West Side Castle, Part VII "All Together Now"

As Cara watches, Persis’s eyes narrow, and her lips pull in and tighten until they nearly disappear. Then, swiftly, this tense look is replaced with an expression of supreme calmness. Persis stares at her husband with wide, blank eyes, and for a moment, Cara has the sensation of seeing Ashley’s grave face superimposed on her mother’s.

      “Those rooms are nice,” Persis says finally. Her voice is quiet and even.

      Leo smiles down at her.

      “We’ll have to go again soon,” Persis says.

      “Yeah, sure, Sweetheart,” says Leo. His gaze moves from Persis to Heather and back, faltering. Persis continues to watch him, and Heather watches Persis. The corners of Leo’s smile drop a bit, and a tiny crease appears between his eyebrows.

      “Leo,” Persis says, and although her expression does not change, Cara can see a tremor passing through her upper body like an electric wave. Persis’s hair is shimmering, still catching the light of the fire, but now it’s crackling with its own heat.
      “Leo,” Persis says again. “You and I have never been to the Home Hotel.”

      “Sure we--” Leo begins, but his involuntary flick of a glance at Heather gives lie to his assertion. “Sweetheart,” he says, and it’s not clear which woman he is addressing.

      “You son of a bitch,” says Persis. “You’ve been fucking her. In the fucking Home Hotel.” Her words crack over the heads of the group. Edward and the guitar player turn, startled, from their contemplation of the fire. Lily is frozen in place with her arms against her chest, hands folded protectively over her bracelets. The chess player’s eyes snap open, but he keeps his head down on the pillow next to the baby.
      Heather lifts her head, but she doesn’t withdraw her arm from the back of the sofa. Her fingernails brush the upholstery lightly just inches from Persis’s shoulder. 

      Persis’s grey eyes are nailheads now, her skin tight across her cheekbones. Lines at the corners of her mouth point down like angry arrows. She jumps to her feet, standing chest-to-chest with Leo. The tallest of us, Cara thinks and is surprised at how removed she feels from the scene being played out before her.

      “In the fucking Home Hotel,” Persis repeats, but her voice breaks, and there’s not enough breath left to finish the last word before her throat closes around a sob. 

      Leo says nothing. He stands still in front of the hearth, the firelight lashing patterns of stripes on the backs of his legs.

      Persis stares at him--everyone stares at him--for one two three four heartbeats. Then Persis turns and scoops up a netsuke figure from a collection of such pieces on a narrow table beside the sofa. Her fingers curl around the ivory carving of an old man playing a flute. She runs her thumb over the smooth roundness of the old man’s head and hunched back. She hefts the small figure like a skipping stone in her palm, then turns, and with elaborate casualness, she flings it at the stained glass pane of lilies nearest the fireplace.
      The netsuke figure hits the pane with a blunt smack! that makes everyone jump. It falls to the floor and rolls under a chair. Persis watches it out of sight, then leans down to pick up the toddler from her pillow near the hearth. As she reaches for the little girl, the chess player flinches his head away from her hands. Ignoring him, Persis shoulders her child and walks quickly across the living room. She mounts the stairs, and when she gets to the top, those below can hear her calling “Bedtime!” to the older children. 

      The group by the fire breaks up somberly, bidding each other goodnight in muted voices. No one looks directly at Leo. Lily and Edward each give Cara a hug and file slowly upstairs to their rooms. Heather replaces her book on the shelf, picks up her flute, and carries it down the hall to her room at the back of the house. The chess player sets the game pieces back in their starting positions, then unfolds a quilt onto the sofa, patting and smoothing it into place. Taking a toothbrush from his hip pocket, he heads for the small bathroom on the far side of the entryway. The guitar player carries the last of the dessert plates into the kitchen. Then he unrolls his futon in a closet-like room built in the space under the stairs. 

      Leo banks the fire, nudging the charred and glowing logs together with an iron poker. Cara watches him draw the steel mesh curtain across the fireplace opening. She pushes herself up from the hearth. “Well, I’m tired. Where did you say I should put my things?” 

      Leo collects Cara’s knapsacks from the entryway and leads her to a room at the end of the hall, next to Heather’s. He brings fresh bedding from a linen closet in the hallway and helps her make up the daybed next to the ponderous oak rolltop desk which dominates the room.

      “I’ll get that moved out tomorrow,” he says, nodding at the desk. He puts a thick hand on Cara’s shoulder. “If there’s anything you need, you let me know.” 

