount of love. He would be thankful for it, as emotional and saddening as it was; he would come to treasure it, because this moment—despite the underlying fear and grief that had served as a catalyst to create it—was powerful enough to supersede all that would come before or after.
This was the moment—months after first setting foot on the Ponderosa after his extended absence—when Adam truly came home.
Oh, he would leave again; later that night, he would. He would pull away from his father, remount his horse, and head back to Virginia City; he had a job to return to, after all. But he would return the next evening, the one after, and the one after that. He would spend time with his children, brothers, mother-in-law, father, and wife. The conversation Ben and Adam shared that night would finally open the door for so many others; it would change something between father and son for better, for good.
On most nights, when his duties in town permitted it, Adam would once again become a fixture at the Ponderosa dinner table. Often, Ben would look across that table and find his oldest son sitting on the opposite side, engaged in gregarious conversation with Hoss, Little Joe, or Jamie. Ben would look upon all his sons, together at last and for good, and he would be overcome.
Four sons. He had four sons, and the love, gratitude, and pride he felt when quietly observing what had thankfully become an indisputable detail was more than enough.
It was almost too much.