The Long Road Home. Mary Monroe Alice

shook his head and with a firm grip, hoisted the bottles into his arms and left the house.

      What a weak excuse for vanity, he berated himself. He knew better now. Sometimes silence and compassion required greater strength.

      Nora finished her morning coffee hunched over Mike’s ledger with her heels hooked on the chair’s upper rung. From what little she could gather, the figures involved a bank transaction of some kind, or several transactions, it was hard to tell yet. Mike moved around unbelievable amounts of money. She munched on a piece of toast, careful to brush away the crumbs from the paper. Perhaps if she attacked it differently.

      Nora flipped through to the last page. Once again she was struck by the difference in handwriting style as the months passed. In May, she could make out the notations clearly. Yet by September, the writing was erratic, a shorthand of barely legible script. Nora struggled to decipher the ledger for over an hour before she closed it and rubbed her eyes.

      She couldn’t glean much, yet she felt certain she could figure out what had driven Mike to suicide from these pages. In all the deals and craziness, however, one name emerged as the villain. She recognized the name; it had been carved into her heart. She had traced the letters in the ledger to be sure she got it right.

      Mike may have shot himself, but the man who pulled the psychological trigger was the man who singlehandedly, and with deliberate purpose, had brought Mike to financial ruin.

      That man was Charles Blair.

      8

      ESTHER WALKED THE DUSTY distance from the mailbox to her house. Repeatedly, she glanced back again at the tilting metal box with the red flag up and the three numbers half falling down. Inside was her application for a fellowship at New York University—her whole life in an envelope. Her one shot at a dream she’d held since her third-grade teacher, Mrs. Crawford, in the town’s one-room schoolhouse told her she had real talent as a painter. She’d known, even then, that it was true.

      She peered over her shoulder several more times, just to make sure that bent, rusty red flag stayed up. Then the road curved and her view of the box was lost in foliage. Esther sighed and picked up her pace. There was nothing more to do now but wait.

      She had walked the distance from her house to the mailbox every day for twenty years. Once in a while the mail brought a glossy magazine or a letter from Uncle Squire in Florida. Most days there was nothing much except for ads, mail-order catalogs, and bills. The dirt road lined with maples, pines, and here and there seasonal wildflowers was repetitive in its sameness, but never boring to Esther. In spring it was black with mud, in summer it was green, in fall it was orange, and in the cold of winter it was as gray as the sky. But the hues and values changed on cloudy or sunny days, or when the raindrops on the leaves glistened or when a bright red newt slithered into an ink black puddle. Esther approached the house as she always did, lost in her world of colorful thoughts.

      “Hey, Es. I’ve been waitin’ on you.”

      Her hand flew to her heart and she jerked her head toward the far side of the porch where a young man stretched out on the old sofa.

      “You scared me, John Henry.” She caught her breath, then asked with irritation, “What are you doing here?”

      He was quick to respond, but not before she detected the disappointment on his tanned face. “We’re supposed to go to the movies. Your pa said to wait, you’d be right back. Come on, Red, don’t tell me you forgot?”

      She had. Completely. Her face said so.

      “We don’t have to go,” John Henry said quickly. “We can just hang around here.”

      “No, that’s okay,” she replied in a colorless voice. “I’m sorry. I got all caught up in getting that application in the mail.”

      John Henry’s face fell. “So you went and did it.”

      “I sure did.” Esther’s face flushed. She didn’t like feeling vulnerable, telling someone that she actually sent out the forms. Win or lose, she didn’t want anyone snickering at her high hopes behind her back.

      Esther looked at John Henry. His slightly dazed expression was the same one he’d worn when she beat him in a fight in the first grade. But today John Henry was different. Twenty years of different. And so was she. A lot of time and love had passed between them in those years. A lot of secrets shared. He’d never hurt her or break his word, she was sure.

      “Don’t tell anyone about them forms, now, promise?” She had to say it anyway.

      “Of course I promise.” He paused, then waved her over. “Com’ere.”

      Esther pushed air out through pursed lips. She just wanted to be alone right now. But she went anyway and plopped on the old sofa beside him. The sofa creaked, complaining at the extra weight on its already bowed out legs.

      John Henry lay silent for a moment. When he spoke, his voice was quiet. “What’s the matter, Red?”

      “I dunno.” Then she said in a hushed voice, “I’m scared. What if I don’t make it?”

      “What if you don’t? It doesn’t mean you can’t paint anymore. You can do that anywhere. Here.”

      Esther didn’t reply. Instead, she tucked her hands tightly between her knees and looked off. How could she tell him that she had to leave here, soon, or she’d be so choked up she’d never paint again. Nora MacKenzie’s return brought back too many memories, vivid recollections that she could not share with John Henry most of all.

      It was desperation that had finally made her do what she’d been putting off for months: fill out the application for a fellowship in art at New York University. Her whole being was focused on that little envelope in the mailbox.

      She felt John Henry’s hands rubbing her back. Esther knew his touch so well by now that she read in his fervent strokes a plea that she love him. Any talk of her leaving made him nervous. Esther leaned over and pecked his cheek.

      He held out his arms and Esther reluctantly slipped into them. He smelled of sweat and the sofa smelled of mildew. Esther lay in his arms long enough to give him a reassuring squeeze. She sensed his need like radar. Wriggling her shoulders, she loosened his hold and quickly sat up.

      John Henry grabbed her back, holding her squashed close with arms like bands of steel. His kisses were hungry.

      “No,” she said against his lips. “Not here.”

      John Henry drew back and swung his leg around, hoisting them both off the sofa. His hands remained around her waist in a possessive grip.

      “Come on, then.”

      “I can’t. I’ve got things to do.”

      “Come on,” he drawled close to her ear, propelling her off the porch toward the barn.

      Esther allowed herself to be led off to the dark corner of the barn that they often went to when they wanted to be alone. She didn’t want to make love. She wasn’t in the mood, but John Henry’s persistence was not to be ignored.

      And she loved John Henry, in her fashion. His need of her was obvious. He wanted so much from her, more than she felt capable of giving. John Henry was one more person who needed her.

      Esther relinquished all resistance by the time they reached the dark recess of the ramshackle barn. She’d give in to him, as she always did when he wanted her. He was a good, kind man—her best friend. It was the best way she knew how to show she cared.

      His kisses were urgent and his hands grew rough. He pushed her back against the barn wall, hard, and his hands trembled down to her belt and started unfastening it, squeezing her waist as he jerked the leather free.

      So, he was going to be dominant today, she realized. He always was when he felt threatened. That application to New York University must have really set him off.

      Esther put her hand gently