Season of the Wolf Pt. 01

I plod down the stairs and greet Han in a cool standoffish manner. I want him to get the hint that I want today to myself without having to be blunt about it. He is dressed for labor in his usual wardrobe of battered jeans, faded t-shirt, and worn work boots. I can smell the earthy scent of hay and horses on him and know he's already been to the barn this morning. I wonder what time he got home last night and how he managed to rouse himself out of bed so damn early. I decide against asking and swipe a piece of bacon off the platter cooling on the stove.

He asks me how I slept and hands me a mug of coffee. For some strange reason it touches me that he is so observant and knows exactly how I take my coffee. I mumble something and sit down to the breakfast he prepared for me. Halfway through I remind him that I can cook for myself. He simply shrugs and says he doesn't mind and that it's just as easy to fix breakfast for two instead of one.

I don't know how to take his reply and busy myself with clearing my plate. He takes the seat beside me and the two of us eat in silence. With a full stomach the bad mood I woke up in has subsided to a degree and I find myself enjoying Han's company. I don't want to get too used to it though. Much like myself. I don't know how long he is going to stick around either.

Casually, between clearing away the dishes he asks me what my plans are for today. My body is sore and achy and my ass decidedly a little worse for wear from all the horseback riding we did yesterday. Climbing back in the saddle is not on the top of my list. He seems relieved when I tell him I'm going to unpack my stuff and get settled in. Have a look around this old place and then maybe, go into town and visit the diner for supper this evening. He's a little dubious about my ability to find my way to the wide spot in the road that comprises the urban metropolis of this remote stretch of the middle of nowhere and offers to drive me.

I pin Han with a hard glare and remind him that I found my way here from California all by myself. I am a licensed driver and have the skills it takes to read a map. He snorts when I tell him that I don't need a babysitter and I'm sure I'll be able to find my way back to the house without his help. He is whistling a tune I don't recognize as he does the dishes and from his stance I can tell I'm not going to make my grand escape without him accompanying me.

I really want to find a payphone and call Christine before she goes ballistic. I'm not looking forward to what I'm sure will be a dramatic outburst. But, I need to hear a familiar voice. Han's voice is the only human voice I've heard for two days and the sound of it is becoming all too familiar. He is as overwhelming and consuming as this place and the land it sits on and I can't afford to get swept away. I'm here, in part, to find myself in the discovery of my past. But, I don't want to lose my concept of whom I was before I learned that I could have become somebody very different if one thing, just one single thing, hadn't happened the way it had.

I clamp my mouth shut before I ban him from the house completely. I'm upstairs and contemplating the corner of the room he used as a place to stash my boxes. It didn't occur to me that other people shared the house with my grandfather. I can't envision the man my father might have been. But, I see glimpses of him. Of his life and the life he shared with my mother, who is also just as remote and unobtainable, in the bedroom. I wander into the adjoining room. The room was set up as a nursery. The wallpaper is faded and peeling at the corners. There isn't a speck of dust to be found. But, the room has that closed in smell as if these doors haven't been opened in a very long time.

I run my fingers over the clothes neatly hung in the closet. It is obvious from the texture and the style of the clothing that these shirts and pants belonged to my parents. The contents of the closet would be a vintage clothing hunter's wet dream. I was born in 1991 and the style of the clothes has a definitive nineties flare.

Out of curiosity, I pull a dress from the rack and hold it to my shoulders. I'm roughly the same size as my mother must have been. The dress isn't something I'd ever wear. The paisley print is too bold and the high neckline and long sleeves would drive me nuts. I fan the full skirt and stare at my reflection in the mirror over the vanity table and try to imagine what she would have looked like wearing the dress. I consider trying it on and quickly squash the idea. Gently, as if I've disturbed the ghosts from a distant past, I put the dress back where it came from and close the closet door tightly.

I poke through a dresser drawer and find it full of a man's belongings. This is just stuff, I remind myself. I slide the t-shirt over my head and lift the cotton fabric to my nose. The cloth smells of age and the wood of the drawer. It's soft against my skin. The sleeves hang low on my arms and the hem reaches the tops of my thighs. My father was a tall man with broad shoulders and a wide chest. I can tell that by the way the shirt sags on my frame. I quickly pull the thing over my head and neatly return it to the ranks of the other t-shirts in the drawer.