      “Thanks, Leo. I’m okay.” Cara stops. A hard knot rises in the back of her throat. “I hope this isn’t going to be a problem. The doctor said only about six months.”

      “You could never be a problem, Darling. Don’t worry. I’ll take care of you.” 

      “Persis--”

      Leo pulls her against his chest. “Don’t worry,” he says again. His breath is warm against her head. “It’ll all work out okay. We’re all together now.”


[To order a copy of the book, Walking Pocatello, call the Idaho State University Bookstore, (208) 282-3237, or send me an email.]

West Side Castle, Part VI "The Home Hotel"

Persis and Leo sit next to each other on the sofa, facing the fire. Persis curls herself into Leo’s shoulder and puts her head on his chest. Leo strokes her hair, lifting it so that it catches the light from the fire, then slowly letting it fall through his fingers. Heather sits behind them on a low bench placed in back of the sofa. She leans one elbow on the cushion behind Leo’s head. 

      Leo pats the empty seat on the other side of him. “Cara, wouldn’t you be more comfortable over here?”

      Cara shakes her head. “I’m fine. The heat is wonderful. In fact, Lily, don’t you want to sit by me?”

      Lily fans herself with a section of newspaper. “No, I’m fine. I hate to sweat.”

      Cara leans forward, elbows on her thighs. “I like it. Reminds me of Lava Hot Springs. Say, are the pools still open? I’d like to go down there.”

      “They probably are tomorrow,” Persis says. “We could drive down for a soak after dinner.” Everyone murmurs excitedly at the plan.

      “Wonderfully hot!”

      “After dark’s the best time.”

      “Good for sore muscles after skiing.”

      “Steam’s so thick you can’t see three feet in front of you.”

“I haven’t been for years and years,” Cara says. She nods at Leo. “Last time was with you, I think.” 

      “That time the ambulance came.”

      Edward looks up. “Ambulance? What happened?”

      “Well,” Cara explains, “we’d just gotten the room filled up--”

      “Room?” Edward looks a question. 

      “Oh, Cara, you don’t know!” interjects Lily. “They tore down the rooms and built a new pool, out in the open.”

      “You’re kidding.”

      “No. In fact, it couldn’t have been long after you left. Because Leo and I--” Lily pauses for a heartbeat. “I mean, the first couple of times I went there, they still had the rooms, but then one day we went, and they were just gone.”

      “What rooms?” Edward pleads.

      Cara turns to him. “There used to be this row of little rooms. Off the main hallway by the office. You could rent your own private room. Each one had a shower--like in a bath house--and a dressing room just inside the door. Then there was this cement ramp you walked down, and you could turn on the valve, and the lower part of the room filled up with hot mineral water. You could sit in there and.....”  She breaks off, remembering.

      Leo and Lily pick up her sentence. “You could take food--”

      “And a bottle of wine--”

      “Or some pot--”

      “Of course, bathing suits were optional.”

      “I don’t think I ever even took a suit with me,” says Cara. She looks down at her bulk. “Probably wouldn’t want to do that now.”

      Leo jumps to his feet. “Are you kidding?” He raises Cara from the hearth and waltzes her gently in front of the fire. “You’re just as beautiful as ever, Darling.”

      “I never liked those disgusting little rooms,” says Lily. “Who knows what kind of germs you could pick up. Like sitting in old soup.”

      “Sounds wonderful to me,” Persis says. “Wish I could have been there.”

      Cara disengages herself from Leo’s arms and plops back down on the hearth. “Well, it was---” she breathes heavily, “a very sensual experience.”

      “So what about this ambulance?” Edward asks again.

      “Well,” says Cara, “one time we were in there, and we heard a lot of commotion. Out in the hall. At first, we just thought somebody was drunk--”

      “That happened a lot,” says Leo.

      “But when we looked out, there were the paramedics, hauling this man out on a stretcher.”

      “Remember how huge he was?”

      “Oh, god, yes. This giant, naked stomach. Just as round and bright red as a beach ball. Actually that’s about all I do remember about the poor man.”

      “What’d he have? A heart attack?”

      “I guess. Never found out. Wouldn’t be surprised. It was hot enough in there.” She looks at Leo standing in front of the fire. “Those were some good times, though. I’m sorry it’s torn down.”

      “Yeah,” says Leo. “Now, if you want a private room with a tub, you have to settle for the Home Hotel.”

      “The Home Hotel?”

      “Yeah. That old one on Main Street. They put hot tubs in each room. Big enough for two people. Pretty nice.” Leo rocks a little on his heels, his back to the fire.

