My name is Calista Billings Scott. Most people just call me Callie.
My mother, bless her, had a love of anything resembling the Greek and Roman mythologies—which explains how I came by this rather unusual and somewhat cumbersome title. From what my father used to tell me, in his uniquely amusing way, my name was to be either this or her second choice, Aphrodite, so I guess I should be grateful. The way the ancient Greeks told the story is that Calista was a nymph who was turned into a she-bear to protect her from some villain who was out to get her and ultimately she became part of a constellation. Calista means 'most beautiful' and I think my mother was being a bit optimistic when she gave me this name because I am almost certainly not 'most beautiful.' But on the other hand, my face hasn't stopped any clocks either. It makes little difference though because besides my mother only one other person has ever called me by that name. Since before I can remember I've been Callie to just about everyone and that suits me just fine.
My mother has been dead for over eleven years now. She took ill with a mysterious sickness not long after my father died and passed from her physical plane quietly and without fanfare while still young and beautiful. This, when I think about it, is just the way she'd have wanted it to be—with a touch of mystery shrouding her last days.
I guess, in a way, I should consider her quick and early passing as a blessing because I'll always remember her as she was…young, beautiful, and full of life-loving spirit. Not a day goes by, however, that I don't think of her and sometimes I miss her so desperately that my heart feels like it will shatter into a million tiny pieces. On those days, I try to remember the times we shared together when I was growing up.
My mother was a most unusual person, although I didn't realize it then. To me, she was just my mother and I thought all mothers were like her. It wasn't until I was older, going to school and meeting new people, that I noticed the differences between my own mother and the other mothers around.
To be sure, she was beautiful. My mother, whose name was Helen—as in Helen of Troy—had raven black hair that she liked to wear loose, in feminine ringlets that fell past her shoulders, shiny as a moon-lit lake and full of bounce. Her eyes were a particularly riveting shade of violet, unlike any I've seen before or since. Helen, as she preferred to be called, even by her only daughter, was partial to whites and pretty pastels and often dressed in softly flowing dresses, unlike most of my friend's mothers, who outfitted themselves in more utilitarian garb better suited for everyday wear on the wild prairie land where we lived.
My mother was special in other ways too. My most vivid memories of those early childhood days are of the two of us playing in the meadow beyond our tidy little house at the edge of the woods. My father was gone for long stretches at a time so the two of us spent long hours together just enjoying each other's company there amidst the wild flowers and the sweet clover. During the summer, as often as possible, we'd take our lunch with us and after our stomachs were satisfied, we'd lie on the blanket holding hands and breathe in the day, staring up at the clouds. Later, we'd dance together in the soft meadow grass. Oh, how my mother loved to dance! She'd hum quietly, just barely loud enough for me to hear; then pulling me up from where I sat on the ground, her long, tapered fingers wrapped around my smaller ones, she and I would whirl around and around until, finally exhausted, we'd collapse, laughing and dizzy, onto the sweet-smelling earth beneath us. While the hot mid-day sun warmed us, we'd doze in the shade of one of the two massive oak trees that stood guard over the meadow and us like silent sentinels, ready to fight off any and all evildoers who might dare to enter our private domain.
Those were days of such joy, such happiness...such contentment. Whenever I start to miss her these days, I think back to those days and somehow the pain of losing her isn't quite as sharp, at least for a little while. But even as a young child I always knew that those days wouldn't last forever; and as I grew, things changed, as things often do.
As I got older, I came to understand that my mother was special in other ways too. My father, who for reasons I didn't understand until quite a bit later, wanted my mother to school me at home. This worked well for a year or so, but it soon became apparent to him that home-schooling wasn't going to remain an option for much longer. My mother, bless her, for all the wonderful, glorious things that she was—there was one thing she was not and never could be. You see, as I grew I began to understand that my mother was, in some ways, more of a child than I was. She was a beautiful, sweet, creative woman and I loved her with all the depth of my heart. But she was stuck somewhere in her own child-like mind and would never be able to instruct a curious, intuitive girl—which was how I viewed myself then—as she matured into adulthood. Eventually, we all had to face up with the realization that I'd have to go to a formal school if I wanted to get a proper education. It was at that time, when I first ventured out into the outside world on my own, that I began to realize—ours was not the typical western plains family.
I suppose I should tell you something about my father. I almost don't know what to say about him. There is so much that I don't know myself, so how can I possibly explain him to you, a perfect stranger? My father was absent during much of my early life and pretty much all of my later life. He would be gone for months at a time with nary a word to my mother and me to let us know where he was or when he'd be returning. Then suddenly, out of the blue he'd show up at the house, smiling that big, toothy grin that I remember so well. He was a big man, handsome in a rugged, wild sort of way, with his grey-blue eyes and a day or two's worth of rough, blond stubble that poked and scratched my face when he scooped me into his arms to give me one of his famous 'back home' hugs and kisses. I remember his laugh when he'd come striding into the house after being gone for weeks or months and see my mother for the first time. Her face would invariably light up at the sight of him and she'd run into his arms. He'd laugh; a sound of pure joy coming from some place far down inside him as he picked her up clean off the ground and hugged her tight before kissing her long and deep, square on the mouth. When he finally let her go and set her back down on the ground, her face would be flushed pink and she could hardly stand upright, he made her feel so breathless and unsteady.
