Before the Mellowing Year, Book Two, Part I

By Jeffrey Anderson

After hard life lessons learned in Boston, Zach Sandstrom is granted a second chance in central North Carolina. Best of all, he discovers not one but two new loves there. But will he be able to keep these opportunities in balance? How will he adjust to this unfamiliar territory and its demands?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeffrey Anderson
• Release date: Apr 12, 2018
• ISBN: 9781370497188

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Before the Mellowing Year

Book Two, Part I

by

Jeffrey Anderson

Copyright 2018 by Jeffrey Anderson

Smashwords Edition

This story is a work of fiction.

Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Smashwords Edition, License Notes

Though this e-book is being distributed for free, it remains the copyrighted property of the author and may not be reprinted or reproduced without the permission of the author. If you like this book, please encourage your friends to download a copy at Smashwords.

Begin then, Sisters of the sacred well,

That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,

Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.

Lycidas, vv. 15 – 17

John Milton

Before the Mellowing Year

Book Two, Part I

North Carolina

Zach and Allison walked side-by-side on the pine-straw path up the gentle slope toward the contemporary house—a brick split-level with a low-pitched roof, long overhangs and lots of glass—nestled into a wooded hillside and overlooking a farm pond to the east. Zach noted all these details without consciously thinking about them as the late-day sun hovered behind the dense greenery to their right, shooting the occasional shafts of light onto their profiles, shoulders, feet, leaving marks like thumbprints before retreating, returning. He pictured in his mind that same sun rising sleepy over that pond, wisps of morning fog pulled across it like the lingering veils of the bygone night till the sun rediscovered its power and certitude, shrugged aside those veils to fall full-weight on the pond, the hillside, the house, the waiting breathless fecund countryside.

They’d arrived in Shefford along with their cats under that same sun late the day before and set up temporary residence at the Goodrest Motel, a nearby mom-and-pop establishment where mom was Sally Deerfield, a round-faced, round-bodied friendly soul who’d already told Zach her whole life story twice, all the way from the soft spot on the top of her head she was born with and had never hardened (she peeled aside her brassy blond beauty-parlor hair to show him the dimple) to the bunions on her feet that forced her to wear the soft-sided canvas slippers; and pop was Bill Deerfield, a quiet but efficient man with an ever present grin and watchful eyes.

They’d spent most of this day—their first full one in North Carolina, first anywhere south of the Mason-Dixon Line—familiarizing themselves with Avery’s campus—collecting maps and brochures for them both, course catalogues for Zach, employment listings for Allison; setting up interviews for tomorrow (with the English Department Chair for Zach, for a clerical job in the Bursar’s Office for Allison), and walking around the beautiful campus with its Gothic-style stone buildings and grassy quads peppered with massive oaks offering welcome shade from the very hot June sun.

And now, exactly at six-thirty, they were walking up to Barton Cosgrove’s house located about five miles outside of town in a rolling mix of open fields and dense woods, set to meet the famous author for the first time over drinks and dinner. Zach had contemplated this meeting for well over a year, since stumbling on Cosgrove’s work while reading along the banks of the Charles River and following a convoluted path and unlikely sequence of chances both grasped and missed to end up here—enrolled at Avery to study writing with Cosgrove starting in the fall. In that year-plus, he’d generally avoided thinking about such a potential meeting for very long because if he did think too long on it his breath grew short and his hands started to shake.

But tonight, in whatever God or Fate bequeathed composure, Zach felt completely at ease, though in that calm his senses were in full employ, taking in every sight and sensation and nuance since rising from the motel bed after a brief nap and showering and dressing for their meeting. Though told by Cosgrove they should dress casually, Zach had on a long-sleeved white Oxford-cloth dress shirt and gray wool slacks with black dress shoes, and Allison had on a raspberry-colored knit dress he’d bought her in Boston. Both their outfits were a little warm for the day’s temperatures, but neither had lightweight dress clothes as part of their limited wardrobes. In New England, such clothes were rarely needed and seemed a wasteful extravagance.

They mounted the brick steps to the broad entry landing. Zach glanced for a second at Allison, gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. She gave him a thin, anxious grin in return. He took a deep breath and grabbed the brass knocker to give it two sharp raps. The noise echoed past them and out into the still evening.

Almost immediately (had he been waiting there? for how long?) Cosgrove opened the solid door and looked out at them from the shadow with a warm and playful smile. He looked like the pictures on the dust jackets though less stern and forbidding. You must be Zachary, he said in a deep and resonant voice.

In the flesh, Zach said.

At long last, Cosgrove responded and extended his hand. Welcome.

