BOSTON

Return to Ithaca

Ben picked up his carpetbag and slowly descended the train steps to the platform. Boston, he thought dazedly. Boston ground under his feet for the first time in twenty years. It didn't seem real.

He walked the length of the platform into the station, a building, he reminded himself, that hadn't existed last time he was here, and through it out into the street, glancing at the station clock as he passed. A quarter til six. He stood outside the station, ignoring the bustle of passengers around him, and stared. It was like the landscape of a dream - oddly familiar, and yet almost completely unrecognizable. He waved away a hopeful cabby and began to walk. Well, there was the Old South Church - that looked more or less the same. And there, in the distance, was the harbor. The salt tang in the air had heralded it even before he saw it though, that and the smattering of gulls circling hopefully overhead. The Atlantic Ocean. Unexpected tears sprang to his eyes. His ocean.

He walked further into the heart of town, staring about him, wondering at how large, how modern and prosperous it all looked. San Francisco was a big city, booming with life, but it was still rough and tumble - lacked the refinement, the dignity, the mellowed age of Boston. The trees that lined the streets were green with spring's tender new blossoms, lilac bushes dotted most yards. It would be nice, he thought, to see it in Fall again - New England was beautiful in the Fall - bright with rich color, fragrant with the smell of fruitwood fires and burning leaves. Even the sky seemed lower and cozier - so unlike the vast, vaulting sky over the Ponderosa.

He was so caught up in the sights that it took him a while to realize that he was actually walking in the wrong direction - away from Abel's - and he slowed to a stop. What on earth was he doing? He had raced across a continent, slept in trains and on stagecoaches, eaten half-cooked meals standing up and washed up in makeshift pumps to get here and get here quickly and now, suddenly, he was dragging his feet. He leaned against the brick wall behind him, feeling his tiredness.

All right, he knew exactly what he was doing. He was longing to see Adam - longing to hear the details of his illness, but…God. Once he got there he would know for sure - for better or for worse.

If Adam was…gone…then that would be the end of it, forever. He would have to begin at that moment getting used to the idea of a world without him - a world where he would never see him again. And right now, at this minute, he couldn't bear that. He needed just a tiny bit of time here in Boston to believe that his son was still alive - that it would all work out in the end. Just a short time - just a few more minutes of hope.

He let his head fall back to rest against the brick, warm at his back in the late day sun, watching the shadows stretch and lengthen.

I'm going, he assured himself. Just one more second to catch my breath and then I'll go. Reluctantly, he pushed himself erect once more and moved slowly in the opposite direction, trailing his hand against the brick like a blind man. When his hand reached a pillar, he looked up - then stopped again, studying the archway in faint wonder. He hesitated only a second, then went in, following the neat stone path over the rolling, green, well-kept ground, through small, scattered trees bursting with pink and white blossoms. He thought he knew where he was going, though this too had changed some - continued his way as though drawn by a magnet, stopped suddenly.

The shadows were visibly longer; a dusty mauve painted the sky. He squatted, studying a bright mound of pansies - purple and gold and blue and white and even black velvet; smiled. They reminded him of her - playful and regal at the same time. Heart's ease. His own mother had had pansies in her garden - had always referred to them by that old fashioned name, heart's ease. He wondered whose work this was - Abel's or Adam's?

He ran his hand over the smooth, cool granite, tracing the carvings, reading the inscription: Elizabeth Stoddard Cartwright: beloved wife of Benjamin, loving mother of Adam, precious daughter of Abel and Margaret. Our Paradise: Lost. The stone must have absorbed the sun, because it felt warm and silken under his palm. He let his hand rest lightly on top.

The sky was deepening to rose now, the last fingers of light made queer shadows slant from the carved letters, a faint breeze ruffled the leaves of the flowering trees. Ben bowed his head.

"I'm back, Elizabeth," he whispered, his hand tightening its grip slightly. "I came back."

BBB

The last of the pink had faded from the sky leaving it slate colored with an undercoat of violet before he lifted his head again. Some of the tightness had left his face now, and he paused, letting his fingertips run along the letters of her name.

"You always had a way of making me feel better about things," he said softly. "Always. What would I have done without you all these years? I never could have raised him on my own. Funny how hard I fought in the beginning to keep you with me - how long it took me to realize that you would never really leave me. You were always there. Always. And if Adam leaves me…I know he'll always be there too, but…" he let his forehead rest against the stone for a minute. "But I don't want to lose him, Liz. I don't want to outlive my child. Anything but that."

The shadows were starting to blend together, and he slowly unbent his knees, using the headstone to push himself erect. "Yes, yes - I know what you're telling me - I didn't come all this way not to go and see now. I'm just…" he winced. "…afraid."

Another light wind sighed through the trees, and he cocked his head to listen as if it was trying to tell him something.

Nothing. Nothing he could understand, anyway.

He touched the top of the stone one more time then straightened his back painfully. He bent over to pick up his bag again, his eyes lingering on the pansies. Impulsively, he broke off one purple and one gold one and tucked them in a buttonhole of his coat. "Remember how you used to do that for me? For luck. Oh, don't nag, I'm going." He grasped the bag this time and started toward the path, paused to look back at the headstone silhouetted in the waning light. "But I'll be back."

