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“Shouldn’t you bring a gun with you?” How is he so chill about the possibility of a roaming bear, especially after what happened with his brother?
He throws a thumb at the barn where Muriel continues to berate Roy for being stubborn, and he continues to deny his need for any help, despite him lying on the cold ground with God only knows how many broken bones and, possibly, internal bleeding. “You think any animal is crazy enough to come around with that goin’ on?”
I shake my head as I climb the steps that lead to Roy’s front porch. Oscar slinks behind me, keeping five feet away at all times. With unease, I step inside.
I never put much thought into what the inside of Roy’s cabin might look like. It’s plainly designed as I would expect of a man who lives alone in the woods—the kitchen on the right, the living room off to the left, two doors at the back, which lead to what I’m guessing are his bedroom and a bathroom. If he has a bathroom. There is little in the way of furniture—an old green-and-yellow woven chair that I would bet was rescued from the dump or the side of the road sits next to the woodstove, a small rectangular table for two, but with only one chair, and a gun rack on the wall that holds three guns. I’m sure they’re all loaded.
But, what surprises me are the three full walls of floor-to-ceiling, built-in bookcases—all measured and cut and trimmed to perfection. They’re the kind of high-end built-ins I’ve been dreaming about for beneath the stairs at our house. The kind that cost triple what I want to pay.
Roy must have made these.
Just as he likely made the countless wooden figurines that fill them. Deer, bears, wolves, fish, pigs, whales … My amazed eyes graze the shelves, struggling with where to focus. There are people, too. Intricately carved pirates and gnomes, old men with canes, pregnant women cradling their bellies, children running. There’s an entire shelf dedicated to a little girl with pigtails—laughing, skipping, sleeping. One has her arms wrapped around the neck of a dog—or maybe a wolf—that’s twice her size. There are wooden bowls, wooden spoons with long, narrow decorative handles …
My mouth hangs open in amazement. There are hundreds of them. Maybe thousands, and the detail in each is astonishing. Some have even been touched by a paintbrush.
That miserable old man out there is an artist.
In fact, every detail in this cabin that involves wood seems immaculate. The trim that frames the windows is cut with precision, the wide-plank floorboards are evenly stained, the kitchen shelves that hold dishes for one and several weeks’ worth of canned goods look sturdy and secure, mounted to the wall. There are no sloppy, uneven cuts anywhere in here.
“She’s not doing anythin’ to your damn stuff!” Muriel’s scolding voice carries through an open window, reminding me that I have a purpose here and I’m invading Roy’s private space against his wishes. I grab the navy wool blanket that sits folded on the armchair, and then head for the door.
A framed picture sitting atop an old trunk beneath the window stops me in my tracks. It’s a studio portrait of a man in a cowboy hat with his arm draped over a pretty blonde woman’s shoulders. A child sits between them. A doll-like girl of two or three years old, with cherub cheeks and expressive blue eyes. She’s been dressed much like a doll, too, in a blue gingham dress, frilly socks, and white Mary Janes, her sable-brown locks secured by a matching blue ribbon. In her chubby grip is a wooden animal like the ones on these shelves.
It’s a moment before I realize the man in the picture is Roy.
He’s much younger—his face clean-shaven and marred by only a few wrinkles—and a few pounds lighter, but what’s the most jarring is the crooked grin he’s wearing.
There’s no indication of when it was taken, but it has a department store $9.99 sitting fee vibe to it—textured gray background, poor lighting, stiff posing. Roy is in an outfit much like the one he wore to the Ale House—a button-down shirt, jeans, and his broad cowboy hat. He’s also wearing a red-white-and-blue tie with a star on it that reminds me of the logo for a restaurant chain back home called the Lone Star. Based on the woman’s feathered hair and acid-washed jeans, I’m guessing this was taken some time in the ’80s, maybe early ’90s.
This must be Roy’s wife.
But I don’t remember Toby ever mentioning a daughter.
I glance around. It’s the only picture in the cabin from what I can see. That he has it on display decades later, and sitting within view of his chair, says these people must be important to him—and that he probably hasn’t seen them in a long time.
What happened to them?
“You find the blanket on the chair, Calla?” Muriel’s holler pulls me from my snooping.
I rush outside and to the barn to find her still looming over Roy, a stern scowl furrowing her brow. “You don’t even know what all needs to be fixed inside you yet. You could be in the hospital for weeks! And how are you gonna milk those goats with one arm, huh? Or fire your gun if you need to?” I wonder if it even fazes her that she’s scolding a man as he lies on the ground, injured.
“Carefully,” Roy grumbles.
“Yeah, I can see it now.” Muriel snorts. “You’re liable to shoot yourself in the foot while you’re at it.”
“It’d be less painful than this conversation.”
“You don’t want my help? That’s fine.” She throws her hands up in the air, stepping out of the way to make room for me to stretch the blanket over him. “I wasn’t gonna offer, anyway. I don’t have time for your chores. Got enough of my own. But don’t be an idiot. You got all these chickens and goats and those wild dogs of yours that need carin’ for.” She pauses a beat. “Calla, here, will come and help you until you’re back on your feet.”
My head snaps back and I shoot her a wide-eyed “what the hell?” glare.
She smiles encouragingly. “She’s a good girl. Smart, and a hard worker.”
“I have no idea how to milk a goat,” I stammer, broadsided by this sudden turn of events.
“You didn’t know how to garden either, did ya? You two will be good for each other. You have stuff in common.”
Roy and I have literally nothing in common, I want to scream, but I can’t seem to find my tongue.
