A Walk through the Woods

          Inside the yard near the fence, Frannie turned her back to the house and closed the gate. During the deluge last night, the latch weakened by age had given way to the power of the trumpeting storm. Using the flat-head screwdriver she took out of her pocket, she tightened the screws.

         Maybe after today, the rumble of the wind would encourage fewer partings and more resolutions.

         Inside the yard while viewing the façade, Frannie wondered, for a second or two, if her home was a safe place. From a distance, the house looked cozy enough with its weather-worn clapboard siding, white picket fence, shrub-bordered walkway, and the wide porch embracing the entire first floor.

         Feeling an involuntary shudder, she made her way to the back of the house and gazed at the scenery. The thin sun --trying to break through the thick fog over the river-- exposed partially the bright gold and burgundy foliage on the trees. Before the storm, under the full mercy of the sun, the water used to ripple like stained glass. Yet, today, the river was in a haze, and that wind last night had scattered the fallen leaves on the water.

          Time for pumpkin pies and cranberry jelly, Frannie thought. Every year, when apples, pumpkins, and cranberries started appearing in bountiful piles in the local market, Falls River put its fall flair on display. “In Falls River, we like to do things in season as the fruit comes around,” Jonathan at the bakery commented, if tourists stopped to admire the seasonal treats in the bakery case when they visited Falls River to enjoy the foliage .

          Pumpkin custard pie, definitely, Frannie thought. Yes, Amber would love a slice of pumpkin custard pie, now that she was back.

          The night before, hearing a sound outside, Frannie had looked from the window. She had gasped instead of letting out a scream when she had recognized Amber's form at the gate, under the lightning’s bluish glow. After she yanked at the front door to open it for Amber, Frannie had blinked once or twice to make sure she was seeing right. Amber looked wild with her hair swirling in the wind and her face emaciated and teary-like in the rain. Her eyes were stark and haunted.

         “Hi, Ma. I’m back.” That’s all Amber said. At first.

         Once inside, Amber looked around with questioning eyes and asked for him. “Pa?” Frannie just pointed to the stairs, “Went up early,” she answered. Funny, how both were talking in fragments as if a full year did not pass by since Amber’s leave-taking.

          After Frannie settled Amber in, she went upstairs to Parker. Parker was sitting up in bed. He spoke first. “She’s dead to me. She might as well leave.”

         “Don’t say that, Parker. You’re a bigger man than that.”

         “I don't think she minded me--one way or the other. She didn't pay any attention when I said, 'Don’t go with that excuse for a man. He’ll get a rope around his neck and maybe yours, too.’ And she said, ‘You’re cold as ice, Pa.’"

          Parker paused for a second or two; then he continued. "Me? Cold…worryin' about her the way I do? So now, here’s cold for you.”

         “She isn’t with him, Parker. He’s in jail. She doesn’t want to have anything to do with him. She told me so a while ago,” Frannie said.

         Parker shrugged and looked away, his hands searching to fasten the top button of his flannel pajamas. “She used to listen for ghosts inside sunken boats in the river when she was ten,” he murmured as if talking to himself. “Now, she is nothing but a ghost.”

         “She says she's sorry. She came home alone...for good,” Frannie said. “She’s our only child, Parker.”

         “Well,” Parker answered her. “Do as you wish, but I don’t want any part of her. No more.”

         Frolicking kids were not news to the world, but Parker could be a mule when crossed.



         Frannie sniffed the burst of aroma filling the kitchen in rhythm with the sound of coffee brewing with gusto. Maybe during breakfast, coffee’s sepia veneer could impart clarity, and each sip could weave together unraveled flaws and bond broken hearts. She set the cider, the coffee cups, and the cereal bowls on the dinette table.

         She was startled when she caught sight of Parker from the kitchen's north window; he was shuffling away on the walkway. Obviously, he had decided to forego breakfast and take his morning walk without her, contrary to what Frannie had in mind a moment ago.

         Her hands shaking with haste, she poured some coffee into two insulated cups, put on her coat and hat, and hurried after Parker.

         “Wait up. I’m coming with you.” She handed a cup to Parker. “Will do you good,” she said.

         Parker took a sip. “Good coffee. Takes away the chill.” His voice sounded hoarse, but tender.

         They took to the trail off the main road. Except for their footsteps and the rustling of leaves, the woods around them stood hushed and mysterious, and the trail curved in a narrow ribbon, canopied by twisted old trees on both sides.

         Frannie spoke. “A path has two ends; one at the beginning, the other at the finish.”

         “Duh!” Parker smirked.

         Frannie continued. “Women, girls, grow up in pieces; yet, they hurry up. Because of all that hurrying, that the path has two ends does not occur to them. Then, the path, forking and coiling, unwinds so fast.

         "Sometimes, girls get stuck at dead ends in the dead of winter. If they can find their way back in autumn, before the chill sets in, they become more determined to stay on the main path to make it to the other end.”


         Frannie had not realized that Parker had stopped a few steps back. Slighted, because he wasn’t listening to what she tried to say, she retraced her steps back to where Parker stood motionless, staring at the thorny thicket covering fallen tree trunks. Frannie squinted to see through the shadows. A doe was trotting its way through a small clearing into the woods; her velvet coat appeared haloed by the half-light seeping through trees under a silver sky.

         Frannie held her breath. She had read somewhere that Mayans considered deer to be angels who led people to water. Without a stir, she watched the doe appear, disappear, and then appear again through the trunks of the trees. As the doe passed in and out of view, a spotted fawn with thin, wobbly legs darted from the thicket to join his mother. Together, turning up the whites of their tails, the doe and the fawn skipped off into the woods.

         ”Aaawww!” said Parker, pointing to the woods; his face was now relaxed with a grin. Then, silence resonated around them, until Frannie felt Parker’s hand clutching hers.

         Holding hands, they strolled back to the edge of the river. Bank-side trees in orange, crimson, and gold reflected in the water hazily, and the river wandered in peace, carrying its load of curling leaves. Over Falls River, the timid rays of the sun were peeking through the clouds.

         “For nature, autumn is a time of sowing, of scattering abroad,” Parker said. “Edwin Way Teale, the naturalist, wrote that.”

         “He also said, ‘For man, autumn is a time of harvest, of gathering together,’” Frannie added.

         “But, it is both, isn’t it?” This was more of a comment than a question.


          Hearing a heightened sound of rustling leaves and hurried footsteps, they spun around.


         “Ma, Pa!”

         ”Aaawww!” said Parker again, smiling softly. "She's home."

         Her russet-red hair fluttering in the wind, Amber jogged toward them, waving her arms in the air.


1280 words