I've got three levels to explore and my own things to unpack. But, I can't seem to move on out of these two rooms. I like pretty things. Shiny things. Soft, sleek, and silky things and my mother's side of the dresser is full of them. I run my hands over a pale blue silk chemise and sigh from the absolute pleasure of it. I think my nose is playing tricks on me, but I can smell the sweetness of her scent on the lace trim of the neckline. The smell isn't perfume or from a sachet. This is her scent and it is light and fragrant as the first blooms of spring.

I have the contents of her jewelry box spread across the quilt on the bed and carefully inspect the pieces. Like me, she must have had an eye for delicate designs. Most of the earrings are filigree and dainty. I blow out a breath at the workmanship of the jewelry. This is quality and many of the baubles look as if they've been handed down from generation to generation.

The colors of the various stones inlaid in gold are dazzling. The blue of the sapphires is intense and rich. The rubies and emeralds are likewise, no less impressive. There are pearls and diamonds, aquamarines and onyx, and a few gemstones I can't begin to identify. Even the pieces that don't have as much value are exquisite and intricate in the carving of the silver and placement of moonstones and jasper and turquoise.

The total value of the contents of the jewelry box is something I can't begin to guess. I'm surprised the pieces were just there, sitting in a box on the dresser where they could be stolen so easily. The net worth of the box doesn't really matter to me. I'm more interested in the woman, or women, who wore them and handed them down from one generation to the next than any monetary gain. I make a mental note to catalogue the pieces and get them locked up someplace safe as soon as possible.

My father was a more practical man, I guess. I find not much in terms of frivolous things in his side of the dresser. Just a watch with the leather band cracked and well worn and the face chipped and a scratched gold band worn thin from wear. It's his wedding band. I don't know how I know that, but I do. I clutch the ring in my palm and try to imagine the day he married my mother. Were they happy? Were they wildly in love? I snatch up the watch and drop it, along with the ring, into the jewelry box for safekeeping.

The nursery is a bit simpler. Sitting by the window there's a rocking chair so old and battered with scratches and nicks that it has to be antique. The crib looks as if it has seen more than one generation of abuse. There's a stuffed toy lamb yellowed with time sitting on the top of a small dresser. I pick him up and clutch him to my chest. I'm suddenly filled with sadness as I run my hand over the neatly folded baby blankets and onsies stashed in the dresser.

I wonder at the life I might have had instead of the one I got. I collapse into the rocker and stroke the stuffed lamb's curly nap. I feel a sense of unfairness as if something of great value was stolen away from me and I realize it is that; the life I could have had; the family I should have had. I know my parents a little better than I did. I have some sense of the people they were. But, I truly don't know a thing.

The soft whisper of Han's boot steps against the wooden floorboards draws me out of my revere. I look up at him and feel a little foolish at being caught in such a moment of weakness. He quiets me with a soft, somewhat regretful smile. "Your grandfather didn't have the heart to get rid of anything," he says as means of an explanation for the contents of the rooms.

I nod. So far, perhaps this is the most honest answer he has offered me. I get up from the rocker and put the lamb back on the top of the dresser. I stop for one last stroke of my fingers down his stuffed body. "Do you think I was loved?"

Han closes the distance between us. Towering over me with the warmth of his chest radiating through my t-shirt and so very close. Instead of finding it intimidating, I find his presence a comfort. He says, in a very soft voice. "I know you were. You are. Everyday."

Chapter 16

I don't realize how much time has passed. I let Han talk me into a simple lunch of fresh tomatoes and cucumbers sliced in thin wedges, big juicy chunks of cool watermelon, and a light but spicy pasta salad. Instead of eating in the kitchen, we take our food outside on the back porch and fill the empty spaces in our conversation by watching the butterflies and bumblebees lazily float amongst the flowers in the garden.

Han is a little freer with information. He tells me about the town and the people in it. I'm right, most of the families that call the place home have been there for generations. We talk about the surrounding area and I voice my curiosity about the wolf preserve and my plans to visit there as soon as I have the chance.

