Facets. Part 10

"I think it's more exciting, living out in the woods like this. Can I come in?"

"Not on that horse, you can't."

"Help me down."

Dropping the reins, she held out her arms. He swung her down and tied the horse to the birch at the side of the house. By the time he turned, she was running up his front steps.

"Wow," she breathed, looking through the doorway. Her eyes grew wider. "This is super!" Flashing him a smile, she stepped inside.

That eleven-year-old's smile made him proud of what he'd done to the house. The table was clean, sanded and polished, with a stool on either side. The potbelly stove had been freed of its grime, the shelves around it repaired and made st.u.r.dy for the dishes stacked there. The walls, once covered with peeling paint, had been stripped and stained. He'd made a small bookshelf, on which rested not only books but a radio, and beneath the old loft that he'd slept in for so long, in the s.p.a.ce where his parents' bed had stood before he'd used it for kindling, was a large four-poster that gave his eighteen-year-old body the room it needed.

"I've seen that before," Pam said, pointing to the bed. "It used to be in our attic. It belonged to Nana and Papa."

"Your grandparents?" Eugene hadn't told him that.

She nodded. "They died a long time ago. I never met them. I was wondering where the bed went. I'm glad Daddy gave it to you." She sent him that shy smile of hers. "This is really nice, Cutter. It's like a secret hideaway in the woods. If I had this, I'd spend all my time here. How can you stand going to work?"

"If I don't go to work, your daddy will fire me. What would I do then?"

"Go to work for someone else. But then I wouldn't see you, so don't get fired." She went back outside. "What's in the woods?"

"Trees."

"I know that, but are there any fields or hills?"

"There's a stream."

Her eyes lit up. "Will you show it to me?"

"If you wait here while I get dressed. You woke me up."

"I'm glad," she said without remorse. "No one should sleep away a day like this."

"Is that you talking, or your daddy?"

"He said it first, but he's right. Hurry, Cutter. I'm going to start off. Which way do I go?"

Cutter had visions of her getting lost. "You wait right there until I come back out, and if you don't, I won't take you anywhere." After watching her for a minute to make sure she didn't move, he went back inside for a shirt and sneakers. Then he took her into the woods in the direction of the stream.

It was a warm spring day. The sun dappled their path, playing through the maples and oaks that rose above them. Cutter went first, with Pam following, and rather than talk they let the knock of the woodp.e.c.k.e.r, the coo-hoo of the mockingbird, and the rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze say whatever needed to be said. When they reached the stream, Cutter hunkered down and, cupping his hands, sluiced the clear, cool water over his head. It was the second best thing to a shower for washing away the vestiges of the night.

Tossing back his head, he looked at Pam. She was squatting not far from him, trailing her fingers over the pebbles that glistened by the water's edge. "I like it here," she said.

So did he. It was peaceful. And quiet. Taking a deep breath, he straightened and went to lean against a nearby tree while she continued to run her fingers through the water. After a bit, she took a small pebble in her hand, stood and gently lobbed it toward the middle of the stream. It landed with a melodic plop that sent out an echoing circle. When the ripples were gone, she bent, picked up another pebble, and lobbed it after the first.

Over and over she did this, seeming fascinated with the way each circle spread and broke up. "Every one's different," she mused softly.

"That's because of the flow of the current. If it's a little faster or a little slower, a little to the left or the right, the ripples are different."

"Like snowflakes."

"Kind of."

"Gone so fast."

"Yes."

"But so pretty."

As Cutter watched her, listened to her, he marveled at her appreciation. It was hard to believe that her family was wealthy. She probably had a room full of pretty things all her own in Boston, and in Timiny Cove, too. That she should be entranced by ripples in a stream-and by snowflakes and by unpolished tourmaline crystals-was a tribute both to her and to Eugene.

Straightening, she wiped her damp hands on the seat of her pants. "I have to go, Cutter."

He led the way back through the woods to where he'd tethered the horse. When she was up on its back again, she said shyly, "I liked that. Will you take me there again?"

He nodded. Taking the reins, he began to walk her down the rutted road.

"You don't have to lead me."

"Just to the main road."

"You don't have to, Cutter."