Zach took that hand, smallish and soft, and returned the firm grip. Thank you, he said simply, not sure if those two words came anywhere near conveying all he felt at that moment but powerless to say more.

Cosgrove nodded, retrieved his hand, and turned to Allison. And you must be Allison.

Allison nodded and shook his hand. Pleased to meet you, sir, she said.

Likewise, he said then stood aside and gestured for them to come in.

The living room—with its cathedral ceiling and dark-stained beams, its blond wood paneling on one side and wall of windows looking out onto a mossy backyard and more woods on the other, paintings and artistic photographs covering every inch of wall space, sculpture and artifacts covering the coffee tables and shelves and window sills, a large fur rug in the middle of the wall-to-wall taupe carpet—was quite unlike anything Zach had ever seen: intimate and personal yet somehow intimidating, like a museum or a sanctuary.

Cosgrove took their drink orders—white wine for Allison, bourbon on the rocks for Zach (A man after my own heart, Cosgrove intoned)—and disappeared into the adjacent kitchen. Zach, relaxed but with his senses still more heightened (if that were possible) looked to Allison standing a foot away. She gave him a little shrug followed by a tentative nod—so far, so good. Zach nodded a silent agreement then promptly looked away, resuming his unprecedented voracious consumption of all the moment had to offer.

Cosgrove returned with their drinks and they sat together on a short-backed loveseat upholstered in gold crushed velvet. He sat in a matching armchair that backed onto the wall of windows, the broad woods beyond.

Cosgrove raised his glass from out of that backdrop. To Zach and Allison on their first day in Shefford.

Zach and Allison raised their glasses. All three leaned forward in their seats, clinked their glasses as one in the dim air over the coffee table.

Cosgrove settled back into his seat after a full sip of his bourbon. And with best wishes for many more to follow, he added in that deep voice that made it sound more like a promise than a wish.

Zach took another slow glance around the room then leaned forward in his seat. Professor Cosgrove—

Cosgrove halted him with a quick thrust forward of his free hand. Out here or anywhere else except on campus, I’m Barton. On campus, I’m Professor Cosgrove or Dr. Cosgrove or Mr. Cosgrove; and you’ll be Mr. Sandstrom. It’s a valuable formality I learned at Oxford and maintain here, against considerable resistance, of course.

Zach nodded acceptance. It may take me a little while to learn the habit.

It’ll come naturally soon enough.

Allison said, What about me?

Barton smiled. Why, you can be Mrs. Sandstrom long as you like.

How about Allison?

Barton nodded. Done.

Zach completed his stored compliment. Barton, you have a beautiful and distinctive home.

He nodded thanks.

And thus they were off and running—sprinting already—toward friendship.

The balance of the evening passed in a relaxed and comfortable mix of casual conversation, jokes (a couple of Barton’s more than a little off-color) and laughter, and surprisingly unguarded allusions to future involvements and interactions (these between Zach and Barton, with references to shared endeavors beyond the academic mentorship—yard work and household repairs and even an exercise plan to help Barton get his middle-age donut of a waistline back inside, rather than over, his belt). Following a half-hour of conversation in the living room, Barton collected their empty glasses, invited them to take advantage of the available bathroom, then led them toward the front door for the trip to the restaurant. On the way there, he paused to tinker with something in the hall closet (and surely not to retrieve a jacket on the warm evening). When Zach asked him about this, he said he was arming the alarm system he’d had installed following recent break-ins. It was the first residential alarm system Zach had ever seen and noteworthy for both its extravagance (reinforcing that his new friend was clearly well-to-do) and its necessity (why should a house in the country be so vulnerable to theft?).

They rode in Barton’s Mercedes sedan (interestingly, after his stint parking high-dollar cars in Boston, the ride in this car impressed Zach less than the alarm system had) to the county seat of Axton, a sleepy colonial village ten miles to the west, driving through farm fields and woods that were surprisingly similar to those of Zach’s Connecticut childhood, especially the dairy farm that Barton called Happy Valley with its picturesque barns and a silo and Jersey milk-cows milling idly in a pasture in the golden setting sun. Allison sat in the back so Zach could have the roomier front seat to stretch out his long legs. Both Barton and Zach made efforts to include her in the conversation despite this separation—frequently glancing over their shoulders and asking her questions—but they also couldn’t help losing track of her as they delved with animation into this observation or query. Thus, not thirty minutes into their acquaintance, Allison was already relegated to the role of observer in this threesome, a separation that only deepened in the weeks and months to come, despite conscious efforts—like those comments over the shoulder—to minimize the exclusion.