He raises a brow in interest. All anyone has to do to get me talking is sway the conversation to anything remotely having to do with wolves. I'm ticking off facts and he listens politely to me prattle on an on about wolves. He is settled back in his lawn chair watching me with great amusement and a bit of a cocky smile on his face.

I smile shyly and let the conversation, which I've dominated, die. I make a hasty retreat to the kitchen to rinse my plate and excuse myself back to work. In the heat of the day the second story has grown warm and the attic is too intolerably stuffy to make a thorough investigation of. It's a hot, listless afternoon and the humidity drapes over everything like a wet blanket. The old house isn't air-conditioned and the fans in the windows offer little respite from the heat. I retreat to the coolest place I can think of and one I need to go through anyway. The basement.

I've never lived in a house with a basement and the thought of such a dim dank place gives me the creeps. But, maybe, I can find something useful down there. So, I suck it up and tromp down the rickety wooden stairs. The basement walls are red brick. There's a bit of light filtering through slits of windows up high on the walls. I didn't realize on Han's tour that the basement was actually divided up into a maze of rooms and ran the entire length of the house. It's dirty and dusty down here and sort of foreboding.

The far corner of the basement, tucked away behind a battered wooden door, is dedicated to a storm shelter. I don't know exactly what it's like to be caught in a tornado. But, the contents of this room are definitely designed to handle it. There are shelves with blankets wrapped in plastic. An axe rests casually on a great hook in the middle of the wall. There are provisions, bottled water and energy bars as well as a fairly well thought out stash of canned goods. Batteries and flashlights, a first aid kit, candles, an old radio and a variety of other necessary items are neatly arranged on the shelves along with the blankets. Whoever set this room up thought of everything. There's a narrow ladder leading up to a set of exterior doors. I don't like the idea that if I can get out, someone could get in. But, there must be a reason for it and I dismiss the thought as my L.A. paranoia, as Han jokingly calls it.

I try not to think about the spiders and mice that might be sharing the basement with me, close the door to the storm cellar, and continue my exploration. A mammoth of a furnace dominates the middle of the basement. It's a creepy looking thing and I give it the respect its due. One room of the basement is filled with choking black dust and small heaps of what I think might be coal. There's a shovel resting in the corner, but it looks as if nobody has touched this room in a long time. I see a chute leading up to the outside and wonder if coal was shoveled down the chute into the room and shoveled into the furnace. God, I hope I don't have to shovel coal in the middle of winter. But, then I remind myself that I might not be staying that long. And even if I do, I'm sure the furnace has been updated.

I was right. The basement is a cool respite from the heat of the day. I'm going to have to get used to being down here anyway. That is, if I ever plan to do laundry. The washer and dryer are amazingly new considering the oldness of everything else in the house. There are boxes neatly labeled and tucked away on rows of shelves. I stop to read the scrawling handwriting across the fronts of the boxes. Most of them are filled with things that won't offer the slightest bit of information about my family. Just to be certain, I wrestle a box down off the middle shelf and peek inside.

I paw through newspapers wrapped around dishes and glance at the date. The paper is thicker than a modern day newspaper and the print smudges on my fingertips. I realize I'm holding a piece of history in my hands and it's dated April 16, 1912. The dishes are fragile and elegant looking and I'm a bit terrified that I'll drop the plate and shatter it to bits. Gently I set it down and begin to read about the sinking of the Titanic.

Before I know it, I've got the entire box of dishes unpacked and dozens of newspapers pieced together. The newspapers are far too precious to use as packing material and I'll see if Han can help me find something to use instead. The daylight has grown dim outside and it's far too dim to keep up my reading. Gingerly, I tiptoe around the dishes I've strewn out across the floor and carry the stack of newspapers upstairs. The true purpose of snooping around in the basement is momentarily forgotten as I study my find in the evening light.

Han lets himself in through the backdoor and peeks over my shoulder. He grunts at my rumpled treasure and meanders over to the pantry. Returning with a stack of recent editions of the local paper, he drops them on the table and flips on the basement lights. He doesn't make a comment as he follows me down the stairs and helps repack the dishes. We prod on into the wee hours of the morning unpacking boxes and repacking them. But, I've got a stack of history ranging from 1899 through 1951 clutched in my arms for our trouble.

