River Dancing

By Samm E. Smith

A story of love, loss, and above all,
choice, River Dancing depicts the
tale of two women set upon lifes
journey, and their struggles with the paths
thrust before them. Showing proof that
ones will can orchestrate the avulsion of the
river.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 10, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453555651

Samm E. Smith

Born Samantha E. Smith in a small town in Southern Idaho in 1966, she has spent most of her adult life in the inland northwest. Mother to one son, life partner to one woman, River Dancing is Samm’s fi rst novel.

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Copyright © 2010 by Samm E. Smith.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2010911646

ISBN:   Hardcover   978-1-4535-5564-4

ISBN:   Softcover   978-1-4535-5563-7

ISBN:   Ebook   978-1-4535-5565-1

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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Contents

Prologue

Chapter One   Isabel

Chapter Two   The BBQ

Chapter Three   Josephine

Chapter Four   Stacey

PROLOGUE

ISABELLA LILLIAN MCGREGOR, a very pleasant thirty-six-year-old woman, had soft features and a slender build. Her hair was brown red, like the color of blood grass in the fall. She had deep-river green eyes, full lips that when parted allowed this very charming smile to fill a room. Her hands had the build of a pianist, long and slender, although she never played one. Her down-to-earth personality was intoxicating to most everyone she met.

Isabel fought hard against her Irish impulsiveness and something she called the human condition. Sometimes her bloodline took quite a bit of battering; her father had at one time told her that she was symbolic of a modern gladiator with the shield of patience in one hand and a mace of vigilance in the other. Isabel surreptitiously wanted for many things, impulsive things, things that could not fix her – only soothe her. Eventually Isabel would regain her sense of self-direction.

Isabel’s preference in partners took up many of the conversations at family functions. Without fail, you could hear a niece or a nephew exclaim, "Aunt Isabel is not a lesbian, Mummy, or her personal favorite, If Aunt Isabel is a lesbian, then I want to be one too." She hasn’t been to one of these functions in five years. Little did Isabel know she was only moments away from her father’s words folding themselves around her life once again.

CHAPTER ONE

Isabel

ISABEL WORKED A modest job as a mail carrier for an air freight company. She was friends with the pilot. He was teaching her how to fly and work on aircraft repairs in her spare time. Isabel was actually better at repairing the aircraft than flying at this time. She loved the smells of grease and gas, dirty metal tools, and the smell of her clothes when she got home. The smells were symbolically reminiscent of her father and their times together. Eventually Isabel hoped that she could deliver the post herself to remote areas and just fly for a living. The wild abandon of the atmosphere had become her new lover, her obsession, taunting her with its vast promises of life to the east and the field of pure potential cradled in the western horizon.

The package-conveyer belt in the back suddenly made a loud noise, loud enough to pull her out of her thoughts and toward the noise. She yelled back at the guys, Is everything all right back there? Isabel turned from the package window and focused her attention to the dust rising off in the distance outside the west window. She made a quick check of the wind flags; they were motionless, so it was no dust devil. By the time she turned her vision from the wind flags back to the dust cloud, she could make out that it was a person on a horse. She could hear the voices of her coworkers calling for her to help them carry boxes to the plane. But this was something in her two years at this post that she had never seen; she yelled back toward the room through the little window, What the hell do you suppose that’s all about? trying to get their attention to focus on the event that she was seeing so she wouldn’t have to help just yet. When she had turned back, she could see that the horse was light brown with a mane and tail of black, and the rider was a female with long dark or dirty hair under her hat. Her thighs were dark and strong, accented by her blue jean shorts and the horse’s red blanket beneath her.

The horse’s passenger barreled through the door barefoot, like she was late for something. Am I too late to mail this out today? Has the plane left yet? she breathed the words somewhat winded.

Isabel replied, No, you’re not too late.

But will it be postmarked with today’s date, the stranger inquired.

Ay, Isabel answered and added, would you like some water or something?

Sure but Tah-Duh, my horse, probably wants it more than me. If you have an empty pop bottle or something of the like and filled it with water, he’d be most grateful, or you could just fill it, and I’ll take it out to him in a moment, the stranger remarked as she patted some of the dust off her shirt and arms as she placed a package on the counter. Isabel noticed her long fingers and the balanced composition of her sun-darkened hands resting on the package. She noticed all the veins, dirty nails, and the tan line on the left ring finger, which made a curious impression on Isabel’s breathing. All this was said without the strange rider looking up from the package once. The stranger continued, Do I have time to fill out an insurance form and still have it postmarked today?