They ate dinner at the Cornwallis Tavern, an ancient inn and restaurant that supposedly housed General Cornwallis himself either before or during (depending on who was telling the story) the Revolution. The fare included fried chicken, mashed potatoes, squash casserole, green beans simmered with fat back, creamed corn simmered with fat back, collards simmered with fat back, and lots of fresh-baked biscuits and rolls, all served family-style in large bowls refilled as needed. Dessert was delicious warm cobbler—apple or peach—topped with ice cream. The owner, Edward Hollins—a tall and slightly stooped old man with an animated jowly face and a shock of bottle-blackened hair and dressed in a blue-striped seersucker suit despite the warm day—stopped by their table several times in the course of the evening to share corny jokes with Barton and a wink and a smile with these newest guests. And their waitresses, twin sisters identically dressed in colonial-style full skirts and frilly blouses, also freely exchanged stories and jokes with their affable host. It didn’t take Zach’s heightened powers of observation to see how open and spontaneous and friendly the social world of the south—at least this part of it—was, and how dramatically different from New England’s icy stoicism, silent judgment, and implied threat. Zach decided on the spot (didn’t take much convincing) that he far preferred this world to the one he’d just left permanently (he was certain, that quick) behind.

They returned to Barton’s house along the same now darkened country roads, passing on the way a former gas station advertising All Girl Staff in red neon just as a T-shirted trucker was exiting the painted-over glass entrance. When Zach asked rhetorically Wonder what he was doing in there? Barton replied, Why, he’s come and gone—as it turns out, a comment on not only the trucker’s hand relief release (Barton’s phrase allegedly gleaned from the District Attorney as to what forms of contact were allowed in these establishments) but also the last vestige of formality or decorum. Whatever the future held for their nascent friendship, it would be discovered and built outside the bounds of politeness and reserve—that is, built on a southern foundation (that included massage parlors as well venerable old inns with seersucker bedecked proprietors).

Back at Barton’s, they shared a nightcap—Zach had more of the bourbon only without the ice, Allison had a sip of Bailey’s chocolate liqueur, and Barton had cognac in a green-tinted brandy snifter—and more stories and jokes. Just before parting, Barton grabbed a copy of his latest book—a collection of translations from the Bible—and inscribed it as follows:

for Zach and Allison—

on their first day in Shefford

with warm and strong

good hopes for many more

from

Barton Cosgrove

17 June 1979

And with handshakes and smiles and numerous expressions of thanks—surprisingly, in both directions—the occasion of their first meeting ended and Zach and Allison headed back to the motel room and a good night’s sleep.

2

They finished their interviews in the early afternoon of another clear and somewhat cooler day. Rather than returning to the motel (that had already grown somewhat claustrophobic), Zach suggested they take a ride in the countryside, try to get a better feel for their new home.

Allison said, Sure—which direction? They had maps of campus but no road maps for Shefford or surrounding communities.

We’ll just pick one and give it a try.

That proved to be a risky strategy. The first road they took passed modest residences for about a mile before suddenly dropping them in the middle of a sprawl of low-income housing projects, complete with boarded up windows, thick iron bars across storefronts, and loitering ne’er-do-wells on street corners. This was an unsettling level of inner-city poverty to rival the worst of Boston’s Roxbury slums—and here just a couple miles from Avery’s Ivory Towers! Zach did a quick U-turn (hoping not to rouse the ire of one of those resident watchdogs) and high-tailed it back to their starting point at the gates of Avery to try again.

Their second attempt, though less dangerous and troubling, was no more successful—a promising windy and deserted road through thick pine woods deposited them at the dead end of a sewage-treatment facility, complete with large pools of fetid sludge and the accompanying piquant odor. Allison laughed. Zach shook his head as he backed the truck into a gravel turnaround.

We’ll head out toward Barton’s house, Zach said as they retraced their tracks, leaving the facility and its lingering odor behind. We know there’s pretty country out there.

Allison nodded agreement, still chuckling at Zach’s bad luck and annoyance—what did he expect, just striking out with no idea where he was going?

The well-paved and well-marked road to Barton’s already seemed welcoming in its familiarity though they’d only driven it twice, and one of those times in the dark. Zach understood that this easy familiarity derived not from the road or the terrain but from the person, and the personality, of the one who lived on it—Barton had a way of making one feel not just welcomed but needed, important. Though at some level Zach suspected this attention was innate in Barton, and extended to all those he met; at a much more urgent and active level, Zach wanted to believe it was the product of a special connection between him and Barton—the same connection Barton’s story in the anthology had exposed and tapped that day along the Charles River. At this moment in his life, Zach needed desperately to be needed, to matter to someone in a critical and singular manner. He was bold enough, and reckless enough, to hope that Barton might be that someone.