      No one says anything for a moment or two, and Cara becomes aware of an uneasiness hanging in the warm air. She glances at Leo, but he’s looking at the ceiling. Probably thinking about putting in a skylight or painting something up there, Cara thinks. Lily is rearranging her bracelets, and Edward and the guitarist are staring into the fire. The chess player appears to have fallen asleep with his head on the same pillow as the baby. 

      Only Persis and Heather are alert. Heather’s chin is propped on her long arm, which is stretched along the back of the sofa. Heather’s posture is relaxed, but Cara can see that her eyes are intent on Persis’s profile. Persis is sitting up and looking straight at Leo.

West Side Castle, Part V "Tai Tai" 太太

Edward pushes himself back a little from the table. “You know, I’m not gonna be here much longer,” he says. “I’m gonna move out as soon as I graduate.”

      “I don’t mean you, Edward. You have a right to be here. We all do.” The flush in Persis’s cheeks has subsided, and now she smiles with one corner of her mouth. “After all, if I can put up with your mother...” She ends her sentence in the exaggerated tones of a mock martyr.    

      “Gee, thanks, Pers’,” says Lily. “And after I showed you how to make that artichoke crap.”

      Persis laughs. “Thanks for reminding me what I do like about the arrangement, as odd as it is.  How else could I learn to make ‘artichoke crap?’”

      “Is that ‘make artichoke crap?’ or ‘make an artichoke crap?’” Leo asks.

      “Arty-cap, arty-cap,” the toddler interjects, tapping her spoon on the table.

      “You can lead an artichoke to butter, but you can’t make it crap,” says the chess player, and everyone groans, but the mood around the table is now playful. They all pull their chairs closer, and the children resume their wriggling and talking. Second helpings are passed around. Leo pours small glasses of Tuaca for the adults. He gives Ashley and the boys their own thimblesful of water with a minute drop of Tuaca in each.

      “Let’s have a toast,” he says. “To family--” he gestures with his glass to Persis and Edward and the children--“and to friends”--he toasts the guitarist and the chess player. He raises his glass to Cara and Lily. “To family who become friends.” He pauses, then adds, “To friends who become family.”

      “I think you’ve got it covered,” says Lily. “Can we just drink now?”

太太  Everyone tosses back the Tuaca, and there’s a little coughing and spluttering. Cara touches her watering eyes with the corner of her napkin. She clears her throat. “Heather, what was that word you used a few minutes ago?”

      Heather tilts her head to one side. “What word was that?”

      “When we were talking about...about wives. Tie-something.”

       “Tai-tai.”

      “Yes, that’s it. What’s that?”

      “It’s a Chinese word. Tai-tai. First or head wife.”

      “I guess that’s you, Cara,” Lily says. 

      “Not if it means ‘head wife,’” says Cara. “That’s Persis. Besides, she’s the only one of us who is a wife, technically.”

      Lily makes a dismissive sound. “Oh, technically.” She plucks the last olive from the bowl in front of her. “Hey, Heather,” she says, “what’s the word for second wife?”

      “I have no idea,” Heather says. She turns to the chess player. “Want to pass that dish of cranberries this way?”

      Edward gets up and sets his plate in the sink. “Who’s ready for dessert?” A chorus of protests and groans answers him.

      “We’ll clean up,” says Persis. “Why don’t you guys go make a fire, and we’ll have dessert in there in a little while.” She puts the toddler on the floor and begins stacking plates. Cara gets up to help her, and Lily finally rouses herself and carries the Tuaca glasses to the sink.

      The others file slowly into the living room. The guitar player rubs his full abdomen, picks up his guitar, and stands idly strumming it and gazing out the window. “It’s starting to snow again,” he says to no one in particular. The chess player challenges Leo to a game. Edward begins laying a fire, and the toddler curls up on a large pillow next to him on the floor and promptly falls asleep. Ashley and her brothers race each other up the stairs to the playroom. 

      Heather goes to the shelves and takes out a thick book with Chinese characters printed on the cover. She carries it to a chair near the chess table, opens it on her lap, and, drawing a pen from between the pages, begins making notes in the margins. Her writing is thick and spiky, not unlike the characters on the book’s cover. Occasionally, she leans forward, calling for Leo’s attention, turning the book and holding it so he can see what she’s written. Once, she points to an illustration in the book, and they both laugh, their heads close together over the page.

      In the kitchen, the three older women swiftly fall into a cooperative rhythm, clearing the room of its culinary debris. Dishes are scraped and stacked in foaming hot water; leftover food is cartoned and stowed in the capacious refrigerator. Persis snaps on a radio that sits on a shelf over the sink, and the three women hum along with the tunes that waver out over their work.

