Fear at First Glance Page 2

  There’s no other way to describe it. She had been off to somewhere I couldn’t go for hours as we trekked down the mountain. She had been a participant as we going up and as we fished, but as we were packing for the hike out, I saw her turn inward, and she’d stayed there throughout the walk back to the truck.

  She’d sat through the hour-long crawl over the two-track trail back to the highway, facing out the passenger-side window, but I don’t think she was seeing anything outside of that private reel that I was sure was playing in her mind.

  Then, as we were driving the familiar stretch of I-84 from La Grande to our exit, I saw her seem to shake herself like Judy, our German Wirehaired Pointer, coming out of the feeder stream in our backyard.

  “I loved this outing, Jim,” she said quietly. “I want to do this again and again.”

  “It’s great fun, that’s for sure...” I wasn’t ready to challenge her on how much she had really enjoyed the day or push her for an explanation of where she’d been for the past hours.

  She was back to looking out the window, but she stretched her left hand across the console between us and I knew she wanted my hand in return so I gave it to her. She folded her fingers, palm down, around mine, palm up.

  “Thank you,” she said without taking her eyes off the passing landscape.

  I didn’t say anything, just held on to her until I needed the hand back to negotiate the exit ramp to our little gravel road.

  After we’d liberated Judy and put all our gear away, I left her in the kitchen while I went upstairs to the shower. When I came down in shorts and a tee, she handed me the recipe card for bleu cheese dressing and took herself upstairs without a word.

  I couldn’t help but smile; we had become quite accustomed to these quiet times. It wasn’t out of the ordinary, and if it hadn’t been for the still-fresh memories of Missouri, I don’t think it would have struck me as odd in any way.

  As I collected the ingredients for the dressing and put them to good use, I reminded myself that part of the charm of my loving wife was her ability to live, love, and thrive without unnecessary words.

  I had the dressing chilling in the fridge. I was sitting at the kitchen island looking out over the broad expanse of Oregon visible from our home. Judy was occupying her favorite spot at the top of the stairs where she could keep track of everyone without raising her head off her paws.

  Our home is open and airy. Consisting of three floors, the basement is storage and mechanical; the ground floor houses the kitchen and “great room” with its grand view of the basin over a seemingly endless sea of towering fir trees. There is a combination full bath and laundry on that floor as well. The third floor houses the master and guest bedrooms sharing a massive master bath.

  The loft-like space between the two bedrooms overlooks the great room and serves as our office where we manage our lives, write our stories, and keep our books.

  A twelve-foot-deep deck accessible from both the great room and kitchen spans the entire west side of the house. Steps off the kitchen end lead to the backyard.

  Our dinner trout were resting in the fridge, and there was a fresh salad in there. A potato which looked to be ready for the oven or the grill was sitting on the sideboard. An unopened bottle of Italian Pinot Grigio was chilling, so I decided to wait for further instructions before trying to help any more.

  I retrieved three catalogs and two letters addressed to someone named “Occupant” from the mailbox. I didn’t recognize any of the catalogs, so the whole day’s delivery went into the recycle bin as I passed through the garage.

  Jan was sitting at the kitchen island, scratching Judy behind the ears, and I almost did a double take when she smiled up at me, but I was able to keep a poker face – she was actually all there for the first time in weeks, and it took my breath away.

  “Hi there,” she said. I noted that for the first time in more than a while her voice had a little bit of her old huskiness in it. It was music to me.

  “Hi yourself.”

  She turned away from the dog and held her arms open to me. I sidled up to her between her knees and she wrapped arms around my waist, turning her head as she hugged me.

  “You all right, Jan?”

  I felt her nod. “For the first time in a while, I really think I am.” She clenched her arms. “I’ve decided that I’ve had enough...”

  “Enough?”

  I felt the nodding again, and looked down at the top of her head, resisting the urge to move. I felt my pulse rate pick up a beat, and I immediately focused on keeping it and the rest of my body at ease. My tai chi training kept me relaxed as I waited for the rest of this comment, wondering where this was going.

  “I know you’ve been worried, dear. I’ve been distant and preoccupied. I keep playing the events of last June and wondering how I screwed up so badly; how I put myself and all of you in such jeopardy... I’ve wondered and wondered and finally, today, up in the flowage, I came to realize that I’m letting last June ruin this August. I played the whole thing over again one more time, and then I decided...”

  I waited, letting my hand gently knead her shoulders and back.

  “Mmmm, that feels so good,” she said in a purr.

  “What did you decide?”

  “I’m done with it.”

  “The memories?”

  “No, I can’t not remember, but I don’t have to dwell. I’m ready to be back in the game, and I thank you for waiting for me.”

  “No problem,” I said resisting the urge to let my held breath out with a whoosh. “I’m glad to hear that you made that decision.”

  She pushed me away without letting me go completely so she could look up at my face. Our eyes met and I saw the mirth in them before it hit her lips, “You don’t think I can just let it go?”

  Seeing that gleam in her eye again gave my heart a leap, but I kept my voice neutral and off-hand, “I believe we all choose our attitude at all times and every day.”