He'd stay with us a while—sometimes for a few days, sometimes for a few weeks, and sometimes even longer. And it was good, those times when he was around. The three of us together, alone, gloried in those days when we were a real family. I loved him almost as much as I loved my mother, even though I never did really feel like I knew him very well. But maybe I knew him as well as anyone ever did, really. He was not an easy man to know. Oh, he was a loving father—I could tell he loved me as much as I loved him—but there was always a shroud of mystery around him, a wall that he had erected around himself that no one, not even me or my mother, could crawl over. As time went on, I started to understand where a lot of that came from—why it was necessary for him to hide certain things about himself from most people—but I never understood why he felt it necessary to hide it from my mother and me.
I remember asking my mother once, during one of the times when my father hadn't been home for a very long time, what he did for a living and why he was gone so much and why I never saw him working a regular job like the rest of the fathers in the community. Without batting an eye, she told me that he worked in banking and railroads. It never dawned on me, not for years, that what she really meant was that he robbed banks and trains! Even now, I'm not sure she knew. That's how innocent she could be at times. If I had thought of it before she died I would have asked her.
My father's name was Wyatt Billings. Some of you have probably heard of him—but probably not by this name. His working name was Wyoming Bill. Sort of catchy, don't you think? He always did have a flair for words, that one—could talk his way out of a pit of snakes with nary a scratch on him. Of course, all I ever knew him by was Wyatt Billings—my father. That is, until I got older and recognized him for what he was. But, honestly? Finding out that my father didn't work in banking or railroads, but rather worked over banks and trains didn't shake my love for him in the least. No, that came later—about the time my mother died.
One year-I was fifteen that summer as I recall—my father, who had been missing in action for longer than I had ever remembered him being gone before, returned. I had been out riding that morning, no longer young enough to be happy simply spending time in the meadow playing with my mother. When I returned to the house, I noticed two strange horses tied to the hitching post in the front yard. It was very uncommon for my mother and me to receive visitors as Wyatt preferred that we lead a more private life of quiet seclusion even when he wasn't in residence. So naturally, my first thought was that my father had returned from his 'work' for another visit with his family.
Excitedly, I tied my horse next to the other two, wondering only briefly about the second horse, and hurried toward the house. I wasn't more than two or three steps from the front door and already reaching for the door knob when I heard an unfamiliar voice speak up, coming from the opposite end of the porch where the old porch swing hung. "Uh, I'm not sure I'd go in there right now if I were you."
Startled, my hand jerked away from the door knob as if it were a burning ember. I turned to find the source of the warning and saw him sitting there. I had been so intent on seeing my father that I hadn't noticed anyone there, even though he had been in plain view the whole time.
"Why shouldn't I?" I challenged.
"Well…uh…I think your folks are just real glad to see each other right now and could use a few more minutes alone."
"What are you-?" My words dropped off with a thud as I realized what he was trying to tell me. I could feel my face flush all the way up from my chest in embarrassment. My eyes dropped down, seeking out and finding a spot in the wooden floor about five feet in front of m feet. "Oh."
I could feel, rather than see, the smile spread across the boy's face as he stared at me in my discomfort. I wasn't given to talking about such things with perfect strangers. And while this boy—let me correct that, this young man—wasn't perfect, he certainly was easy enough on the eyes. Finally finding my courage, I forced myself to look back at him, matching his amused stare with an indignant one of my own.
He stood up and approached me, his hand outstretched in a friendly way. "You must be Calista," he said, his eyes, so dark, yet full of light, still locked on mine.
"Callie," I agreed grudgingly, correcting him.
"I'm Jim Brewer." He must have sensed that I wasn't eager to meet him, probably by the frown lines gathering across my face, because he felt compelled to add, "a friend of your father's."
Still frowning deeply, and I'm sure, looking truly unfriendly, I reluctantly accepted his handshake. My father was not in the habit of bringing 'friends' home with him on his visits. As a matter of fact, I couldn't remember a single other friend who had ever shown up at our door in the company of my father. For all I knew, my father didn't even have any friends. And yet, here one stood right in front of me. I couldn't help but wonder what my father was thinking, bringing him here.
All these thoughts wandered through my mind until suddenly I realized I was still holding on to Jim Brewer's hand. Feeling embarrassed once again, I released his fingers from mine, letting my arm drop awkwardly to my side.
This might be a good time to explain to you, my loyal reader (I figure if you haven't given up and gone away by now, you must be a loyal reader), that I was not, at the grown-up age of fifteen years, all that comfortable around members of the opposite sex. To be sure, I'd been around boys before—at school and the like—but as I said, this Jim Brewer wasn't so much a boy as a man even though he wasn't more than a few years older than I was. And it was clear, even to a girl with my severely limited experience, that this was no schoolboy! There was an air of quiet mystery about him that was visible even through that adorably dimpled smile he continued to dazzle me with.
Come to think of it, I should have recognized what that air of mystery was—I'd seen it countless times before—in my own father.