      Finally, Persis takes two of the pumpkin pies from the tin pie cupboard in the pantry. She cuts them into wide wedges, burying her knife in the rich, fleshy filling. Fresh bursts of the smell of nutmeg flood the kitchen. Cara tops the first two slices of pie with whipped cream and carries them into the living room. “Who wants dessert now?”

      Edward and the guitarist are already in place near the fire. Leo stands and stretches. As he moves away from the chess board, his opponent looks up from deep concentration. “Hey, what about the rest of the game?” the young man says. 

      “Heather’ll finish it for me,” Leo answers over his shoulder. “Won’t you, Sweetheart?” 

      Heather looks up from her book, reaches, and moves Leo’s queen, as if randomly choosing  a new position for her. “Checkmate,” she says, and closes her book. “Now, pie.” 

       The group ranges itself around the fire, balancing dessert plates on knees and the edges of furniture. Cara sits on the raised hearth of the fireplace, warming her back. She holds a bite of soft pumpkin in her mouth, letting it slowly dissolve before swallowing it. “This is so good.”

      “Did you know that Leo made it from his own pumpkins?” asks the chess player.

      “Yes, I heard all about it.”

      “Is there anything he can’t do?” the chess player murmurs to the guitarist. The two young men shake their heads and continue wolfing pie.

West Side Castle, Part IV "A Little Dark"

Leo and Edward load the table with platters and bowls from the stoves as the rest of the group finds seats around the table. Ashley and her two little brothers worm their way into chairs on the narrow side, against the wall. They are followed by the chess player, still bemoaning his loss, and Heather, who takes the end seat near the head of the table. Lily hasn’t moved from her place at the the other end. Cara pulls out a corner chair between Lily and Persis, who balances the toddler on one knee. The guitar player sits next to Persis, across from Heather, and Cara notices that both young men compete for Heather’s attention, consulting her about music and chess moves. Sunlight coming through the windows of the French doors picks up highlights in Heather’s spiky hair, giving it the effect of a gilded coronet.

      Leo and Edward take places at the head of the table, and the next few minutes are filled with the clatter of passing plates. Leo stands to carve extra slices of turkey. Edward jumps up frequently to replenish serving dishes from the deep basins on the stoves. Those served begin eating without ceremony, and for some time, the plentifulness and quality of the food commands a respectful silence. 

      At last, with the first urgency of appetites slaked, the group grows more talkative. Leo lays his knife and fork across his plate and motions to Persis. “Sweetheart, hand me that book behind you.” Persis takes a slim volume from the sideboard and passes it down the table.

      Leo clears his throat. “I have something I’d like to read to you.” He holds up the book. “Found this at an estate sale last year. Dated 1887. Never heard of the poet. Somebody named Koslowska. This is a translation.” He opens the book at a dog-eared page and reads:

          The shawl of forgetfulness covers my face

          I suck time through fibers

          That fill my nostrils with dust

          I choke on memory.

          The mirzippu--

Leo looks up. “That word’s untranslated, but a footnote says it most nearly means ‘undertaker.’”

          The mirzippu lifts the caul from my head

          Peels my eyelids

          I see my life as a day, an afternoon
          You are all with me

          We are shining
          There are no partings, no diminishments

          There is only this day, this moment

          And there can never be death.

Leo closes the book and puts it on the table. No one says anything. Persis holds her small daughter’s hand and studies the tracery of tiny blue veins on the inside of the toddler’s wrist. Cara bows her head over her plate. The pressure behind her eyes is great, and her nostrils flare with the effort of a swallowed sob.

      “Jeez, Leo,” Lily says finally. “Couldn’t you find something a little more macabre to read?”

      “I like it,” says Heather. The two young men nod agreement.

      Persis smooths the skin on the back of the baby’s hand. “It does seem a little dark for Thanksgiving dinner. And the children.” She glances across the table at her sons and older daughter.  Ashley’s wide eyes give nothing back.

      “I was focusing on the theme of togetherness,” says Leo. “We’re all here, this afternoon. Family and friends.” He pauses. “And, this is probably as good a time as any to tell you all that Cara--” He smiles at Cara, and his voice grows husky. “My dear, dear Cara is coming back to stay with us for a while.”

      A brief glance passes between Lily and Ashley, no more than a movement of eyelids. Edward leans forward, speaking across the guitar player and Persis. “Welcome home, Cara. I’m glad you're here,” he says.

