Chapter Six
The morning dawned bright and clear. Kathleen had wished that some whim of nature might prevent today’s trip to the Buffalo River. Apparently, that wasn’t to be, so she dressed and packed a small duffel bag to take with her.
Preparing for any emergency, she crammed Band-Aids, antiseptic lotion, insect repellant, suntanning cream, zinc oxide, for those who asked for the suntanning cream too late, tissues, Chapstick, antacid tablets, aspirin, extra towels, extra socks and a change of clothes for herself into the canvas bag. Certain that she was forgetting something she would critically need, she zipped the bag, slung it over her shoulder and left her cabin for the center of the compound.
Breakfast was routine, and she ate resolutely, striving not to notice Erik as he came in and became a part of the noisy, active beehive. The children who were scheduled for the trip were almost too excited to eat, and when the bell rang, they raced for the bus parked outside, competing for the choice seats next to the windows.
“Have a good time, but be careful.” Edna waved to the children hanging out the windows.
“We’ll get back in time for dinner, which I’m sure they’ll be ready for,” Kathleen said, laughing.
“I’ll look for you then.” Out of the corner of her eyes, Edna noticed Erik climbing aboard the bus. She looked at Kathleen as though she wanted to say something, but only patted her on the hand and said, “Have fun today.”
Kathleen spoke pleasantly to the driver, who had driven the ancient school bus for her in years past. Erik’s extra equipment had been secured on one of the vacant seats near the back of the bus, but he had insisted on keeping his camera with him. He took the seat across the narrow aisle from Kathleen.
At last, everyone was settled, the driver engaged the reluctant gears and they pulled out of Mountain View’s gates. Conversation was impossible while the children loudly sang, argued, challenged and scoffed, accompanied by the unique clamor of the bus.
In her seat directly behind the driver, Kathleen became more relaxed with each passing mile. When she finally deigned to look at Erik, she saw that he was watching her unabashedly. He smiled at her tentatively at first, and then, when she didn’t turn away or stare back at him stonily, his grin widened and she couldn’t resist answering it.
Every few miles, they drove through one of the many sleepy mountain towns that lined the two-lane highway. The names of the towns were unimportant. They all looked the same. Each had a gasoline station combined with a grocery store. Some had a post office. Often it was nothing more than a mobile home converted for that purpose, yet the American flag flew proudly from makeshift flagpoles.
The houses, which were usually situated directly on the highway, all looked the same, too. Washing hung on outdoor lines to dry. The front porches—and each house had one—were equipped with chairs suitable for rocking away the evening hours. Each home, almost without exception no matter how humble, was blessed with a panorama of the mountains. Gardens, heavy with summer produce, nearly all sported scarecrows. The crops in those small plots weren’t for sport. They often provided a family with food for many months.
It was in one such town that Kathleen took time to let the children use the restrooms in the gas station and pick a cold drink out of an antiquated electric cooler chest with “Grapette” emblazoned on its side.
Ever sensitive to his presence, Kathleen suddenly missed Erik amid all the confusion, and looked around to see him crossing a dusty lane toward a lone house perched on a tree-shaded hill.
Instinctively following him across the road, she saw what had attracted his attention. On the rickety front porch of the house sat an old man playing a fiddle. His seat was a metal bus-stop bench with a faded Rainbo Bread sign barely distinguishable in its rusty, peeling paint.
His skin was brown, dry and rivered with deep wrinkles. Sparse white hair stuck out from his head at comical angles. He wore denim overalls, with only one shoulder strap clasped. Without a shirt to hide it, his flabby chest jiggled as he played the fiddle.
Possibly in a more refined setting, the instrument tucked under his double chin would have been classified as a violin, but Kathleen was sure that no instrument, even a Stradivarius, had ever been more cherished. With callused fingers that were dirt- and nicotine-stained, he coaxed a lilting melody from the fiddle, though none but he knew the tune.
When he saw Erik approach, he smiled a toothless welcome and patted his horny, bare foot on the unpainted slats of the porch.
Kathleen stood in awe as Erik’s camera began to hum. He moved toward the old man, who wasn’t in the least affected by this contraption that seemed not of the same century as he. Erik moved closer until he was crouched on the porch near the old man’s feet, pointing the camera directly into the intriguing face.
The screen door opened and an equally old woman came out, drying her hands on a dingy towel. She smiled and, when she saw Erik’s camera, self-consciously brushed back wisps of white hair that had escaped the tight bun on the back of her head. Her faded calico dress hung loosely on her spare frame; her feet were as bare as her husband’s and almost as callused. She flipped the towel onto her shoulder and began clapping in rhythm to the music.
When the man finished the tune, she leaned over him and kissed him smackingly on the cheek. “That’s my favrit,” she cackled.
Erik stood up to his full height and took the woman’s hand, brought it to his lips and kissed it softly. She laughed and fluttered her scanty, colorless eyelashes at him like a coquette at a ball.
“Thank you both,” was all Erik said before he turned around and hopped off the porch. Three lazy hounds lying in the shade under the porch did no more than raise sleepy eyes at the intruders.
Erik spotted Kathleen standing between him and the rutted road. When he was even with her, he smiled and touched her face with his free hand before silently indicating with his head that they should return to the bus, the horn of which was honking imperiously.
“Why did you do it?” she asked when they were once again underway. “Why did you want to put them on tape?” The children had lapsed into a less rigorous camp song, and conversation was easier.
“Because they were beautiful,” he answered simply. “Didn’t you think so?”
She did now. But she wouldn’t have thought so before. She wouldn’t have even noticed them, unless Erik had guided her to them.
“Yes,” she sai
d gruffly. “They were beautiful.”
His steady gaze shifted down to her mouth, and a fleeting expression of despair and longing filled the cerulean eyes. “And so are you,” he said, for her ears alone. When his eyes met hers again, she melted under the impact. “I’m sorry about the other night,” he said in a low voice. “It was your prerogative to say no.” He and B. J. had shared a can of beer and a lengthy conversation before dinner the previous night. It had been an enlightening discussion for Erik. He understood her refusal now, and that understanding had doused his anger.