A Quiet Place

By Mary Katherine Arensberg

A story as timeless as the Great Rocky Mountains, an abandoned passion is rekindled as Pam King embarks on the adventure of a lifetime. Born of a generation that denied women equal access to career choices, she never lost sight of her goal. Join this feisty grandmother as she proves that age is relative and gender is a box to be checked on a drivers license.

Like all Mary Katherine Arensbergs other books; I just loved this one. Pam King is such a strong woman! Cathy Columbus.OH

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Feb 28, 2009
• ISBN: 9781462826377

Mary Katherine Arensberg

Mary Katherine Arensberg is a multiple award winning author of Historical Fiction, also earning Five Star reviews. Her love of American History and the women who shaped our country sparked her ten book Women of Character Series. She has always been an observer of life.

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Copyright © 2009 by Mary Katherine Arensberg.

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

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Last

Other Books by Mary Katherine Arensberg

Willa

Woman of the Wind

Naomi of the Arizona Territory

Miracle From the Mountain

DEDICATION

To Dave and Jan Chaffee at whose ice cream shop I spent many pleasant days, to Michael Regan who keeps my computer running and my husband George Arensberg, my kindred spirit.

Chapter One

Earthquake, volcanic eruption, tidal wave, hurricane or tornado, no natural disaster; betrayal, divorce, terminal illness or death, no human calamity; none caused the change. Fifty-two years of the erosion of the spirit, years filled with duties and responsibilities; burdened by limitations and harassments were sufficient to cause Pam King to move from her life long home in Windsor, Connecticut. Her mind was made up; she was going west to fulfill a dream of her youth. How had the years slipped away? One day she was proudly marching up the aisle to receive her high school diploma, the next she was married, children, then not married, working, building a career and lately sitting alone at night watching movies from her vast collection of Hollywood box office hits from the nineteen fifties and sixties. And reading, she loved to read, Bret Hart and Mark Twain in high school, Poe, Hawthorne too. She had wanted to attend college, but all hopes for that were shot when she met poor old Tom King, so that now, she read voraciously, Voltaire and Kafka, a little Pushkin, Tolstoy and Chekhov. Lately though she was satisfied with a good Rosamund Pilcher novel, so intriguing, so civilized and satisfying. And Sunday morning services at the church on the corner of Main and Third Streets where she weekly washed out her dusty soul with powerful old time hymn singing under the brilliantly happy tutelage of Reverend Bill Howard. The man loved his God and he loved to belt out the old revival songs of his youth in the south. It was 1996 her children grown, her retirement at hand and Pam was ready, eager, deserving of a change.

Monica, her thirty-five year old daughter and mother of three raucous boys aged nine, eleven and thirteen, thought her mother psychotic. Steven, her thirty-two year old son; twice divorced, thought her decision embarrassing and told her so; saying how humiliating it would be to explain to his friends that his mother had simply flown the coop.

Yes, she would fly the coop; after years of denial, repression, subjugation and remorse she was able to invite them to lunch and calmly tell them that she was giving them a gift. Monica, what I am about to bestow on you I never had, still don’t in fact. She turned towards her handsome son. Steven, I have the same gift for you, but you will perceive it differently.

The waiter arrived with the menus; they ordered and then waited for their mother to continue. I’m going to relocate to the west, I’ve sold the house and I’ll pack only what will fit in my Suburban…

Suburban? Steven could not control the rise in his voice nor the annoyance. Since when do you have a Suburban?

Forget the car. Monica glared from her mother to her brother in shocked and angered disbelief.

Truck. He corrected his sister.

Whatever! She waved the air in front of his face. She has sold our home!

The waiter sat three salads on the table. It isn’t your home, Monica it’s mine. Pam speared a broccoli floret. This is delicious.

Monica leaned across the table and gently caught her mother’s hand and with nostrils flared in barely suppressed indignation screeched in a whisper. What do you think you’re doing, Mother? Have you been keeping your appointments with Doctor Alexander? Have you been taking your hormone replacement therapy?

All those long years of muted suffering, the doing without, the taking of the unwanted, and all those years had honed her, burnished her mind and spirit to acuteness that at twenty she would never have believed possible and she laughed lightly as she patted Monica’s perfectly manicured hand. You needn’t worry about me. She turned to face Steven. Nor you.