The road was deserted until they passed a state highway patrol car coming from the other direction. Zach slowed down, not sure what the speed limit was out here, or if he was above or below it, and not wishing to rile the local law. Then they passed another police car, this one from the Shefford Police Department. A little ways farther, there was a county sheriff’s car waiting at a crossroads stop sign.

Allison sat up straight and looked to Zach. What’s up with all these cops?

Zach had already fed all his careful observations—multiple agencies, rural countryside, bright afternoon, no sirens or flashing lights—into his unfailing engine of deductive reasoning. Must be a policemen’s picnic at some area park or campground.

Allison nodded, reassured (and forgetting, for the moment, that Zach’s instincts had so recently led them first to a ghetto then to a cesspool).

This new calm lasted only a few seconds, till the highway patrol car with its lights flashing but its sirens off roared past them at perhaps eighty miles an hour, flying in the direction they were headed. Then another—Shefford Police—with its lights on swerved around them and disappeared around the next bend in the road. They were almost to Barton’s house by now and Zach had a sudden sinking feeling in his stomach—what if something had happened to Barton? where would he and his new and hope-filled future be then?

Driving very slowly, alert to the sudden appearance of patrol cars from any direction, his senses on edge for all sorts of reasons, Zach guided the truck around a sharp curve in the road and cruised slowly past Barton’s gravel drive that wound up toward his house sitting on the hill. Though it was barely visible through the thicket of honeysuckle and wild rose and blackberry vines entwined in low underbrush beneath the taller treetops, the house appeared quiet, the drive empty, the hillside calm. Zach breathed an audible sigh of relief and drove on down the road, hopeful that whatever disturbance had produced the flurry of law-enforcement was in their past, behind them on the road and in their lives.

It wasn’t. At the next crossroads, perhaps a mile farther on through mainly thick woods, they encountered a terrifying scene. There were many police cars—too many to count, though well over a dozen and perhaps twenty or more—from various jurisdictions parked at all sorts of askew angles in the road, along the shoulder, and in an adjacent field. Over that line of cars, Zach could see steam rising from what appeared to be a wreck near the stop sign of the intersection. Deputies and officers were unloading shotguns out of car trunks. Two pairs of tracking hounds were baying and dragging their handlers behind. A highway-patrol helicopter was just now descending out of the clear blue to land in the broom-straw field beside the road, directed by an officer on the ground wildly waving his arms.

In the midst of this chaos, no one noticed Zach and Allison and their truck stopped in the middle of the road—as if at a drive-in watching the latest shoot-em-up, only it was broad day and the action was unfolding in three dimensions not two.

What the hell? Zach muttered to no one.

Allison tugged at his shirt sleeve. We need to turn around and get out of here, she said firmly then added. Now!

Zach made a deliberate and oh-so-slow three-point turn in the road and drove back the way they’d come, leaving the frantic scene to play out in his rear-view mirror, then gone as the truck dipped into a shallow valley and curled around a bend in the road.

Again on the quiet and deserted road (had they really seen what they’d just seen? was it possible?), Zach speculated, Escaped convicts?

Allison was not of a mind to accept Zach’s deductions. I’m just glad we didn’t get caught in the middle.

Zach could only nod agreement.

Then they came up on Barton’s house, and saw the drive full of police cars with flashing lights and a stocky sheriff’s deputy standing at the entrance to the drive with a shotgun at the ready diagonally across his chest. Zach’s heart plummeted to the pit of his stomach and stayed there.

Zach remembered every minute of that afternoon in vivid detail for the rest of his life—except for the ride back to the motel. That trip was not even a blur but totally lost to memory. He’d guess he broke every speed limit (no cops left to arrest him), ran through stop signs, cut off or swerved around any delaying traffic; but he couldn’t say. Maybe Allison remembers.

What he next remembered was dialing Barton’s house number (he’d given it to Zach while they were still in Boston, in case their travel plans changed) on the rotary-dial phone in their room at the Goodrest Motel. Zach can still hear the two rings on the other end after the phone completed the connection—the longest rings in a life peppered with fraught phone calls.

Hello? Barton said on the other end of the line, his voice shaken but very definitely alive.

Barton, you’re alive!

Zach, thank God!

We were driving by your house—.

A break-in, the alarm summoned the sheriff, then a wreck and shootout down the road. His deep voice was frayed around the edges by emotion and shock.

But you’re O.K.?

There was a pause before Barton responded. When he spoke, his voice was calmer though still taut with fear. I was on campus collecting the mail and arrived home to find my house crawling with police. They’re still here. They say the suspects are at-large in the woods.

And your house?

"A mess. My pistol is missing. Don’t know what