“From different spots in the mountains. Animals scattered the bones.”
Kate and Martin tore the crates open. Bridle, kettle, box of fishhooks. Gunstock, old boot, bent spoon, the ground-down detritus of the trail. Everything smelled of mud and char. Had the trackers just scavenged dumps and ditches around Salem? Dishonest searchers were known to do that. Yet the things did seem to give off the trail’s menace. As Martin examined a mashed saddle, dirt flaked off and stained the parlor rug.
“Nothing is theirs.” Kate allowed her dread to give way to a measure of relief.
Martin sorted through the last crate and lifted out a banjo.
“That was in a ravine,” the lead tracker said. “I clambered down for it.”
The strings were broken and curled. When Martin turned it over, a design flashed up on the back of the fingerboard. Kate gasped. He passed it to her, and it felt light and cold. She ran her fingertips over the shiny white flowers. Mother-of-pearl.
“It’s his, isn’t it?” Martin said.
He paid the men, and they left. Dry-mouthed, Kate sat down and cradled the banjo, picking at the strings. She could almost feel James’s fingers on hers.
“Well, now we know,” Martin said.
“It can’t be the only one like it.”
Their son ran in and started to play with the relics. Martin shooed him out and tossed them back into the crates. Clunk, clunk.
“Maybe they threw things away to lighten the load,” she said. “We did that all the time, remember? Maybe they’re fine. They got where they were going, and . . .”
“Don’t, Kate. Let this be the end of it.”
“But . . .” She bent her head over the banjo and cried.
He grabbed it and broke it over his knee.
* * *
THE long-expected war disrupted the mail and put an end to emigration. She gave birth to a daughter and another son. As the children grew up, she told them about the trail’s hardships and beauty, but she was still trying to figure out the other stories, the ones in her heart.
Terror gnawed at her, even though it was years too late. At times, even with her new life unfurling before her, she was back at that fork in the trail, jumping off the wagon to run to Olivia. She would grow old with wondering, aching about the last time she saw her. No matter if she lived to be ninety, she would never get over it. How could she have let her go? There must have been something she could have done or said.
The trail ate a hole in her heart. She quit talking about it. She hated the trail and her younger self for not knowing how to hold on to the sister she loved so much.
The wagons had moved apart with surprising speed, churning up dust. The roads diverged and the gap stretched wide. Her feet pounded the earth. Olivia rode on the back of the Edmistons’ wagon with her legs dangling. Kate kept running, trying to close the distance.
Shades
WARREN SAW THE GIRL before she saw him. He was waiting in the parking lot of the barbecue place for his daddy and Aunt Tate, had been waiting a long time when the girl came out, balancing Styrofoam containers against her chest. He liked her red-and-gold T-shirt. She went to a white car and put the food on the passenger seat.
She closed the door, and then she saw him. She had a serious look about her, the way Warren felt much of the time, even when he played with his toys or his kittens. His daddy laughed a lot, to cover up his sadness, but he was serious when he sat down on the back porch, tired after mowing grass.
The girl came over.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
He poked at the grass with a stick.
“Nothing.” He tossed the stick away. “Waiting for Daddy and Aunt Tate.”
“You have different eyes.”
“I know. One’s blue and one’s brown.”
“Did you eat barbecue?”
“Yes, and I had some French fries. Why did you buy so much?” he said.
“It’s for my friends. They gave me money, and I picked it up.”
“You must have lots of friends.”
A strand of long black hair blew across the girl’s lips. She pushed it away. She reminded him of an Indian maiden in a book, but she wore sneakers, not moccasins. The girl in the book had birds flying around her.
“What’s your name?” she asked.
“Warren. It’s Daddy’s name, too.”
“I’m Natalie. Is your dad in the restaurant?”
“Yes,” he said, angry as he added, “I’m sick of waiting. Aunt Tate spilled stuff on her dress.”
“That sauce is messy.” Natalie’s beautiful face looked serious again. “How old are you?”
“Five.”
“Where’s your mother?”
“I don’t know. At her house, I guess.”
“She doesn’t live with you?”
“She used to.” It hurt to talk about his mama. When he saw her these days, it was only for a little while. She would take him places, maybe to the mall to look at puppies.
“Would you like to take a ride with me while you’re waiting?” Natalie said.
“Daddy’d get mad.”
“No, he won’t. You’ll be with me, and we’ll have fun.”
He looked toward the restaurant, but there was no sign of his daddy or Aunt Tate.
“Can I go tell them?”
“We’ll be back so soon.” Natalie held out her hand. “By then, your aunt’s dress will be clean.”
“Okay.” He followed her to the car.
She moved the food so he could sit up front. Out on the road, she went fast, passing a pickup truck. Red sauce had leaked from the containers onto the cloth seat.
“That looks like blood,” he said, and laughed.
“It’s okay. It’s not my car. Where do you live?”
“At 4920 Grace Road,” he said, the address coming back to him like a song. “The mailbox is a duck. If you have a letter for the mailman, you put its wing up.”
They passed a field he loved because it was full of horses. They went through a deep patch of forest where trees arched over the road like a tunnel, and they headed into town.
“Would you like to meet my friends?” she said.
“Okay.”
They reached an area Warren recognized. He saw a restaurant with a neon sign he liked, which was lit up even in the daytime—a giant red bug.
“That’s a lobster,” Natalie said.
“What’s a lobster?”
“It’s summertime,” she said, “summer in Maine when you’re feeling free and rich.”
The street narrowed as they reached the old part of town. Aunt Tate always said about the red brick buildings: There’s the college. Natalie parked behind a house. Crumbling pink crape myrtle blossoms drifted down on the windshield.
“We’re home,” she said. “Toot the horn.” He reached over