I’m not worried; I think you’re crazy though. Where do plan to go exactly; out west as you say? My, he had grown old for such a young man and she leaned back in her chair.

I’m going to Colorado.

Where in Colorado, mother? My, but Monica had become demanding.

I’m not one of the boys, dear, so don’t talk to me as if I were; and I don’t know. She smiled to unfreeze Monica’s face. I’m going to drive around and when I find a place I like, a place that suits me, a quiet place, well, that’s where I will settle down.

The salad plates were removed by a very anxious young man who had picked up the uneasy vibes of the conversation and replaced by three sizzling steaks. Settle down, indeed. Steven said before burying his remark behind a forkful of sirloin.

After a few minutes Pam pushed her plate aside, she had finished her meal with enjoyment and a long sip of lemonade prepared her for her presentation. About the gift.

We don’t want the money from the house. Monica started.

I’m not giving you the money from the sale of the house. It was my home and it’s my money. She was neither disturbed not distracted in her reply. I am giving you something much more valuable; I am giving you freedom.

They stared wide eyed. Monica’s face was a blank; Steven’s sharp green eyes were ready to receive illumination. Pam savored their faces. Her daughter’s clear pale skin, high forehead and perfectly proportioned features that were crowned by a mass of tangled wild red hair that would have been the envy of Maureen O’Hara, a Technicolor russet mane that stopped just shy of her tightly clenched jaw. Shifting her eyes, she leveled a gaze on Steven, handsome and dark, brooding like Heathcliffe. And then she smiled, this generation was sadly lacking in descriptive adjectives, who under thirty knew who Maureen or Heathcliffe were?

Freedom, is it? Steven joked.

Yes and what I am freeing you from you were not even aware that you have been bound by it, but I am; and I am the only person who can give it to you. They continued to stare. You are interested aren’t you? They nodded at the exact same moment in the exact same manner. When I leave, you will no longer be my children, Mrs. King’s thirty-something children. You will be adults, free and clear. You will no longer have to interrupt your holidays, drag your children from their toys and drive miles to pay homage to the matriarch. When you slip up at something, that nagging thought of what will mother think, won’t worm into your mind. You will not worry if you make gravy like I do or if you go to church often enough to please me. She smiled. After Tuesday the only person you have to please will be yourself and won’t that be splendid.

Monica sighed, both relieved and astonished at the concept. You’re right, you’re absolutely right. I could not put my finger on the feelings of dread that enveloped me each Christmas, but that’s it.

Steven reached for his mother’s hand. How did you get so smart?

I fell into a lot of the same traps you did, but I managed to climb out of most of them.

Steven signaled the waiter and ordered a round of strawberry shortcake. Mother you are an amazing person, and I appreciate your gift, but you don’t need to move across the country.

She licked the cream from the back of her spoon. Yes I do, because unless I do; I won’t be free of you two. Their spoons dropped, she casually tucked a strand of fine silver blonde hair behind her ear, small silver hoops dangled gaily with the movement; she always wore silver jewelry after the make up artist at the department store had explained that she was a cool blonde. I love you both dearly, but a parent has to leave, to vacate the high throne, mostly which is done through death or abandonment, we’re going to do it through mutual agreement. Leveling bright green eyes on her daughter and son she breathed out joyfully. I don’t want to be your mother anymore; I want to be a person, a real honest to goodness person before I die. I want to have value of my own, not second handedly because you two turned out so super.

There was stillness, a silence that filled the place and then Steven rose and engulfed his mother in a suffocating bear hug, Monica laughed until tears gathered at the rims of her eyes and together they went out to inspect Pam’s brand new, metallic charcoal grey, behemoth of a Suburban sports utility vehicle.

It’s got a four fifty five cubic inch displacement engine and a towing package and a winch and a forty-two gallon gas tank. It gets close to nineteen miles to the gallon. It’s got full time four wheel drive with shift on the fly, an automatic transmission and it has power everything. She circled the vehicle like a child would a new bicycle. And it has thirty-five inch wheels.

Never had Monica or Steven seen their mother behave so enthusiastically, and she obviously knew what she was talking about on the giant transport, she punctuated her inventory with gear ratios and transmission torque specifications and in the end they decided that they had never really seen their mother as a person before. She kissed them soundly and promised a visit before she left. They stood on the sidewalk outside the café and waved bravely as their mother hopped into the gleaming anthracite machine and gunned it to life, slipping easily into the traffic; two blocks away its high profile was still visible.

