Below the Tree Line Page 16

  Felicity began to feel disappointed. She’d hoped the discovery of Zeke’s traveling would tell her what she wanted to know. “It sounds like he went to ordinary places.”

  “I don’t know about that. But once he went down to Maryland. And he went another place, not so far south. Near New York. It made me think of cows.”

  “New Jersey?”

  “Yes, that’s it. And then he started going west. He went to Indiana, of all places.”

  Felicity listened to the sounds of nurses and aides passing along the hallway, pushing medication carts, answering buzzers, greeting visitors and patients. The sounds remained distant, dissonant with the tales coming from Zenia.

  “It made him happy, all that traveling. He came back from each trip feeling more and more chipper.” She smiled at the recollection, then began smoothing out the still-crisp pages of her book. “He was downright cheerful. Grumpy before, and now he was cheerful.” She laughed. “That was a change.”

  “He never told you what he was doing the traveling for?”

  “No, he never said a word. He just said he knew what he was doing.”

  “When did he start to become a hermit?”

  “Hmm, maybe when he was in his seventies or older. After most of the traveling my mother died.” The color seeped out of her face. “She anchored him, and when she was gone, he began to drift, you might say.”

  Zenia was growing tired. She tried to hide it but her lips quivered and she took short quick breaths. She had been generous with her memories, but the effort had been physical, as well, and it was beginning to show. Felicity thanked her and prepared to leave.

  “I’m glad to get to know a little about him,” she said.

  “Did it help?”

  “I think so.”

  “You look like you have one more question, dear. Go ahead and ask it.”

  “It’s an odd question and I feel foolish even considering it.”

  “Go ahead. I won’t mind.”

  “Did your father ever talk about hidden treasure?”

  Zenia pushed her head forward, as though suddenly hard of hearing. She frowned at Felicity and then leaned back in her chair. Her fingers wrapped around the book covers, holding on tight. “That is a strange question.”

  “Yes, it is. I’m sorry to waste your time with it.”

  Zenia turned to the window again for a moment. “That reminds me. I heard my parents talking one day, near when my mother died. I heard them through the open screen door. I can hear my mother saying, even now, the treasure we leave them is our love. It’s enough.”

  Felicity nodded. It was the kind of thing her parents would say.

  “I don’t know what he was doing near the end, but he felt his life had been worthwhile. I think of that. I want to feel that way, and I guess I do. But he really did. He felt he’d done something important. He loved this part of the country. He saved all those useless bits of woods and swampland.” She paused. “We choose what matters to us, I guess.”

  Felicity had gone to the Berkshire Nursing Home in the hope of learning something useful from Zenia Bodrun Callahan and came away with confirmation of most of her suspicions. She could easily imagine Zeke in his final years, a man satisfied and perhaps even a little smug that he had pulled off something that mattered to him. She turned onto the old highway and was soon traveling well above the speed limit.

  Her father had talked often of Old Zeke, as he called him, and even though Felicity had never met him, she’d begun to feel she knew him. And now, after learning about Zeke’s travels, she started to feel she liked him as much as her own father had. She loved the idea of the old man traveling the country to satisfy a whim, of his achieving something that made him happy and not feeling the need to tell the world and garner the praise of strangers.

  She could easily imagine Zeke Bodrun traipsing through the New England woods, his wife hiking along behind him, and this at a time when hikers met few others on the trails. The explosion in outdoor tourism didn’t take off until the 1960s, and those who hiked and camped in the 1950s could drive into any national or state park and expect to find a camping spot or RV slot for the night. The highway system was still new enough to not be crowded, and the national park system had not yet attracted so many visitors that parking lots filled up before mid-morning. Zeke and his wife would have had their pick of sites wherever they went.

  And he chose such peculiar places for a backwoods New Englander. Zenia’s list of states her father visited was not complete, she’d insisted, but she’d wondered aloud at the end of their conversation if he might have been doing some genealogical research on his own, perhaps visiting grave sites of his earliest ancestors in North America. It was the kind of thought that made sense to Zenia as a child of the twentieth century. After all, people once traveled miles and across counties to track down old documents before anyone thought of the internet and online files. Perhaps Zeke had been an early scout on the heritage trail.

  That seemed the most plausible idea to Zenia, but Felicity felt something else had motivated the trips. Her walk through Sasha’s plot earlier had left her with a sense that she was seeing but not understanding.

  And now, after talking with Zenia, her understanding was beginning to shift, still fuzzy but growing sharper.

  Felicity saw the flashing blue lights in the rearview mirror before she heard the siren. She glanced down at the speedometer and immediately put on her blinker and pulled over to the side of the road. She didn’t know how much speeding tickets were these days, but she had a feeling she was about to find out.

  She lowered the window and handed over her license and registration as requested. The state trooper walked back to his car. At least she didn’t have any other tickets or legal problems. She closed her eyes and prayed. When she opened them again, the trooper was standing next to the door. There was little other traffic on the road.

  “It’s customary to hit the valleys when you drive, not just the tops of the trees.” He handed back her license and registration through the window.

