C Weaver - Silent River

When Robert arrived at Barbara’s apartment, he handed Barbara the flowers he’d purchased from the florist on his way home. She buried her nose in their aromatic essence, then lifted her face and smiled. He stepped past her into the entry.

“Thank you for the beautiful flowers. This early in the spring, these daisies are beautiful. Come, I made steak with potatoes.” She took his hand and led him to the kitchen. “My mother would have a fit. First, for having a man in my apartment, then for letting him in the kitchen while I finish dinner. My father always sits in the living room and reads the paper until she cooks dinner and sets it on the table.” She pointed to a chair next to a gray, Formica-topped, aluminum table. “I, on the other hand, think a man should be in the kitchen. All great chefs are men, so why not you? Do you cook?”

Robert smiled. Barbara could talk the paint off the wall, but he liked her free-and-easy manner. “A little. I cook a mean garlic chicken and potatoes. I like a good grilled steak and baked potato. I don’t make haute cuisine meals.” He sat in the chair and crossed his leg over his knee.

She walked over, lightly tapped his cheek and handed him a cup of coffee. “The fact you can even put those two words in a meaningful sentence has me melting.” She bent over and took the roast from the oven. He couldn’t take his eyes off the way her skirt flowed around her bottom. He forced his gaze to the yellow curtains.

“There we are. Mmmm, does this smell good.” She gave a nervous laugh. After arranging the salad, potato, and vegetables, she sliced the meat. Robert helped carry the dishes to the dining room table.

She’d put his flowers in a cut glass vase, then set it in the middle of the tablecloth.

“Fancy doings,” he muttered.

Barbara stopped and looked at him. “Are you all right with this?” Her expression showed concern.

“Oh, yes. I wasn’t condemning, just observing. It’s been a while since I’ve had a homecooked meal, at least cooked by someone other than me.” He held her chair and seated her before sitting across the table from her.

She laid her hand across the cloth toward his, palm up. “Do you want to return thanks, or shall I?” She smiled.

He hadn’t said a prayer out loud since before Becca had passed.

“You’d better.” He put his hand on hers and curled his fingers. She spoke firmly and with a steady confidence. She said amen and he still held her hand.

“We’re going to need these if we want to eat,” she murmured.

He grinned. “Sure, I guess we do.” He let go and took the napkin from its holder and placed it across his lap.

“Do you attend church regularly?” Barbara handed him the salad bowl after taking a portion for herself.

He shook his head. “When we first married, Becca and I went to the church I went to as a child. When Becca became pregnant, she stopped going, claiming it was too long for her to sit.” He cut a piece of meat and took a bite. The flavors melded and burst on his tongue as he chewed. “Mmm. You did a bang-up job. This steak is so tender; it almost melts in my mouth.”

“I’m glad you like it. I have an upside-down pineapple cake for dessert.”

“I better leave some room. I could eat this and be happy.”

Barbara reached behind her to the buffet and picked up a newspaper. “Robert, I know we shouldn’t talk shop, but I just have to ask you about this.” She handed the folded paper to him.

He cringed. Why did people always fold the paper to reveal the worst pictures of him? “The Water Witcher,” he read the headline aloud.

“Yes, this reporter seemed to have missed the main event, but this rendition of the guy was far more entertaining than all the other reports. Come on, tell me what happened.”

He saw her eyes were alight with laughter and anticipation. He couldn’t disappoint her. He laid down his knife and wiped his mouth with the linen napkin before speaking.

“Okay, I picked up Ernst Milton from his hotel room that Tom and Maggie Borman rented for him. He’s from Brownsville and claimed to know where the Stevens family is. He’s in his sixties, with thin, gray hair that stuck out from a stained, battered cowboy hat. He’d tucked his plaid shirt into old overalls that had seen too many work days and not enough wash days. The crowd loved him on the spot, no matter how much of a nut he might be.”

Robert took a drink from the fancy water glass to wet his throat. Barbara leaned closer, hanging on to his every word. He wished they were sitting next to each other instead of across the table. He took a breath and continued.

“Mr. Milton walked to the middle of the Stevens’ yard and placed one of the girl’s socks, which he had been given by Maggie, on the end of a willow branch shaped in a Y. He grasped a fork in each hand and slowly began to turn in a circle. The rod dipped toward the house. Then he removed the sock and replaced it with another sock, until he had tried all five socks. He came to where we were standing and said, ‘I think it is safe to say that Mr. Stevens and the eldest daughter have been to the house. I’m not sure where they are now, but they’ve been here on the property recently. My stick don’t lie.’

“I told him I didn’t want to question his dramatic demonstration, but what evidence did he have for what he claimed. If they had been in the house recently, where were they now? Why hadn’t they called Tom and Maggie? Was there any indication they might have been brought here under duress?” I asked him.

“He replied, ‘That’s it! They must have been brought here under duress and not allowed to make any calls.’

“Mr. Milton nodded his head like a bobber with a fish nibbling at the bait. He got a little frustrated with my questions. He picked up his stick and said, ‘That is all I can give you.’ You saw the picture of him with his hands in the air like a prize fighter after a win. Flashbulbs popped as if he were the visiting president. I finally got him into the car, and we headed to his hotel.”

Barbara frowned and looked at the newspaper. “When did this happen?” She pointed farther down the article.

Robert laughed. “I felt sorry for the old geezer. He kept muttering that if he could get into the house, he felt sure he would be able to find the family. I finally agreed to take him back.”

“Is that when this reporter showed up?” Barbara interjected.

“Yes, when I pulled up and stopped at the end of the Stevens’ property, Ernst Milton jumped out and headed into the neighbor’s yard. I got out and was going to speak to him when this reporter stopped me and told me he was late for the show and asked if I had a comment he might be able to use. I pointed to the old guy and said, There he is.”

“‘Hey, mister!’ The reporter started to yell, but I stopped him. He is supposed to be able to divine things, wouldn’t he know if he was in the wrong yard? He’d just been there not more than forty-five minutes ago. I pointed to the Stevens’ house next door.”

Barbara laughed, slapping the table. Tears had gathered in her eyes. “Go on, tell it all. I read the story, but this is hilarious.”

Robert picked up the story. “A couple of minutes went by, and Mr. Milton came back to us and said, ‘I got a reading that leads to the house. I should go in and walk around.’ He eyed the young man’s camera and asked. ‘You a reporter?’

“The reporter replied, ‘Yep, I thought I would get a good story about where you think the Stevens family might be.’

“Ernst nodded and started walking back toward the yard he had just vacated. ‘Follow me, young man, we’ll find out where the family is.’

“‘Mr. Milton,’ I called to him, as he started back into the wrong yard. ‘I think that you should know—’ Before I could finish the sentence, the front door of the house opened, and a woman came out on the porch. She wore a flowered dress covered with a full striped apron, and her white hair was pulled back in a tight bun.