But he did. Pam was Eugene's daughter; she was special. If anything happened to her, he wouldn't be able to forgive himself. He felt responsible for her. It was a new feeling, and not bothersome at all.

She must have sensed it, because she came to visit often after that. She always came alone, never stayed long, never made a pest of herself. She actually seemed afraid of taking too much of his time, which was amusing since he had neither family nor friends whose company he would prefer. He wanted to tell her to stay as long as she wanted and come back as soon as she could. But he didn't. It didn't seem appropriate. She was a little girl, seven years younger than he. He didn't want people getting the wrong idea.

Their friendship was innocent. They didn't even talk much at first. They explored the woods, or listened to Cutter's radio, or simply sat on his front porch, and Cutter enjoyed it. A whirlwind of chatter with others, Pam was calm and undemanding with him. He liked to think that she liked him, that she liked his home, that she chose to be with him over all the other options she had. He knew she trusted him. He liked to think that she felt as good as he did after their visits.

Gradually they started to talk. It happened during the year Pam turned twelve, when, for several visits running, she wasn't as ebullient as usual. Afraid that he'd done something wrong, that she was finding her visits with him a bore but didn't know how to end them, he asked her about it.

"It's nothing," she said quietly.

"You don't look happy."

"I am." She produced a smile, but it lacked brilliance.

"If you'd rather be back at the house with your father-"

"He's with John," she interrupted, the smile abruptly replaced by a frown. "When I left, they were arguing. They're always doing that, Cutter." She told him about it in a rush, then when she ran out of breath she grew quiet again.

He sensed that she felt disloyal talking about John, so he didn't push. But she was back the next day, telling him a little more. She seemed to need the outlet, and though he didn't have any answers for her, he got the feeling that she was pleased that he listened.

The proof of that came over the course of the next few months, when talking became a vital part of their relationship. At first it was just Pam, opening up about the situation at home. Cutter wasn't one to open up; he'd been keeping his thoughts to himself for as long as he could remember. But she began to ask about his life, pointed questions that were like a step-by-step guide to the art of confession. Coming from anyone else, those questions would have made him suspicious. Coming from Pam, they weren't offensive. Just as she trusted him, he'd come to trust her.

"I heard Leroy telling Rufus about something that happened at the mine yesterday. You were there, Cutter. They said that you were talking right up. Was it bad?"

Cutter shrugged. "It turned out okay."

"What happened?"

"Jethro fell. He's okay."

"But he wasn't at first. Rufus said he couldn't get up. Poor Jethro. He doesn't walk so well. Was it his legs again?"

"He has arthritis pretty bad. Once he's up and standing, he's okay. It's getting there that's the problem."

"So what happened yesterday?"

Cutter recalled the incident only too well. Tightly, he said, "Simon and John were walking by. Jethro was sitting down, taking a rest. Simon doesn't usually say anything when he does that, because he still does his work. But John was there, so Simon complained. Jethro hurried to stand up. He lost his footing and fell."

"You helped him up."

"Rufus said that?"

"And that you said something to Simon."

"Well, h.e.l.l, it wasn't right," Cutter argued. "Old Jethro tries. He does the best he can. He's there at work every morning and stays till the end of the day, and he's good. I've never seen him crack a stone. Eugene knows he isn't feeling good. So does Simon. And they're usually pretty easy on him. So now, all of a sudden, Simon yells. And John picks up on it and says that he shouldn't be working there. Right in front of him. So I told Simon that Jethro knew more about mining tourmaline than anyone but Eugene, and that he was the one who told us all what to do when Simon was out on another coffee break." He snickered. "Simon didn't much like my saying that."

"But he'd never fire you."

"He might, but not for that. Because I was right. And he knew Eugene would agree with me. Jethro's been working for Eugene even longer than Simon has. So now his legs're bothering him. What's he supposed to do? He's not trained for anything else, and anyway, no one would hire him. He's too old. But he still has to eat."

Pam's eyes were large. "Did you say all that to Simon?"

"No way. He was looking annoyed enough from my comment about the coffee. And John was standing right there," having already made a comment about Cutter's minding his own business. "I wasn't pushing my luck."

"You don't like John?"

Of all the questions she'd asked, that was the hardest to answer. He wanted to say a resounding no, but he still had to keep in mind that John was Pam's brother. She didn't like him, herself; she'd made that clear, but he shouldn't be the one doing the bad-mouthing. If she were his age or older, it might have been different. But she was just a kid.