  “I was actually thinking about trees,” she said, glancing at a paper in his hands, by the window.

  “Never thought trees could be so exciting. Any trees in particular?”

  “Maine, New Jersey, Maryland.”

  “Hmm. I visited the Pine Barrens in New Jersey once. Some of the oldest untouched pine forests in North America, and all of it on some kind of sand.” He handed the piece of paper to her. “I’m giving you a warning. I just want you to get home alive.”

  So do I, she thought, especially now that things are beginning to make sense.

  Shadows lengthened as Felicity drove into the mini mall and parked in front of the hardware store. She disliked running to the store for every little thing. But sometimes even she ran out of three-penny nails or garbage bags. She walked through the aisles, picking up the few items she needed. She met Jeremy at the cash register going over an order slip.

  She dropped her purchases on the counter next to him. “Is Taylor here yet?” The clerk totaled up her order and she paid with a credit card. “Isn’t this the weekend she’s coming home?”

  “It is. And you’re expected. We’re having a few people over Sunday afternoon, so I’m counting on you being there.”

  “As long as it doesn’t go on too long.”

  “I know, sheep.”

  Felicity reached for the paper sack and receipt, and the two walked out together. “I have a question for you, Jeremy. What would you do if you were Zeke Bodrun and you found yourself in New Jersey?”

  Jeremy stopped by her pickup and waited while she tossed her purchases through the open window onto the passenger seat. “Are you serious?”

  “Yup. What would you do?”

  He looked across the parking lot and the few cars passing along on the old highway, rested his hands in his pockets, and pulled a
face. “If I were Zeke, from what I hear about him, I’d get in my car, turn around, and drive home.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Felicity shrugged and opened the pickup door.

  “How did you come up with that question?”

  “I met his daughter, Zenia Callahan, again today, and we had a long talk. She told me her father took to traveling in his later years and one of the places he went was New Jersey.”

  “Hmm. There’s nothing wrong with New Jersey, but it’s so built up. I wouldn’t have thought Zeke would visit a place like that. Where did he go? What part?”

  “Don’t know. His daughter said he didn’t talk about his trips, but they made him happy.”

  “Then he found something in New Jersey to like,” Jeremy said, and that seemed enough for him.

  But it wasn’t enough for Felicity. As she drove home, she wondered about Zeke’s almost extreme change of character. He went from a man who loved to be in the woods and loved his hometown and the surrounding forests to a man bitten hard by the travel bug, so much so that he wandered up and down the east coast and then out west. And Felicity could only think of one reason to account for it.

  The idea preoccupied her until she was driving down her driveway to the barn. From there she could see the three sheep clustered at the paddock gate, their little snouts rising at the sound of her engine. They looked so stolid and unmoved that she began to feel self-conscious under their unflinching gaze. She unlocked the gate and began to chivy them toward the barn but she needn’t have bothered. The trio remained bunched together as they trotted, to the extent sheep ever trot, to their nighttime accommodations. Once in the barn each one gave her a look of such reproach that she pulled out a few carrots to mollify them.

  Sixteen

  On Saturday morning the fiber artists made their weekly visit to the sheep, leaning on the railing to ooh and aah and critique the burgeoning wool coats inside the paddock. Felicity had to admit, the sheep looked pretty good, and she felt like rewarding them with a treat. What did you give sheep for a treat? Carrots, yes, but what else? She’d have to ask someone, since the question had never occurred to her before.

  Nola Townsend climbed over the railing, gripped the thick wool and gave it several twists and turns. Minnie, her sheep, ignored her. “I’ve had more pre-orders this spring than I’ve had for the last two years total.” She stood up and walked between the sheep back to the fencing, where she paused to stare at them.

  “That’s good, isn’t it?” Felicity couldn’t tell by Nola’s expression if she was pleased by this or not. It sounded like a good thing, but she didn’t know anything about selling handmade knitted goods. Or wall hangings. She’d gone into Nola’s studio late one afternoon, just to take a look at the kind of things she made. She found the usual sweaters and caps, but she also came to a halt in front of a tightly woven, multicolored block approximately two feet by four feet hanging on the wall. She loved the abstract design, the varied tension of weaving, and casually picked up the dangling price tag. She stood there with her mouth hanging open, gaping at the four-figure price. Fortunately, the artist wasn’t there to see this. She left, wondering if she was charging enough to care for the sheep.

  “It’s both good and bad,” Nola said. “It means I have to schedule my time better to meet all the deadlines, and it also means I may have to buy more wool, which means more sheep or more wool at auction.” She climbed over the fence. The other two artists had wandered off to examine the garden, which was more and more revealed to the sun.

  “This is lambing season, so you could start going around to farms and picking out what you want. When they’re weaned, you’ll get a call and we can go pick up the new one, or new ones. Do you think you’ll want more than one?” Felicity asked.

  “I’m not sure.” Nola rested her folded arms on the top rail. “Part of my sales pitch is that I talk about buying the wool and carding and spinning it myself. Now I’m going to talk about raising my own sheep.” She glanced at Felicity and tried to suppress a smile. “I’m massaging the truth here, but you know what I mean. I’m selling items made from wool that I’ve cared for from first growth to final product.”