"Ay, here’s a pen and the form. You fill that out, and I’ll get Tah-Duh a drink," Isabel said helpfully.

The rider said, Thanks, motioning toward the fountain then pulling out her own pen. The rider patted the package with hope. Now Isabel was not in the habit of making remarks to customers about packages, but she was really looking for a way to start a conversation.

She clumsily blurted, Must be pretty important? nodding toward the package.

Yep, the rider said grinning.

Isabel could see that the stranger wasn’t much for words, so she went in the back where her coworkers were standing around, looking at Isabel with expressions of disbelief over her nervous behavior. She grabbed an old plastic bottle, gave the guys a look, and asked, What? shrugging her shoulders at them. The horse is thirsty. Isabel turned from the guys with awkwardness to her spin. She filled the bottle at the fountain and went out in the hot shade and laughed at herself standing there, not sure if she was suppose to pour the water into her hand or what, so she jokingly shook the bottle at the horse, and he snorted just a little and moved to turn toward her. He put his lips over the top of the bottle, held it with his teeth, and tipped it back like most people would to get that last bit of beer out of the bottom of the bottle. She took back the now-empty bottle from Tah-Duh, rubbed his nose, and remarked out loud to him, You’re a very smart horse and a thirsty one.

Isabel went back in and startled the rider when she spoke abruptly, Hey, that’s a really smart horse. He knew what to do with the bottle. I was clueless, throwing her hands in the air, amazed and puzzled.

The rider had finished her business and turned to walk out the door, stopping to say with a slight grin, Yeah, you should see my son’s horse. Now there’s a bright creature. Thanks for everything, the stranger said and finished walking out the door.

Isabel was following her out the door. She didn’t even take notice that she was moving, but something in that quiet woman’s voice drug her out the door like an invisible string, tugging at some sleeping part of her. Before Isabel could stop herself, she blurted out once more, How old is your boy?

As the rider prepared to mount, she said, Fourteen.

In a well-rehearsed tone, Wow, that’s a nice age. Isabel struggled internally, and before she could stop herself, she shared, My son would have been ten this year. The stranger stopped and turned, still looking at the ground then squinting toward the sky. Isabel stammered but spoke, He died five years ago, she said as undamagingly as she could. For the first time since the stranger’s bizarre entrance, she turned and looked Isabel in the eyes and said nothing that anyone could hear. Isabel looked at her lips; she swore that she was hearing a soft comforting sound coming from her face somewhere. Isabel then looked back into those worn brown eyes of sympathy. After a seemingly long sympathetic gaze, the stranger squinted slightly and slowly began to turn back to the horse. She grabbed the dark mane and with a powerful jump mounted and started the horse to walk a slow pace, almost like she wanted to say something, anything. But what does one say to that?

The quiet stranger turned the horse a little and looked back at Isabel and tipped her hat and darted off with a strangest noise, Hiyup. The word sounded like something between a hiya and a giddyap. Isabel’s hearing started to broaden back to its normal range, and she heard the fellows in the back prodding for her to help them finish so the pilot could get into the next post before it was too late. Isabel caught her breath and went back in.

Isabel noticed the stranger’s pen sitting there on the counter like a beacon of hope. She grabbed the pen and the package and jotted down the return address and got the package off on time, but not before she noticed the line that asked for contents on the form. The word pressed into the paper in red ink was Poetry.

The fellas in the back teased Isabel with her own words, "Yeah, what the hell was that all about? Isabel looked at them and at the dissipating dust, and shrugged her shoulders with her eyebrows set high on her face, expressing wow. The guys knew Isabel’s preference was women, but they had never seen her so obviously enamored. After the plane was finally loaded, all the men, like a barbershop quartet with sarcastic harmony, teasingly spoke, Jeez, I’m thirsty."

Isabel grabbed a shop rag off the counter and threw it at the fellas and said as she walked away, Very funny.

On her way home, Isabel thought briefly on whether or not she should take the pen straight away to the woman’s house or head home and try in the morning. Isabel thought of how she looked after a full day’s work and how she must smell of grease and warehouse dust. By the time Isabel’s thoughts had finished, she was already home, and then thought to herself, How did I get home? I don’t even remember the drive. What is wrong with me?