Steven smiled and hugged his sister. Well, we never have to worry about losing sight of her.

Don’t make a joke, Steven, I’m worried.

The quintessential little mother, aren’t you? Well, that lady piloting that huge ship through rush hour traffic is the last person on earth I would worry about. She is the most mentally strong person I have ever met. He linked his arm through hers. What say, we go back inside and buy strawberry shortcake for the boys and what’s that guy’s name you’re married to?

Brandon.

That’s right, Brandon. He winked and she knew what was coming. Why do you suppose his mother hated him so much that she would name a perfectly good baby Brandon?

Don’t start. She wagged her finger under his nose. I’m warning you.

He continued. Now your boys, Steven, there’s a powerful name and William, ah, yes, Willy and Michael, the Big Mickey; those are names a loving mother gives her children.

Already across town, Pam swung the Suburban into the lot next to the title company, switched off the engine and hopped to the ground; nobody would ever figure her for a fifty two year old grandmother. She was short, barely five foot two and nature and genetics had blessed her with a lithe, though slightly voluptuous form. Her first husband Tom used to say she had legs that went from the ground to her ass and he was right, one of the few things he had been right about. She pushed the door closed and quirked her mouth, why after twenty-six years would she think about poor old Tom? They had married at eighteen, produced two children together and after only eight years of wedded discord he disappeared. That’s it she decided, that’s when my slavery began, that’s when all my choices were taken away and duty and responsibility wrapped me up like a mummy. Mummy, that’s funny! Today I’m cutting out of the binding, it’s appropriate I should remember when I was forced into this involuntary servitude. Swinging her linen handbag over her shoulder she sprinted towards the door, her two inch French heels striking a happy tattoo on the pavement.

It was cool and dark inside, the massive teak conference table surrounded by lawyers, real estate agents, bankers, Ms. Tweaks from the title company and of course the family who had purchased her house, lock, stock and barrel right down to the fussy red and black ceramic rooster that perched on the kitchen counter.

The supply line of papers began it rounds and with each dot of the i in King, she felt her spirits rise, she was tapping her toes in impatience, and she wanted to get out of there, pack her things, say her good byes and get on the road. She headed home and straight away began packing, shoes, which were her passion, then boxes of costume jewelry and lastly all her clothes except for two pairs of jeans and three of her favorite white blouses. Her lap top and a ream of paper were assembled next to the front door by her stack of Dwight Yoakam CDs. And then the telephone rang.

Caller ID is wonderful she thought as she pushed the talk button. Hell-o, Monica. She crooned into the mouthpiece.

It’s me, Mickey, your grandson. Came the barely audible voice.

Oh, hell-o sweetie. How are you?

I’m fine. A pause. Grandma, are you really leaving for the west?

Yes I am. How do you feel about that? You aren’t going to worry are you?

No. Dead air space. Grandma, I was wondering.

Yes, dear? I hope he isn’t too upset by my leaving, I didn’t plan on hurting anyone by this move she thought as the seconds ticked by.

Ah, could you maybe marry a cowboy while you’re out there so I can come to your ranch and ride horses?

Before she could answer Monica’s embarrassed voice reached her ears. Mickey, what a thing to say! Give me the phone please; I need to talk to Grandma. Pam waited. Hell-o, mom, I just finished talking with Brandon and he says we should have a farewell party for you, nothing fancy, just a simple barbeque this Saturday.

Pam drummed her fingers on the table top. It better be simple, no relatives, no friends, just you, Brandon, the boys and Steven.

What about the people you worked with, Reverend Howard and Aunt Miriam and?

You invite any other people and I will back out of your driveway and leave. Monica’s sigh was one of defeat. Listen Honey, I really don’t care what anyone thinks about me but you and Steven. I’m not up to a lot of questions and explanations. This move is nobody’s business but ours.

I understand mom. We’ll look for you around noon on Saturday then. Bye.

Monica?

Yes?

I love you. Don’t think for a minute that I’m leaving because of you or Steven. I am leaving for me.

She knew with a certainty her children where blameless, a week ago she had invited Reverend Howard over for lunch and poured her burdened, guilty soul into his hands. He listened, that was unusual for a man she thought, he never interrupted, but when she had finished her self abasing tirade he began asking questions. What makes you think you are a bad person for going after your heart’s desire? She shrugged her shoulders. He tapped his fingertips. Pam, why do you want to go?