  Felicity couldn’t help smiling at Nola’s canny ways. For the months she’d cared for the sheep, she’d thought mostly about keeping them safe and healthy, their wool protected from the ordinary scruff of living mostly outside. She hadn’t really thought about the condition of the animal’s wool as long as it was suitable for spinning. Seeing the wool from Nola’s perspective was almost disorienting. Nola wasn’t thinking in terms of little baby’s caps; she was thinking in terms of art and aesthetic appreciation.

  “I can look into some lambing farms and see what they have. Another Merino?”

  “Not sure yet,” Nola said. “I was thinking about maybe llamas or alpacas.”

  Felicity knew nothing about llamas and alpacas, but she couldn’t let that stop her now. “Llamas? Alpacas?”

  “But I decided to stick with sheep. I like working with the wool, and right now is probably not a good time to experiment with something new.” She turned to smile at Felicity. “But maybe someday. I like trying new things.”

  “Just let me know,” Felicity said, wondering what llamas and alpacas were like to work with. She’d have to find some to meet. “I have plenty of room.”

  “Let’s talk more about the lambs in a couple of weeks.” Nola glanced behind her at her fellow artists. “They’re not as excited about this opportunity as I am. I’m the only one looking at expanding. My pre-orders have been so good that I would be a fool not to.”

  Felicity had to agree with that. When opportunity fell into her lap, she wasn’t going to send it away.

  By late morning Felicity made it to the Pasquanata Community Home for a visit with her dad. She had a lot of questions today, and she hoped he would remember at least a few things. Ever since he’d run away, he’d had periods of great agitation and then great calm, as though he’d settled something in his own mind. But if he couldn’t remember that he’d settled something, he grew agitated again, and then she and the staff had to calm him, offering reassurances for they knew not what. She hoped he wasn’t on the verge of another stroke or heart attack.

  Felicity walked Shadow down a hallway, to give the other guests an opportunity to visit with him for a few minutes before going to find her dad. Shadow was now a practiced nursing home visitor, and everyone was glad to see him. After half an hour, she found her dad in a sitting room watching out the window. He seemed pleased to see her, and expectant too.

  “Did you bring me something?” he asked as soon as she sat down.

  “I brought your favorite sandwich from the Morning Glory Cafe.” She opened the package, but he only looked at it. Sometimes his taste buds seemed to shut down, and other times he savored an unexpected treat. “I also brought pussy willows. I have long stalks now sitting in a vase in the kitchen.” And I’m just waiting for them to turn and start dropping sprigs all over the table and floor, she didn’t say. “I left some at the front desk here. Is that what you were thinking?”

  “Good. Spring is important.”

  “We all feel better when the season warms up. Everything smells good.” She resettled herself in her chair, ready to begin, knowing that the conversation could easily go awry. “I met Zenia Callahan.”

  “Zenia?” He frowned. “Peculiar name.”

  “Yes, isn’t it.” Already this wasn’t going well.

  “I knew a Zenia.” He looked about him, as though he’d mislaid her nearby.

  “When was that?”

  “Oh, ages ago. Zeke’s little girl, though not so little. He always called her his little girl. He had a son too. Can’t remember what happened to him. A war maybe.” He tried to think through that one and began to mumble about World War II, which he’d been too young for.

  “That’s the Zenia I met. She�
��s quite old now.”

  “Zenia Bodrun?” He peered at her, then looked her up and down, perhaps silently criticizing her wardrobe or wondering who she was.

  “She was telling me about her dad in his last few years.” Felicity waited, took a sip of her water, hoping against hope her father would find something in her words to trigger a reminiscence.

  “He loved that cabin.” Her dad smacked his lips, and that seemed to bring to mind the sandwich sitting on an unfolded paper wrapper on the small table in front of him. The paper was creased like a series of snow-capped mountains, and he gently patted the tallest peak. Then he picked up his sandwich and began eating.

  “She told me about how Zeke liked to go traveling in his later years.” Felicity waited, ever hopeful. Her dad put the sandwich down and stared at her. He wiped his fingers on a paper napkin and then tugged at his shirtsleeves. He studied the length of each one, and she could imagine him standing in front of a lawyer stalling before he had to answer a question. The thought startled her. Where had that come from? He rested his curled fingers in his lap and lifted his chin, looking at her over his nose. She had the oddest sensation that he wasn’t sure he wanted to know her anymore. He looked suspicious. He glanced around the room and pushed the sandwich away.

  “Nothing wrong with taking a look at the rest of the world.”

  Felicity nodded and picked up her sandwich. Whatever tale she had hoped for had evaporated under the intense heat of her father’s suspicion. She gave it up and began to talk as if to herself. “I was just hoping you’d be able to tell me why some people are so curious about our land. One guy is looking for hidden treasure, and he’s digging up his wood lot like a gopher. And another guy says he wants to buy the whole thing and live like a recluse, all alone deep in the woods. And Lance is determined to go where I keep telling him not to. And frankly, I’m feeling besieged without knowing why.”