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CHAPTER 1
“Are you my grandpa?”
Michael Hall gazed uncertainly up into the weathered face. He had never seen the man before, yet he recognized him as clearly as if he were looking into a mirror. He tried to keep his voice steady, tried not to shrink back against his mother, tried to remember all the things his father had taught him about meeting people for the first time:
Stand up straight, and put your hand out.
Look the person in the eye.
Tell them your name. He’d forgotten that part.
“I—I’m Michael, and this is my mother,” he stammered.
He felt his mother’s grip tighten on his shoulders, and for just a moment was afraid he’d done something wrong. But then the man he was talking to smiled at him, and he felt his mother’s hands relax a little.
He looks like Mark. He looks just like Mark. The thought flashed through Janet Hall’s mind, and she had to make a conscious effort to keep from hurling herself into the arms of the stranger who was now moving closer to her, an uneasy smile failing to mask the troubled look in his eyes. Barely conscious of the airport crowd that eddied around her, Janet found herself focusing on the lean angularity of her father-in-law’s figure, the strength in his face, the aura of calm control that seemed to hover around him as it had around his son. Unconsciously, her hand moved to her waist and she smoothed her skirt in a nervous gesture.
It’s going to be all right, Janet told herself. He’s just like Mark, and he’ll take care of us.
Almost as if he’d heard Janet’s private thought, Amos Hall leaned down and swung his eleven-year-old grandson off his feet, his farmer’s strength belying his own sixty-seven years. He hugged the boy, but when his eyes met Janet’s over Michael’s shoulder, there was no joy in them.
“I’m sorry,” he said, dropping his voice to a level that would be inaudible to anyone but Janet and Michael. “I don’t know what to say. All these years, and we only meet when Mark—” His voice faltered, and Janet could see him struggling against his feelings. “I’m sorry,” he repeated, his voice suddenly gruff. “Let’s get your baggage and get on out of here. We can talk in the car.”
But they didn’t talk in the car. They drove out of North Platte and into the vast expanse of the prairie in silence, the three of them huddled in the front seat of Amos Hall’s Oldsmobile, Janet and Amos separated by Michael. The numbness that had overcome Janet from the moment the night before when she had been told that her husband was dead still pervaded her, and the reality of where she was—and the why of it—had still not come fully into her consciousness. She had a feeling of being trapped in a nightmare, and every second she was waiting for Mark to awaken her from the dream and assure her that everything was all right, everything was as it had always been.
And yet, that was not to be.
The miles rolled past. Finally, Janet made herself glance across to her father-in-law, who seemed intent on studying the arrow-straight road ahead, his eyes glued to the shimmering pavement as if, by concentration alone, he, too, could deny the reality of what had happened.
Janet cleared her throat, and Amos’s eyes left the road for a split second. “Mark’s mother—”
“She never leaves Prairie Bend,” Amos replied, his gaze returning to the highway. “Rarely leaves the house anymore, if truth be known. She’s getting along, and the years—” He paused, and Janet could see a tightness forming in his jaw. “The years haven’t been as kind to her as they might,” he finished. Then: “Funeral’s gonna be tomorrow morning.”
Janet nodded mutely, relieved that the decision had been made; then, once more, she let herself fall into silence.
An hour later they arrived at the Halls’ farm. The old two-story house was not large, but it seemed to Janet to have a sense of itself, sitting solidly on its foundation, surrounded by a grove of elms and cotton woods, protected from the vast emptiness of the plains that stretched to the horizon in every direction save one, where a stand of trees marked the route of a river making its way eastward, to flow eventually into the Platte.
“What’s the name of the river?” Michael suddenly asked, and the question pulled Janet’s attention from her father-in-law.
“The Dismal,” Amos replied as he brought the car to a stop in front of the house. A moment later he was taking Janet’s baggage out of the trunk. With a suitcase in each hand, he mounted the steps of the front porch, Janet and Michael trailing behind him. Suddenly the door opened and a figure appeared on the threshold, a woman, gaunt and hollow-cheeked, as though her life had been spent in constant battle with the unrelenting prairie.
She was seated in a wheelchair.
Janet felt Michael freeze next to her, and took him by the hand.
“We’re back,” she heard Amos Hall saying to the woman. “This is Mark’s Janet, and this is Michael.”
The woman in the wheelchair stared at them in silence for a moment. Her face, worn with age and infirmity, had a haggard look to it, and her eyes, rimmed with red, seemed nearly lifeless. But a moment later she smiled, a soft smile that seemed to wash some of the years away from her countenance. “Come here,” she said, spreading her arms wide. “Come and let me hold you.”
The numbness Janet had been feeling since last night; the numbness that had insulated her every minute today and allowed her to maintain her self-control as she packed their bags, ordered a cab, and got herself and Michael from Manhattan to the airport; the numbness that had sustained her through the change of planes in Omaha, the arrival in North Platte, and the drive to Prairie Bend, drained away from her now.
“He’s dead,” she said, her voice breaking as for the first time she truly admitted to herself what had happened. Dropping Michael’s hand, she stumbled up the steps and sank to her knees next to Anna Hall’s wheelchair. “Oh, God, what happened to him? Why did he die? Why?”
Anna’s arms encircled Janet, and she cradled her daughter-in-law’s head against her breast. “It’s all right, child,” she soothed. “Things happen, sometimes, and there’s nothing we can do about them. We just have to accept them.” Over Janet’s head, her gaze met her husband’s for a moment, then moved on, coming to rest on Michael, who stood uncertainly at the foot of the steps, his eyes riveted in worried fascination on his mother. “You, too, Michael,” Anna gently urged. “Come give Grandma a hug, and let her take the hurt away.”
The boy looked up then, and as his eyes met her own, Anna felt a flash of recognition surge over her frail body. In the boy, she saw the father. And as she saw her son in her grandson’s eyes, she began to feel fear.