  “Well, I’m choosing you, me, Judy, and the world I haven’t seen yet over one bad week in Missouri.”

  “I endorse that concept.”

  She pushed me further away so she could rise up off the stool. “Then take me upstairs and prove it.”

  I did my best.

  CHAPTER 2

  I’d be lying if I said that everything melted into a serene happy ending after Jan’s epiphany, but it was obvious to anyone watching that she was really, finally, on the mend.

  Never chatty, she was taking the time and making the effort to include me or the Jensens – Shirley and Jack our neighbors down the road – into what had been her private analysis of her behavior, and she was lacing her thoughts with some of the humor that remains a key component of her open and friendly approach to life.

  And she had started playing her keyboard every day, filling the house with the familiar sounds of jazz.

  On the Wednesday after Labor Day, she had been down the road playing the Jensen’s piano. Her keyboard was fine for practice, she admitted, but there was nothing that could compare to the real thing.

  She had stopped at the mailbox on her way in, and I heard her stop downstairs as I was proofreading another attempt at capturing the Missouri story. I looked up minutes later as she came up to the desk with a letter and envelope in her hands and a puzzled look on her face.

  “Jim?”

  I looked up at her and smiled, and she saw me looking at the open letter in her hand, “What’s up?”

  She put her hip down on the corner of the desk. “Have you ever gone to a high school class reunion?”

  I shook my head. “Nope. Why?”

  She held out the letter, and I could see that it was attached to a newspaper clipping. “Julie in Mineral Valley forwarded this; it was sent to me at the Record.”

  I looked at the letter and saw it was on Record letterhead, a note really. “Jan, someone sent this to you here at the paper. Nothing else, just the clipping.”

  I read the clipping.


  Stoney High School will cease to exist after the school year ending June, 2016, and one of the traditions that will end as well is the annual all-class reunion.

  Held during home-coming week, the event features all the “five and zero” anniversaries. This year’s celebration, the final such celebration, will occur the weekend of October 3-5.

  The Class of ’80 consisted of 83 graduates. Their 35th reunion will be their last. The class officers for that year were President: Anthony Ralph; Vice president: Margie Phillips; and Secretary: Angela Ritter.

  All of those officers have moved away, but Ralph and Ritter have remained in touch over the years. Phillips came to the 10-year event in 1990, but the others lost contact with her after that.

  Every effort is being made to contact the members of this class. Organizers are seeking information about these class members:

  Angela Albertson, Dave Boyington, Janice Coldwell, Colin Curry, Duane Deal, Sue Deal, Marci Evers, Ronald Forrester, Frank Foster, Mary Franklin, Cora Parker, and Diana Sweeny.

  Anyone with knowledge of these class members, especially their current contact information, may notify the organizers at:

  Class of ’80, P.O. Box 1980, Stoney, MI 49875. or at www.stoneyreunion.org or by calling 612-469-3636

  I looked at her and then read the clipping again. I turned it over and found only a part of an ad. I couldn’t begin to identify the newspaper.

  She had seen me processing, and smiled, “It’s the Traverse City paper.”

  “You can tell?”

  “Of course, I recognize the type, the printing...” She shrugged.

  “How come you aren’t known to your hometown folks?”

  “I haven’t kept in touch; it wasn’t like I was Miss Popularity. I didn’t hate it or anything, but there were really only a handful of people in that class that I cared for, and I kept in contact with them...”

  I let her idle there, and she picked up the thread, “Their names are on that list, too...”

  “Not that close anymore?”

  She shrugged again, “I guess. It was a long time ago...” another shrug, “now it seems far, far away.”

  We sat there for a few minutes and then she asked, “So why didn’t you ever go to a reunion? You were a big star athlete... you had to have made a lot of friends.”

  “Not so much as you might think. I didn’t grow up there. My folks moved me there between eighth and ninth grades. They didn’t want me growing up in Detroit.”

  “But you fit right in, didn’t you? With sports and all that...”

  “At the same time, I pretty much dashed somebody else’s dreams of being the big star,” I said, and felt a pang of remorse at the thought.

  “How so?”

  “There were guys who were considered the stud athletes as they grew to high school age, and then, bang, in walks this strange guy who’s been raised in a big city competing with bigger, faster and stronger athletes, and in short order he’s the stud... Not everybody was tickled to see me show up.”

  “Did they make it tough?”

  “Yeah, but I contributed; I wasn’t really prepared, mature enough, to handle that scene. I played and went home; they played and then they partied.”

  “Ouch.”

  It was my turn to shrug. “I made some special friends, and stayed in touch with them over the years, but I’ve always been more about the ‘now’ and the ‘future’ than the ‘then.”’

  She picked up the list and looked at it for a long moment, and then, “Let’s take Judy for a walk, maybe mooch a cocktail afterwards.”

  She wasn’t talking about one of the walks I do most mornings, she was talking about a stroll, and I jumped at the chance to watch her in the woods, and I knew Judy would be all for it as well. “You want to call Jack and Shirley in advance?”

  “Nope. Let’s just crash.”

  “What if they’re not home?”