Isabel set the pen on her table like a dinner guest and ate her soup and sandwich, staring at it, smiling and shaking her head, wondering what she must have written with this device and to whom. Her eyes widened at the thought of what she was going to say to her this time. What if she’s too obvious? What if her impression of the stranger’s sexual orientation was wrong and the woman found her to be offensive? What if she comes back for the device before she gets a chance to take it to the return address on the box? What if the address on the box belongs to another person? Muttering to herself out loud, Yeah, I don’t look like a crazy stalker person. No, not at all.

Isabel couldn’t sleep. The noise from the street was minimal. The breeze coming through the window was humid, like there was an approaching storm, but the sky was clear. She tossed and turned fighting with her sheets, rearranging the pillows, punching down the lumps, and fluffing them up. It was too hot, too cold. Pacing and gazing out the window at the starlit sky, Isabel wondered what had taken such a hold of her: Was it the stranger or the quiet way she seemed to talk to Isabel? Was it the heat of the day reminding her that her body longed for another, and this woman just happen to walk through the door at the right moment with the right amount of sweat running down the sides of her face? She hadn’t been this interested in anyone for such a long time. After her son had died, all her relationships from Everett were like great friendships with benefits. They were nothing serious, just something to slow the pain, a way to pretend to live till she actually could live again without the guilt and the loss overwhelming her. And tonight, she felt life inside her swirling and swelling. She even felt like calling her mother but decided against it pretty quickly; still she hadn’t wanted to for five years. Isabel had fallen asleep somewhere in her thoughts because the dawn was here once again, but not nearly as sarcastic as the day before or the month before that. It felt fresh, which reminded her she needed to shower.

Isabel finished getting ready, wearing her best-smelling oil, her shorts, and matching top that revealed her cleavage, but not so much that it could be considered tacky or desperate. She held the scepter in her hands for a moment wondering what it could tell her about this stranger. She put the pen in her shirt pocket, patted it for comfort, grabbed her keys, and was off on an adventure, which had an element of fear that she could taste in the back of her throat; and she turned the car key with a breath that symbolized here I go.

The address was on an unmarked back road; she passed it twice before she saw the mailbox, which seemed intentionally covered with small smooth river stones and some moss. The driveway was beautiful and looked extremely long in the morning sun. Something compelled her to slow the car and take visual notes of all that her eyes could absorb in order for her figure out what the stranger probably wouldn’t say. The logged arch had Native American designs, a feather, one on each pole that stretched the length of the poles, and the word Standridge over the top. The arrangement at the bottom of each pole was a circle of orange yellow flowers that she knew to be calendula mixed with assorted colors of minisnap dragons. Her gaze stretched out to the field’s wild grasses with many shades of green highlighted by extremely tall blue stafflike flowers. They must have covered several acres of land intertwined with sunflowers to complete the floral quilt. She marveled at the sight before her, lingered in the efforts of it. She rechecked the address one more time to match the woman she saw with the information set before her. Isabel drove up the driveway very slowly, staring at the well-placed stones lining both sides of the drive. There was an orchard of apples up off to the left heavy with unharvested red-and-gold wealth and a well-maintained garden off to the right. Everything was tall and green; the corn stood out most with its hairy tops dancing in the morning light. With all that was laid out before her eyes, she thought, There is no way one person could manage all this. What if the tan line on the ring finger actually had another person attached to it? Well, Isabel figured if she hadn’t been too transparent and if there is someone else, then she was just being a watchful employee who noticed how important this item was to the customer.

The house was actually a large porch that just happened to have a house attached to it. The porch was detailed with wood rails and white paint, with plenty of places to sit. Some of the cushions seemed overstuffed and well used with little clutter. There were several varieties of wind chimes lining the beams of the porch. What stood out as odd were the dirty hoofprints leading to a large bed lying just a few feet away from a very nice desk with paper sticking out of the drawer and a chair. One wouldn’t think that the desk shouldn’t be outside, but still there it was on this very large porch, along with a very large bed and hoofprints. Isabel shook her head and laughed at all the odd clues into this person she wanted to get to know.

Isabel was just about to ring the bell when she was startled by a male voice yelling, Mom, someone’s here. The boy was smiling kindly, his skin also sun darkened. His hair was long, all one length and very dark but not quite black, she thought of her son just briefly; and then the wafting smell of bacon, really strong coffee, and something sweet brought her back to the moment. Isabel thought, Ay, this is a beautiful young man, something in his smiling dark eyes.