Sighing heavily she burst forth her answer. I just have this burning desire, I don’t know if I am right or wrong, but the pressure to go is always with me.

I see. And he smiled.

What, what do you see that I don’t?

He leaned forward and clasped her hand gently. "Do you believe that God has been good to you? In spite of all that this mixed up world has thrown at you, I mean?

Flinging herself back in her chair she wailed. Again, what are you trying to tell me? Now I’m even more confused. She eyed him warily.

He laughed. Remember Pam, if you truly believe He has been good to you, you just have to trust your life to Him. Skeptically she nodded. Think about it; all the skills that you have learned here, there might be a place in those vast mountains that needs you. Kindly he tilted his head and grinned. Monica and Steven don’t need you, oh, they love you, but they don’t need you. The wavering haze of uncertainty lifted. God loves you, He’s not sending you. You’re going of your own volition. But, He might use the skills that you are proficient at. Make sense? It did, it made all her dreams fall into place, and she could leave Windsor with a clear conscious.

Pam clicked off the cell phone and went to the garage where she spent the next two days loading the Suburban. After twenty years of raising her children single handedly she was a master at organization and a wizard at making a little seem like a lot. It took her most of the afternoon on Friday to shimmy and lever the last of her possessions, books, sewing machine and fabric she just couldn’t part with into the cargo space in back. The electric drill, jig saw and sander she stowed in the compartments of the front doors. Sliding behind the wheel she checked her field of vision, the inside rear view mirror was clear, the gargantuan chrome outside mirrors were fine and the little round concave mirror allowed her a good, but somewhat distorted look at the rear of the vehicle. Wiping her hands on her jeans she cautiously closed the doors and when all locked tightly she wearily headed for the kitchen. It was ten o’clock and since she was too excited to eat she popped an aspirin and went to bed.

The musical notes from her cell phone pulled her into semi consciousness and she poked at the talk button several times before hitting it. Hell-o, she croaked out.

Top of the morning to you, Pam darling! How are you doing? It was Ted Waters her boss, or her previous boss as of last Friday.

She squinted at the window, darkness and then shook the alarm clock but the numbers still read five thirty. Fine, she finally managed.

What’s this I hear about you leaving us? He sounded petulant, like one of her kids. Were you just going to get into that big rig of yours and ride off into the sunset like the Lone Ranger?

My work is done here, kimosabee. She smiled at her own wittiness and sat up in the bed. Ted, how did you know I was leaving Windsor?

My kid plays soccer with your grandson Mickey and when he said you were going west to marry a cowboy I became suspicious. Are you?

Are I what?

You just confirmed that you were leaving town, so are you going to marry a cowboy?

Ridiculous, of course I’m not.

Didn’t think so; I want to wish you the best Pam. You were one of the most tenacious city liaisons aides I ever had and you always had the office in stitches over one of your jokes, but we were still the most productive department in town. He paused. You’re a card, Pam, but whenever I was in a tight spot I could depend on you. Remember the time our department was called on the carpet by the mayor? You waltzed into his office wearing that little wispy green number and a stack of facts and figures under your arm and blew the old boy out of the water. Ever after we secretly referred to you as the ‘big gun’. We’re going to miss you. I want your address though, in case there’s a problem too big for me to handle; wait until I get a pencil.

I don’t know where I’m going to settle yet. I thought I would drive around and when I found a place that struck my fancy I would settle there.

Pam, Pam, you’re such a prize. You know that half of the women in the office lived vicariously through you. Wait until I tell them this, I remember the stir it caused when you took up horse back riding two years ago, but this, this will blow their minds. He paused. Good luck to you, I wish you all the best because you’re one fine lady who deserves it.

She sniffed back a tear. Thanks Ted, I will write, but don’t hold your breath.