      Cara looks up from her plate, not at Edward nor at Leo, but at Persis, sitting beside her. Persis draws herself up straighter in her chair, readjusting the squirming toddler on her lap. A slow, ruddy tide surges up her neck to her cheeks.

      “Tai-tai,” says Heather. Her eyes gleam. 

      “It’ll be nice to have the company,” says Lily. She reaches for a bowl of Greek olives, selects one, and begins chewing carefully around its pit.

      “When did you decide this?" says Persis. When she speaks, her voice sounds unused, as if it were early morning and her first cup of tea had not yet loosened her throat. She stares at Leo until he moves his gaze from Cara to her.

      Cara touches the younger woman’s arm. “It’s only for a few months. A year at most.”

      Persis doesn’t look at her. “When did you decide this?" she repeats. The children, who have been eating and moving restlessly, pause at their mother’s tone. The guitarist shifts in his chair. The chess player opens his mouth to say something to Heather, then closes it and examines his fork closely.

      Leo shrugs. “Cara wrote a few weeks ago. I didn’t think you’d mind. After all, Lily lives here--”

      “Lily never left,” says Persis. 

      Lily says nothing. She touches her silver bracelets, aligning them precisely on her arms. 

      “Leaving or not leaving has nothing to do with it. Cara is my wife--”

      “Was,” Persis and Cara say together.

      Leo holds up a hand. “Was my wife, and she’s still my friend. She needs our help now, and we have enough space. She can have her own room down here on the first floor. I’m clearing out the little office next to Heather’s room.” 

      He looks steadily at Persis. “And,” he says, “this is my house.” The simple statement holds a world of possession in it.

      “Persis, I’m sorry--” Cara begins, but the younger woman stops her.

      “Oh, it’s not you, Cara. I had a feeling you were coming back to stay.” Persis waves her hand vaguely around the table. “It’s just that this is getting so...so odd.” She sighs. “I mean, how many families have two ex-wives and a current wife all living together? Not to mention the children and assorted friends.”

West Side Castle, Part III "Oh No, Not Another Wife"

The long-legged girl leans against the kitchen counter, arms folded across her chest, watching her mother, father, and little sister. “Ashley,” Persis says, “Come take the baby into the living room. Too crowded in here. Someone’ll drop a pot on her head.” Ashley scoops the toddler out of her mother’s lap and balances her on one jutting hip. The little girl grabs handfuls of Ashley’s hair.

      “Take them all with you,” says Leo. “We’ll call you when dinner’s ready.”Ashley herds her little brothers, tumbling, before her. As she passes her father, he drops the oven mitt from his left hand and reaches for her. She makes a slight ducking movement, shifting the baby to her other hip and eluding his caress.

      “She’s a beauty,” says Cara. “What is she? Thirteen?” Persis doesn’t answer. She stares after her daughter, then turns her eyes to Leo, who once again is resettling roasting pans and kettles.

      “She’ll be twelve next month,” says Lily. The three women look toward the open doorway that leads into the main room. They can hear the children giggling and the sounds of a guitar examining chords. The piping of a flute ascends the tonal scale, and the guitar follows it. 

      After a moment, Persis rouses herself. She gathers a handful of silverware and begins dealing it around the table. Lily takes a linen napkin from a stack on the bench beside her and folds it into a pyramid. Her tapered fingers caress the heavy material, creasing it into shape. She pitches the napkin toward the first place setting, then repeats the process until eleven pyramids dot the perimeter of the long table.

      Cara wanders into the living room where three young people, all about twenty years old, sit cross-legged on overstuffed furniture ranged around a wide, stone fireplace. A chessboard inlaid with jade and white marble squares occupies most of the space on a table in front of the hearth. The arrangement of the chess pieces reveals a game nearly ended. The king stands in check. One young man strums a guitar, his brow furrowed in concentration over the placement of his fingers on the frets. A second young man listens attentively, occasionally offering advice about the correct fingering for a particular chord. His hand hovers hesitantly over the chess board. He traces possible moves in the air above the pieces. The young woman--Heather, Cara decides--sits sideways in a leather armchair on the opposite side of the chess table. Her legs are curled beneath her. With one arm propped on the back of the chair, Heather holds a silver flute to her lips. Its airy tones warble up and down the minor scale.  Heather’s whole body droops and wavers with the notes of her flute. Her long neck arches languidly, as if it can barely support the weight of her head. Her hair is closely-cropped--as short as any man’s--and colored an intense yellow. For all her wilting posture, Heather’s eyes are bright and hard and fixed on the chess board.