Isabel started, Hi, I met your mom yesterday when she was mailing a package, and she left her pen, so I thought I’d bring it back to her. It seemed important to her, and it was Friday, and she’d have to wait till Monday to get it back.

The stranger’s voice that she had heard so little of yesterday came from somewhere in the back of the house on the other side of the screen that the smiling young man was now holding open for her. Ask them what they want, please, Isabel heard the voice say.

It’s something about your pen, the young man yelled back toward the voice. Immediately Isabel could hear a pan hit the floor and footsteps, which seemed to be stampeding their way toward the door with an urgent sound to them.

The anxiety of the word pen was not hidden when the stranger’s face emerged from around the doorframe, wearing what seemed to be the same shorts and a bikini top of turquoise. You have my pen? the stranger blurted out abruptly.

Ay, you left it at the post yesterday, and it seemed kind of important to you, so I peeked at the return address and thought I’d bring it out to you since you were riding a horse and all, and it’s supposed to be even hotter today, Isabel rambled then paused and readjusted her hands in front of herself, took a quick breath, and began to speak again. I’m sorry. I talk a lot when I’m nervous. The stranger’s hand was extended even shaking a bit. Here you go, Isabel offered the pen.

The boy spoke out and said with a mocking head roll, "My name is Michael, and yes, that pen is my mom’s favorite."

Michael, would you please go feed the animals already? Breakfast will be a few moments longer since I dropped the muffins, the stranger said facetiously.

Mom, she looks thirsty and even a bit hungry. I bet you didn’t even eat before you drove out here? he said turning his head to Isabel. Maybe you could offer her something for all her trouble? Michael hinted in a playful tone.

The mom injected, OK, enough, young man. Off to your business, she said shooing him with her hands and a smile. She turned to the guest and finished, Isabel, would you like to come in for some coffee and toast? the stranger invited, motioning for her to come in.

Isabel seemed a little startled at the sound of her name. How did you know my name? Isabel asked bewildered.

You were wearing a name tag yesterday, the stranger said from behind a grin.

Isabel, trying to regain her verbal intelligence, said, Oh, yeah. And ay, I’d love some coffee and toast.

As Isabel followed the woman through the smells of morning, her eyes were taking more notes of the things she needed to put her new puzzle together. Isabel wondered why this seemingly hardened person has such a pull on her. Was it the invisible tragedy that emits and seeps off those who have chosen to stay in states of grief? Did Isabel recognize this in the stranger because she owned the same set of traits? Was it the child factor; was it just a new face in town, new stories to hear, or was there something exciting about the secret way she said nothing but filled the room with voices. Isabel had to find out.

The first thing she noticed was the picture over the fireplace off to her left. It was framed so beautifully with dark well-oiled wood; it had to be something the stranger was proud of. The picture was of a very old woman sitting on a very large Brahma bull. Not that those bulls come in any other size, but the lady was so small that the bull looked extremely large. Under the bull slightly off to the left and lit by the window was a very crisp mahogany red baby grand piano. The keys and sheet music faced the fireplace. On one wall there was another nice frame with no picture in it at all, and down the hall she could see a bedroom that was also lit by the sun, glowing of orange light. There was a large mirror on the wall that reflected a log bedpost and messy sheets on a very tall bed from inside the room. Isabel felt herself beginning to blush, so she looked away quickly. How long have you lived here because I haven’t seen you in town? Isabel questioned.

The stranger was very matter-a-fact in her reply, I don’t get to town much, and when I do, it’s usually late.

She hesitated on speaking anymore and seemed to get a bit nervous herself. Isabel read her behavior pretty quickly and injected a way out of the awkwardness for her. I know I ask a lot of questions, and I really do talk a lot even to myself, so I’m sorry if I seem nosey.

The stranger became a little embarrassed at herself and quickly tried to redeem herself with, No, no, that’s OK. I just haven’t really talked to anyone other than Buster. That’s Michael’s nickname, just really to him and my old friends when they come up here for BBQs. That’s where we eat, drink, and tell the same stories over and over again, like we are trying to regain some of our youth. The stranger stopped, as if she hit a wall, and turned to Isabel. Wow, I’m sorry I didn’t mean to get so chatty on you. She put her head down and began to walk and barley whispered sorry. Short version is, I’ve been here about a year now. Isabel smiled because she liked the fact that the stranger could ramble. It almost seemed like she was dying to talk to someone,