Han makes the comment that some years weren't as eventful as others and I might be disappointed. I doubt it. The boxes were filled with antique trinkets. Through family folklore, he was able to tell me bits and pieces about the people who owned them. He made a joke of it and said that maybe, in another hundred years or so, someone might be pawing through those same boxes and reading the newspapers we used for packing. I hadn't thought of that myself, but I guess, it's possible.

It's late, really late. I feel bad for keeping Han awake so long and that he'll have to get out of bed in a matter of hours to tend to the livestock. I'm yawning and can barely keep myself upright. But, I offer to stay up with him and wait until the sun rises to help him out. He politely thanks me before herding me up the stairs and ordering me to bed.

I'm dirty. I spare the energy for a soak in the tub before climbing in the bed. Tonight, I'm wearing my mother's pale blue silk chemise and somehow, it makes me feel closer to her. I think I over did it today or maybe, it's because I didn't slug down two cups of tea before bed. But, I have a hard time finding sleep and the sun is beginning to clear the horizon before I finally start to doze. My last thought before I fall asleep is that I forgot to call Christine and vow to do it today just as soon as I wake up.

Chapter 17

My dreams are crazy and all over the place. One minute I'm dreaming about the Titanic and the next I'm running the woods as a wolf. Han is there too, in my dreams. Watching over me as I sleep with those ever changing hazel eyes of his, kissing me, touching me, whispering things I can't quite make out into the shell of my ear.

I usually don't have erotic dreams. In fact, I don't think I've ever had one before. I like the dream and cling to it. I ignore the persistent knocking at my door and roll over, nuzzling down into the covers and Han's imagined arms around me. I have nothing in fact to base the fiction of my erotic dreams on. But, I like the dream and don't want to leave this sub-conscious world anytime soon.

The pounding at my door won't stop and my eyes pop open and squint against the sunlight streaming through the curtains. I roll over and focus my fuzzy vision on Han's face. He is standing in my open bedroom doorway and I wonder how long he has been there. "What time is it?" I groan. I must have tossed the covers off of me in my sleep. I'm a very active sleeper and my nightgown is twisted up around my thighs. I'm showing way too much skin for company, especially male company and the star of my erotic dreams. Hastily I move to cover myself and pull up the sheets. Han thrusts a cup of coffee in my hands and informs me I've slept until noon.

"Noon," I repeat in disbelief. He sits on the edge of the bed and nods with a grin. I don't like him in my personal space or perhaps I like it too much. Having him sitting on my bed given the recent topic of my dreams and his role in them is a little too uncomfortable for my taste. I nudge him with the ball of my foot to give him a hint, but he stubbornly refuses to move.

The day outside is sunny and hot. It'd be a great day to lounge around and do nothing. But, I've got too much to do to contemplate such a thing. Today, I have to unpack and I absolutely must get to town and call Christine. I've got the attic and the rest of the second floor to look through and I was hoping to find the time to start on my grandfather's desk drawers as well. If its already noon I'll never get everything done on my list.

Han informs me that it is going to storm today. I don't see how with the way the sun is shining through the curtains and I argue the point. He shrugs and says we'll have to wait and see which one of us is right.

He advises me not to wander too far from the house today and reminds me that it is possible to get struck with a bolt of lightening if I'm standing too close to a tree when it hits. I have to admit. There is a prickling energy in the air that I didn't notice when I first woke up. The birds outside my bedroom window are silent. Han says that's how he knows it's going to be a bad storm. The animals can sense a storm coming and no matter what the weatherman says or your human intellect tells you, it's best to listen to God's critters.

He gets up from the bed and moves to stand by the window. Framed in sunlight, he looks more like a shadowy vision from a dream than a man. He points to something and calls me over to the window to see it for myself. The nightgown is too sheer and I don't have a robe. I wrap up in the sheet and pad across the floor out of curiosity. He shows me how the leaves are turned upside down. Says it's a sure sign of bad weather. I want to drive to town today and tell him so. He doesn't think it's a good idea. Indiana storms are sudden and strike with the fury of Thor's anvil. He reminds me that there's nothing but miles of farmland and we're in tornado alley. I'll have to trust him on that since I really don't know.