Cara watches the game for a moment, but it’s clear that Heather’s opponent will not be able to save his king. Cara wanders about the room, examining its carefully-arranged clutter of artifacts. Five tall celadon jars command a low table; exotic shells and polished stones spill out of carved teak boxes; a collection of silver and bronze armlets set with ovals of jade and turquoise line a bookshelf crammed with old texts, their bindings faded and raveling. The unvarnished wood of the walls is covered with paintings and hand-pieced quilts and loose weavings whose fibers ramble across feathers and slivers of bleached bone.  

      Cara opens the front door and pulls her knapsacks into the tiny, skewed entryway near the base of a wide staircase. She gropes in one of the bags and takes out a small pill bottle. Shoving the bags into a corner, she grasps the bannister, and hauls her bulk upward. At the top of the stairs, she hesitates before several doorways on the landing. The one on the right opens on a room in bright disarray. The floor is littered with shoes, the bed piled high with dresses and shawls and scarves. Mounds of jewelry cover the dressing table. Boxes of chocolates and cartons of designer cookies lie ravaged on the nightstand. “Lily,” Cara mutters to herself. 

      Selecting another door, she passes into a long room that contains a king-sized bed on a raised platform and a dressing table with an oval mirror made from hammered nickel. Leo’s four-harness floor loom dominates one wall. It holds a weaving in progress, a mass of thickly-tufted blond wool hyphenated with dried grass. A folding Chinese screen at one end of the room shields a deep, claw-footed tub and a porcelain basin. Cara takes a pill from the bottle and puts it in her mouth. She cups her hands under the running tap and gulps water. 

      Just then, the girl Ashley puts her head around the edge of the screen. “Dinner’s ready.”   

      Cara gives a little jump. “Oh, Ashley! You startled me.” The girl doesn’t move. She swings her hair away from her face, and Cara notices that Ashley has her mother’s clear, light eyes and rather blank expression. Not much of Leo in her that I can see, Cara thinks, except maybe that air of ownership--over herself, at least. 

      Ashley stands without leaning, her arms crossed on her chest, and watches the older woman in silence. Cara splashes more water onto her face and neck and pats herself dry with a towel.

      “Lily says you’re going to stay.” It’s not a question. “Mother thinks so, too.”

      “Oh? And what does your mother have to say about that?”

      “She said, ‘Oh no, not another wife.’”

      Cara starts to smile, then checks herself. “What do you think about it?”

            Ashley shrugs. “Doesn’t matter to me.” She turns away. “Dad said to tell you dinner’s ready.”

West Side Castle, Part II, "Is She--?"

Drawing a sleeve over one wrist, the woman rubs the pane clear of fog and spies an older man standing before yet another stove, this one more modern but equally massive. Only the back of the second man is visible, but the woman notes thick, corduroy-clad legs, a well-muscled back that spreads into heavy shoulders, and a tangled mane of greying, sandy hair. The man opens the low oven door, squats, and draws from the oven a deep, lidded roasting pan. In one facile movement, he hoists the heavy roaster, slides it onto the stove’s surface, and knees the oven door closed. He lifts the lid with a pot-holdered paw, and bending over the steaming contents, fills his lungs with the savory fragrance of roasted turkey. Reaching far over the pan, he draws a carving knife and a large, two-pronged fork from a rack above the stove and plunges the fork deeply into the breast of the bird. Its juices spurt and run deliciously. The man slices a portion onto his mighty fork and turns, lifting the meat triumphantly above his mouth and nodding a kind of toast to the rest of the room.

      Just as he is about to devour the steaming morsel, the man spies the woman outside the window. His fork clatters to the stovetop, and with three long strides, he reaches the French doors, flings them open, and grasping her with both hands, hauls her into the room.

      “Cara!  Come in!” he booms. “Lily. Persis. She’s here!”

      Persis, the tall, younger woman, moves quickly around the table, her arms outstretched. She and Cara embrace warmly. 

      “Leo said your train was late,” says Persis. “Why didn’t you call?”

      “Thought I’d walk.” Cara nods at the thin woman seated at the table. “Hello, Lily.” Lily, her mouth full of cracker, smiles and gestures toward the nearest chair.

      Encircling Cara with one arm, Leo wrenches away her coat, muffler, and gloves, casting them onto a pile of similar articles in a large basket in the corner. He pushes Cara into the chair. “Sit!  You look tired.”

      Lily leans across the table and hugs Cara. The two women press their cheeks together, Lily’s pale and smooth, Cara’s plump and flushed. Cara pulls her knitted cap off and runs a hand through flattened hair.

