Here So Far Away(79)

“You must miss Shaggy. And Francis. I’m so sorry.”

Rupert nodded, then gave me a sidelong look. “Never got used to you calling him that.”

How long had he known about Francis and me? Because he knew, didn’t he? Why else would he have hidden the book away?

I encouraged him. My god, I told him to go.

Still, I hoped there was another explanation. “Remember this?” I asked, taking Geography III out of my bag.

“Ah, an inheritance from the senior McAdams.”

“Francis left it for me. Sarah found it in your trunk.”

“Very good.”

Either he didn’t remember how it had ended up there or was an excellent poker player.

“It might be worth a lot of money.”

Mr. Humphreys wasn’t sure, but at least a few thousand dollars, he thought. He suggested I take it to someone he knew at Noel who could help authenticate it. Rupert looked only mildly surprised when I explained this to him. “The Constable had money to spare, as it turns out. Lot of money. Most of it was in trust. He hadn’t touched it yet, but it was there, part of his grandfather’s legacy. And last year he came into a large estate after his father died.”

“I’m sorry, but are you sure? This is a guy who darned his old socks.”

“Suppose that explains his wandering around. Easier to be a free spirit when you have a big ol’ net to catch you.”

I was stunned. Francis had made passing references to his family’s business and boarding school, and he’d never made it sound like they were that rich.

“Did he tell you all this?”

“Not all of it. I spoke to his mother at length. She is a piece of something.”

But why live out here? I thought. Why birth calves in the riverbed, if he didn’t have to work at all? I hadn’t realized I’d spoken the words aloud until Rupert replied: “I suppose some people need to make their own start.”

I wrapped the book in the cardigan that I’d been using for extra protection and returned it to my bag. “You know, no matter what this is worth, it’s still a shitty substitute for good-bye.”

“Men are cowards. We’d rather face a firing squad than a woman’s tears.” He chuckled. “A firing squad doesn’t talk you into things.”

“The problem with that is, now I don’t know what he wanted me to do with it.”

“Maybe nothing.”

“You mean hang on to it, like a memento.”

“Could be. Or could have been just a loaner. Or a what’s-it. When you don’t bring enough cash to the store so you leave something behind to show you’ll come back.”

“Collateral.”

Or a promissory note.

“You know, honey, he was not a fellow to make assumptions. He gave that to you, and it’s for you to decide what you want to do with it. I, for one, think some decisions are best made when you’re older. So, if you’re asking me, I say give it a minute. Something special like that, you could let it go and then change your mind. You think the lady in the poem from way back wasn’t wishing she’d kept that fish for supper?”

I was certain then that Rupert had hidden the package to try to keep us apart. He may have thought it would be better for me in the long run to believe that Francis had left without a final word. Or maybe he was trying to buy us time and sober second thought before we worked out what he’d done. I suddenly didn’t care. That he thought Francis could let me go and then change his mind meant Rupert believed that he had gotten into his car still loving me.

Rupert was crumbling cookie down his front. His eyes were filmy. He had on one brown shoe and one black shoe. I wasn’t sure he remembered what he’d done, and I couldn’t muster anything like anger. Sitting in the afternoon sun, listening to the water rush over the rocky riverbed, I was just so relieved there was one person I could talk to about Francis. Hearing him say “the Constable” made it feel, for a fleeting moment, like Francis was in the other room. I hadn’t talked to a soul who knew him, really knew him, since he died.

Rupert went to wipe his mouth with a handkerchief and wrapped my fingers around it instead.

“Alright?”

“Alright.” I dried my eyes. “Yes, alright. Do you want me to read some of those poems to you?”

“Crystal here is not such a great fan of poetry,” Rupert said. “But I don’t think she would complain if you whistled a little tune.”

I helped Rupert back to his room and tucked him into his yellow rocker with his favorite afghan. Just as I put my hand on the doorknob to leave, Wilfred chirped in his cage—a hot, indignant little chirp, followed by a cascade of swamp water raining noisily onto the newspaper below.

“I mean, at least he’s talking to me,” I said.

“Wilfred may be a dick,” Rupert said, “but by George, George, he’s a good listener.”

So was Rupert, and I hoped I would become one too, because, for me, love is a conversation, but you have to be able to hear the subtext.

I want you.

I need you.

I’m mad at you.

I misled you.

I love you.

I love you.

I’m letting go of you.

I’ll miss you.