He left the Burying Ground in the right direction this time, his feet remembering without conscious effort, just as they had remembered the way to Elizabeth. The streets were shadowed and peaceful now; probably sensible people were inside having their dinners. He quickened his pace.

Elizabeth.

He had married two more times after Elizabeth's death, and if he was very lucky perhaps he would marry again one day - but no one had ever taken her place in his heart. She had been his first love, the love of his young manhood: that ardent, burning flame of youth - just as Inger had been the love of his older, wiser, steadier young father-self and Marie the love of his mature, successful, mellowed nature. Each owned a part of him that could not be shared by the others - a part uniquely their own. Just as Adam owned a part of him that was uniquely his own. His first experimental joys of fatherhood were all tied up in Adam, his long and arduous journey to the home they had built together. With Adam he could share memories of his time with both Inger and Marie, and the very sight of him brought back memories of Elizabeth in a way nothing else did. Losing him would mean losing the link to a whole portion of his life that no one else had shared.

More importantly…he walked a little faster. More importantly, losing him meant just plain not having him in his life any longer. He thought he could bear having Adam far away if he had to, could just bear him forgetting all they had shared together, but he could not bear the thought of him just - gone; never to see him again. Adam was, he thought ruefully, one of the oldest, longest, and steadiest relationships of his adult life. Loving him had taught him so much, in so many ways - those first, faltering attempts at fatherhood had altered the man he was and changed the course of his life.

He remembered again those cozy rooms in Schenectady where he had first started to take a tentative interest in his child - watching him crawl around the cabbage rose carpet, feeling the tug on his pant legs as the little fists grabbed them to pull himself erect, seeing the careful negotiation from pant legs to chair to wall become a few steps, then - boom!, he'd fall. Watching as he picked himself up again, roaring a protest if anyone dared to try and interfere by offering assistance, seeing him struggle up again to continue his walk until - boom!, he'd be down again. And then up again. Over and over and over. His first glimpse of his son's focused and determined temperament. He chuckled a little despite himself. Oh, call it what it was - stubbornness. His stubborn child.

"I've never seen you give up before, Adam," he breathed as his brisk walk turned into a jog. "Don't you dare give up on me now. I'm almost there, son. Almost there."

He got his first glimpse of the familiar house on the familiar street, hazy in the light of the street lamps - almost thought he could see Elizabeth in her bonnet and cloak, waiting for him at the door as she used to. He was mostly running now, took the shallow steps in one bound, Elizabeth's image dissolving in front of him like air. He grabbed the old brass knocker and had barely dropped it before the door swung inward.

The light from the hallway dazzled him for a moment, and he only just made out a figure's outline, but the height and posture were unmistakable. He squinted against the light trying to see more clearly, had but a second to wonder how it was that Abel had gotten so old when he noticed something else that struck a death knell in his heart - Abel's damp and red rimmed eyes. He felt the carpet bag drop from suddenly nerveless fingers, trying first to peer around Abel, then staring directly at him, struggling to read his face.

"Is…? Where is he?"

Abel did not seem the least dismayed by this mannerless greeting and stepped back to let him in. "Upstairs. He - "

Ben didn't hear the rest because he had brushed by him, taking the stairs two at a time. He pushed the familiar door at the top of the stairs inward, stopped abruptly on the threshold.

The lighting in the room was low and restful. A woman he didn't know sat beside the bed, wringing out a damp cloth. She looked up at him and smiled.

Ben's eyes went past her, searching. He walked beyond her to the other side of the bed, dropped down on the edge of the old stuffed chair that sat there as though recently abandoned. He reached out a hesitant hand to the figure in the bed and brushed one emaciated, flushed cheek, his breath knotting in his throat.

Alive. How ill he looked - terrible - but definitely alive.

The woman seemed unperturbed by the absence of introductions and instead handed him the cloth. "He had a very bad night," she murmured in a pleasant undertone, "but he seems better now. The doctor thinks he may have turned some kind of corner. We'll know more in the morning, but he really does seem better."

Ben nodded mutely, mindlessly accepting the cloth and moving his other hand to cup the pale forehead. He thought he saw the dark lashes quiver, and he leaned in closer.

"Adam," he whispered. "Adam, it's Pa - can you hear me?" He stroked the dark curls lightly, almost afraid of breaking him - how could his strong, stalwart boy look so fragile? "Son, I'm here, and you're going to be fine - that's all you need to know. I'm here. Everything is all right."

The lashes flickered again, parted fractionally. He could just make out two thin streaks of amber iris in the narrow slit between the lashes, smiled. He knelt down next to the bed to be sure Adam could see him, never moving his hand from his head.

"Well, there you are," he murmured softly. "Now, how many times have I told you not to wander off somewhere without telling me where you're going?"

He thought he saw the corner of Adam's mouth lift just the slightest bit, the narrow gold streaks fixed on his face. The lashes dropped again and the wasted chest rose and fell in a soundless sigh.

Ben watched intently until it rose and fell again, more gently, settled into sleep.

Then he buried his face in the mattress just in time to hide the rush of silent tears.

TBC