      “I am a little winded. It’s a steeper climb from the station than I remembered. Quite a trek for an old lady.”

      “Nonsense! You’re not old.”

      “You just say that because we’re the same age, Leo.” 

      “Stop it. Fifty-seven is not old. You’re just tired. You haven’t been well. Have something to eat. Here, Lily, share some of that artichoke concoction.” 

      Lily pushes a plate and the carton of crackers across the table. She covers a cracker and hands it to Cara. “Try it,” she urges. “It’s got artichoke hearts and Parmesan cheese in it. Persis just took it out of the oven.” She smiles at Persis, who turns to a bottle-cluttered sideboard and fills a small glass.

      “Have some Tuaca,” Persis says, proffering the glass. “Just a swallow. S’powerful if you’re not used to it.” Cara sniffs the amber liquid, then swallows  and splutters. Persis laughs, and Leo pats Cara’s back. 

      “Go easy, Darling. It’s strong stuff.”

      Cara wipes away the tears that well in her eyes. “That’s an understatement. What is this?”

      “Leo brought it back from Mexico,” says Persis. She hands Cara a linen napkin. “Whole case of it. It’s about all we drank when we were down there last summer.” Persis smiles at Leo over Cara’s head, and Leo throws his head up and makes a kissing motion.

      Lily waves at the plate of crackers. “Better have another of those, Cara. Soak up the alcohol. Otherwise, you’ll find yourself lying on the floor under the table, wondering what happened.” All three women laugh.

      “And you don’t want to miss this dinner,” says Leo, turning back to the stove and the glistening turkey. “We’ve been working on it all week.” Again, he slices and stabs meat onto the large fork.

The young man has been watching the reunion of the four adults from his station by the stove. Now he shyly approaches the table and places platters of fresh fruit and vegetables at its opposite ends. “Dad and Persis made pies from their own pumpkins,” he explains to Cara. The others join in. 

      “Had to smash it twice through the sieve.”

      “Stayed up all one night, stirring it.”

      “Pumpkin’s been cooking for three days.”

      “Ground the spices with the pestle and mortar Leo made.”

      “Enough for eight pies!”

      Cara laughs and throws her hands up, as if to surrender. “I’m impressed!” She smiles at the young man. “S’good to see you again, Edward.”

      “Good to see you, Cara. I didn’t know if you remembered me.”

      “You were only about nine when I last saw you. Not a little boy anymore, are you?” 

      “I’ll be sixteen next week,” Edward says, blushing. He returns his attention to the kettles on the iron stove.

      “He’s grown up nicely.”

      “Thanks,” says Lily, selecting a slice of pineapple from the platter.   

      “Place has changed a lot since I was last here,” Cara says. “Not surprised, I guess.” She tosses her head in Leo’s direction. “He can’t leave it alone, can he?”

      “It’s the art project that never ends,” laughs Persis. 

“He moved the front doorway in August,” Lily says. “Heather’s really into Feng Shui stuff.  Spends all her time analyzing the layout and calculating the correct position of the rooms and furniture.”
      
Cara looks up. “Heather?”
      “She’s been here about a year,” says Lily, smearing another cracker with the artichoke spread. 

      “Is she--?”

      “Yes,” Lily says. She puts the whole cracker in her mouth, chews, and swallows. She starts to speak, and a flake of cracker falls from her lips to the table. Lily presses a fingertip on the flake and returns it to her mouth. “You know, Cara--” She breaks off as the four children clatter into the room, demanding to know when dinner will be ready.
      The three smaller children surround Leo, the little boys wrapping themselves around his legs and pulling on his arms. He detaches them gently. The toddler, a little girl with wispy, almost-white hair, mimics her brothers. She locks her hands behind her father’s knee and squats on his foot. Leo lifts the toddler a few inches off the floor, raising and lowering his leg. She squeals in mock terror and clings to his leg as he hops across the floor to the table where Persis sits. Persis stretches her arms out toward the child, and Leo lifts her into her mother’s lap. The little girl reaches one arm out to her mother, but retains her hold on Leo’s leg. He hops in place, laughing and gently shaking the toddler into Persis’s arms.

West Side Castle, Part I "Lewis & Clark"

Named for early explorers of the West (Lewis and Clark, of course, and others such as John Charles Fremont), the streets in Pocatello run up the steep foothills that border the town on its west side. These asphalt namesakes, so vigorous as they pass by the bank and the land title office and the public library, lose steam when they reach the hills. They turn listless and spindly, their energy trailing off into graveled driveways. Weighed down with heavy cement curbs and sidewalks, they stop abruptly against a fence or in someone’s front yard.  