Beating a hollow into the pillow she lay down but sleep was elusive, she kicked the blankets and rolled over three times and then reluctantly planted her feet on the floor. The clock read six o’clock. What am I going to do until noon she thought grumpily? The window was open and the fresh smell of newly yawning apple blossoms assailed her nose. Breathing deeply she rose and stood at the window, looking down at the sleeping street that she had lived on for thirty-five years. She and Tom had bought the rambling Dutch colonial the year they were married, the down payment a substantial, though rancorous gift from her parents. When they had both died in a car accident four years later she sadly realized she would not miss them. She pushed the memory aside, over a quarter of a century later she still couldn’t deal with the rift between them. Her best friend Sarah Martin, her crafting buddy, used to live right across the street but had moved away three years ago when her husband had gotten a significant promotion, the others houses were now all occupied by upwardly mobile young families that she barely knew. Changes, always changes; what was it that old Greek philosopher Heraclites said? Something about ‘nothing endures but change’. Well she had had her share of enduring. Maudling, she thought; next thing you know I will be questioning my own plans again, pulling the windows shut she turned and headed for the shower.

Sudsing her hair she sought to scrub away any feelings of uncertainty, the hot water streamed over her face and eventually washed the frown down the drain. I am resilient if nothing else she smiled as the lush fluffiness of the bath towel caressed her skin; she emerged dry, resolute and focused, happily singing, ‘I am an adventurer, I bravely go where no man has gone before.’

Downstairs there was nothing to eat in the refrigerator so she decided to have breakfast at the café down by the expressway and afterwards swing by the deli for potato salad to take to the barbeque.

She arrived at Monica’s house, which was located north of town in East Windsor Hill. It was a fifteen minute drive and at ten o’clock the Suburban rolled to a stop in the driveway. Carrying the potato salad in one hand and a large blue bag that held several parting gifts in the other, she pushed the back door open to find the boys congregated in front of the big screen TV watching comics and shoveling chocolate cereal into their mouths between laughs. Her daughter blanched with shame. I know you think this is terrible mom, but I just didn’t have time to make teddy bear pancakes like you used to for Steven and me.

Pam waved an imaginary magic wand over her daughter’s head. You are free, I set you free; remember. Smiling, she linked their arms and headed towards the living room. Sit down and don’t worry about the kids’ breakfast, I would have sent Brandon out for fast food if I were you.

Mother, really? Monica gasped in surprise.

Pam leaned in close. They didn’t have fast food restaurants when you were growing up or I would have used them. Out side the tooting of a car horn caught their attention. The boys dropped their cereal bowls and ran screaming towards the front door. ‘Uncle Steven!’ They shouted in unity.

Steven and his nephews were members of an exclusive mutual admiration society, he doted on them and they thought him to be incredibly clever and kind, indulging whims their parents frowned upon. Before he could close the door on his bright red Mercedes convertible a soccer ball sailed through the air and narrowly missed his head. The game was on and Brandon, fresh from the shower, gave Pam a welcoming kiss and then hurried out to join them, leaving mother and daughter to oversee the barbeque.

Hamburgers, hot dogs and chicken drumsticks, bathed in Monica’s special sauce sizzled on the patio grill. Fresh sweet corn still wrapped in its husk smoked beside them. The red and white checkered cloth that covered the picnic table was loaded with watermelon slices, sweet pickles, buns, baked beans and Pam’s potato salad. A near by cooler was filled with sodas and bottled water, frosty and cold, shining in their dewy condensation in the late June after noon sun. Come and get it. Monica called and the impromptu soccer team raced towards the backyard.

Put the ball away, Mickey. Monica said seconds before it bounced in to the bowl of potato chips.

Sorry. He ducked his head and peered out under long dark lashes at his grandmother.

Don’t look to me for sympathy, kiddo; you heard your mother. Pam lifted the offending ball from the bowl and dropped it behind her chair. Is everyone hungry? She asked as she passed out the plastic plates.

Fifteen minutes later the food was gone, nothing but a pile of leg bones left to show of the magnificent feast. Brandon offered to take the boys to a movie and Pam and Steven helped Monica clean up. After the dishwasher was filled and the button pushed they retired to the living room, cozy with its brick fireplace, plaid sofa and the touch of golden oak in the end tables, they needed to talk.

So, are you all packed mother? Steven began the conversation.

She sipped her iced tea and nodded. I finished up last night.

Everything fit okay?

Yes, it fit nicely, but no room to spare. She eyed him quizzically. You got something you want to say?

He ran his hand through his thick dark hair. I’m still worried about you.

Don’t.

Mother. Monica came over to sit on the arm of the chair. We love you and we are concerned.

Don’t be, I can take care of myself.

But. They sang out in unison.

Pam stretched out, pushing