  “Leave a note, telling them what they missed...”

  CHAPTER 3

  The next morning, with Judy keeping track of me, I walked at daylight. Tai chi had become a vital part of my life decades before. Taught to new recruits at a secret training ground, the forms were all we did as we were measured and tested for a special assignment. In that time we captured the essence and practicality of the ancient form of exercise based on principals of peace, relaxation, and control. We became aware of our pulse all the time, and we could control our breathing, our pulse, and even our adrenaline.

  Then they taught us to fight, using that awareness. And it had worked the only times I had ever been called on to use it. Drilled to the point of instinctive reaction, the regular exercise of my forms – both slow and quick, short bend or tall – had left me lean and flexible even as I was committed to never using the real fighting skills again. I had let that training lapse after the service. About the time I turned 30, I looked at myself in the mirror, and vowed to never let myself go again. Now these brisk walks around intense intervals of working my forms keep me surprisingly fit as I age.

  The walking part of my routine took me deep into the national forest, on a trail that began in Jack and Shirlee Jensen’s driveway just down the road from our home. Hiking along at something akin to a 14-minute per mile pace, I gained about 500 feet of elevation before stopping in a natural clearing to practice the fundamental forms of this ancient ritual.

  The practice of tai chi is often referred to as dancing by practitioners of more mainstream martial arts, but moving through the complex regimen of poses in ultra slow motion requires intense focus, concentration and discipline of mind and muscle.

  Over the years of my application of these principles, I have been able to control my pulse rate and breathing in critical situations that would have normally left me addled and breathless.

  The flexibility that this has retained in my aging body has been an additional benefit; the entire workout has meant life and death difference to me more than once. Given a generous dose of hand-eye coordination and a muscular build on my six-foot, five-inch frame, I was a step ahead of most even before I was introduced to the world of tai chi.

  I believed then and do now that the rigors demanded by the daily pursuit of the perfect forms has been the source of a peaceful outlook on a hectic life.

  I was stretching in the backyard when Jan came looking for me. The day was bright and shiny and so was she as she sat on the bottom step while I finished my final stretch.

  “Something on your mind?”

  She tilted her head in a way that she often did when I attempted to “read” her intentions. “As a matter of fact.”

  “Now’s a good time to air it.”

  “I want to go to a class reunion in October.”

  “What’s stopping you?”

  “I want you to go with me.”

  “October sounds a lot like the days of chukar and quail... What’s up? You’ve never gone before, why now?”

  I watched the color start at her hairline and spread across and down until she was blushing like a school girl. It was amazing to see, and so unlike her that I thought for a second it might be anger, and I instantly regretted chiding her. “Jan, that’s not a fair comment for me to make. I’m sorry...”

  She was shaking her head, and I could see she was smiling, embarrassed at her reaction, “It’s not you; it’s all about me this time.” She took a deep breath to compose herself, and then she looked me in the eye, “I wasn’t ready to confront my feelings that way, and when you asked, my mind went directly to the answer... it just came over me... the real reason...” She shook her head and reset her shoulders. “It’s you; you’re what’s come over me.”

  “Me?”

  “Yep. Truth be known, Stanton, I want to show you off to all those people whose memory of me is a tall, skinny, shapeless, bespectacled accompanist. That girl, they all knew, would never attract a man such as James Michael Stanton, much less earn his love and respect; not that girl... I want to go back just to show them.”

&n
bsp; I finally broke the ensuing silence, “What have you in mind?”

  “We could fly into Traverse City on Friday, book a cottage at the Skeegmog Inn – it’s near but not too near. Then we could drive into Stoney, take part in the events around the football game, come back for the dinner on Saturday and fly back home on Sunday – it wouldn’t be that long away from the birds here...”

  I reached for her hand, “You know I’d love to see Judy handle woodcock; I know she’s top shelf on grouse, but those birds back East are tougher than these wilderness birds. I’d love to see her handle them, too.

  “Why don’t we drive back there, take Judy, a gun or two, avoid the airlines... Arrive a few days early, stay for a week. You could visit the papers, see your people; we could see Miles and Gail Lawton in Cadillac... What do you think?”

  She was beaming, “I think you’re living up to my expectations; that’s what I think.”

  I pulled her to her feet and hugged her, my chin resting on the top of her head. “I love you, Jan.”

  “I know, and that’s a piece of luck for me.”

  CHAPTER 4

  We had purchased the Suburban in the spring, retiring my old pickup. The Suburban used the same engine, drive train and chassis as my old truck, but that was where the comparison ended.

  Our new ride was quieter, smoother, and having all my gear inside with me was a comfort on a rainy Monday morning as we started out for two days of hard driving. We ran over to the Tri-Cities of Washington, and caught 395 up to I-90, and then raced across Washington, the top of Idaho, and through Montana and then South Dakota and Minnesota until we finally exited one of Eisenhower’s four-lane, limited-access tributes to the Cold War a bit southeast of Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The pace of travel slowed a bit then, and we arrived in Manitowoc just before noon on Wednesday with two hours to kill before we caught the car ferry to Michigan.