      Late this cold Thanksgiving morning, the thickset figure of a woman toils slowly up one of these narrowing byways. She pauses at the end of each block, drops the three heavy knapsacks she carries, and tightens a woolen scarf around her neck. She pulls her knitted hat lower over her ears, tucking escaped tendrils of silvered hair away from her face. Swallowing large gulps of icy air, she again picks up her bags, readjusts them from shoulder to shoulder and hand to hand, then resumes the climb toward her destination: the last house on the street, set off to the left behind a low wall of crumbling stone. 

      When the woman finally reaches the end of the street, she pauses, panting, in a yard where scruffy grass shows between splotches of trodden snow. An ancient Chinese elm crowds the driveway, heaving cement up under the wheels of the battered truck parked there. The house is large and made larger by the addition of newer sections to the original structure. Chimneys sprout from bare circles in the thick frosting of snow on the roof, and icicles hang from the many corners and cornices. The front door sits at a slightly skewed angle, as if the Feng Shui advisor knew that the house had been built on the back of the dragon and had tried to make amends.

The woman drops her bags by the front door and walks gingerly around the side of the house on a snow-shoveled path. She glances at each frosted window as she passes. No two window casements are the same: here, one is angular and modernly tailored; there, one is beveled and set in an ornately-carved frame. The first window is crowded with glass bottles that glint greenly or with rainbow hues.  The second opens onto a double pane of stained glass lilies.  The woman pauses before the third window and peers at the overgrown foliage of an enclosed greenhouse filled with ferns.

      The path ends in stone steps that climb over a berm and down into a sunken garden behind the house. Brushing the snow from the steps with a gloved hand, the woman sees that each stone offers a single word carved in heraldic letters:

JOURNEY

EPIPHANY

VISION 

The woman mounts warily. To step is to commit, she thinks. 

      On the west side of the garden, the foothills rise abruptly. A heart-crested arch woven of willow branches frames a narrow path that climbs the hill, winding around clumps of sagebrush, heavy with frost, and clutches of tall, dry grass. A low shed of pale sandstone blocks is set into the hill on one side of the path. A litter of pottery in various stages of completion lines the sill of the shed’s single window.  Next to the shed is a kiln pasted together with bricks of several colors and textures.               

Another branch of the path curves back toward the house, where mist rises from a deep, rock-rimmed pool set into a wooden deck and guarded by stone gargoyles whose fantastic expressions are ready to alternately menace and delight bathers. The odors of sage and cinnamon lure the woman across the deck to a pair of French doors. Peering through their rectangular panes, she sees that a feast is being laid inside. Three oak tables on sturdy legs and pedestals have been pushed together to form one long board. Delicate lace tablecloths drape and sway across this banquet table, anchored with stoneware basins and gleaming cutlery. Chairs and short benches are crowded around the table.  Like the windows, each chair is different from its neighbor; each is carved or painted or cushioned uniquely. Beyond the table, human figures skate and scurry, moving plates and ladles and wineglasses from cupboard to counter to sideboard.  Four children--two young boys, a long-legged girl with hair the color of newly-ripened wheat, a cherubic toddler--dart amongst the working adults. 

      A slender, middle-aged woman sits at one end of the table on a padded window seat. Her dark, thinning hair hangs forward from her sloping body, shadowing her face. Her fingers and wrists are burdened with heavy silver rings and bracelets that are sculpted lavishly with Celtic designs. With avid fingers, the woman plucks a cracker from a carton, spreads a cheesy, greenish mixture onto it, and then, sweeping her hair over her shoulder, she places the cracker carefully in her mouth. She chews and pauses, chews again and nods to a tall, younger woman standing at her side. The younger woman, whose darker-wheat hair declares her the mother of the leggy girl, smiles and scoops the rest of the greenish mixture onto the plate.

      By pressing a cheek against the cold glass of the French door, the woman outside can see, at the far end of the dining room, a massive cast-iron stove with porcelain fittings. It stands, like some ancient pagan altar, on a raised tile platform. A young acolyte hefts a covered kettle from one burner of the stove to another, dexterously switching hands and rearranging a steaming teapot and a metal dishpan full of potatoes. Taking up a sinuously-pronged utensil, he pounds and thrashes the vegetables into foam, pausing only to add generous dollops of cream and salted butter. Steam rises from the frothing pan and clouds the pane of glass through which the woman looks.