So he shrugged and said, "John's okay."

"You like him?" she asked in disbelief, and the issue suddenly became one of Cutter's credibility.

"I didn't say that. I said he's okay. He's not around too much. And besides, it's not my job to like him or not like him. He's your brother. He's my boss's son. He is my boss in a way."

"But how can you like him?"

"I don't like him," he shot back defensively, which went to prove, he realized later, that he was putty in Pam's hands.

She breathed a sigh of relief and said, sounding far older than her years, "I'm glad to hear that. I was beginning to think I was the only one who hated him so much."

No, Cutter thought, she wasn't the only one. Most of the men at the mine disliked John, but it was worse for Cutter. John went out of his way to put him down. Cutter found that hard to take, even when he told himself that it was because John was jealous. John didn't have anywhere near as smooth a relationship with Eugene as Cutter did. Cutter figured that any son in a like position would be jealous. But that didn't give John the right to punish him, especially not in front of everyone at the mine. He had his pride, too.

That pride took some twists that Cutter didn't expect in the months that followed. The incident with Jethro Lamall was the first of several in which he found himself speaking up against something he considered unfair. Eugene was never the problem. Once in a while, Simon was, but it was usually at John's instigation.

John was the problem. Cutter was sure that if John were around more, most of the miners would quit. The fact that he wasn't there for more than a week out of every four was some consolation to the havoc his presence wreaked. He had specific opinions on running the mines. Although Eugene had been running things well for some thirty-odd years, John was convinced he knew better. Inevitably he either wanted to work the men harder or pay them on a scale based on output. Even the younger men, who had strength and stamina on their side and could produce more than the older men, were against that. The older men were their fathers, their brothers, their friends.

Cutter wasn't anyone's brother or son. He had no family to support. He didn't have to worry that if he angered John, retribution might take the form of punishment to people he loved. He didn't have as much to lose as the others.

That was one of the reasons why he came to their defense. Another was the same defiance that had driven him so often in the past. He didn't like John. He didn't like being put down by John. Speaking up to him in front of the other miners brought a deep satisfaction, particularly when it had to do with justice, and especially when it had to do with something he was sure Eugene believed in, too. In an odd way, Cutter felt that he, more than Simon, was Eugene's on-site representative at the mine.

The other miners came to feel that way too; increasingly they looked to Cutter when something went wrong. While he had no desire to be a hero and continued to keep to himself once he left the mine at the end of the day, he wasn't adverse to championing the workers' causes. It gave him a good feeling. It gave him a sense of power.

John didn't like that much, which enhanced its appeal. Cutter began speaking up just to let John know that the other miners respected him. Simon respected him too-or respected the fact that the other miners looked to him for leadership-and occasionally left him in charge of things at the site. Since John was never around at those times, there was little joy in it for Cutter. He didn't aspire to be a foreman. He didn't like the idea of ordering the other men around. Whatever leadership potential he had he used in his silent battle with John. Power, in any other context, didn't excite him.

"Daddy and John were arguing again today," Pam told him one late-summer evening. Cutter had gone into town for a six-pack of beer and had found her sitting on the steps outside Leroy's store. Unable to resist, he sat down beside her. "It was about you this time."

"About me?" he said with a half-smile. She looked so serious, so grown-up, so adorable in a T-shirt and cut-off jeans, with her hair in a single long ponytail and her feet bare.

"Daddy was saying that you'll be in charge of the mine someday. John didn't think so."

"No, I doubt he would. But he doesn't have to worry. I don't want to be in charge of the mine."

Pam looked startled. "Why not? You'd be in charge of everyone. You'd get more money."

"And more headaches."

"Do you get headaches now?"

"No. But Simon does."

"That's because John makes him nervous."

"John makes me nervous."

"But you can fight him," she urged with a touch of excitement. "Simon can't. He's too old. He senses a shift in power."

Cutter was always amazed at Pam's instincts when it came to the business. Nudging her side, he asked, "How do you know that?"

"I can see it."

"Little girls aren't supposed to see things like that. They're supposed to be sweet and innocent."

"For G.o.d's sake, Cutter, I'm nearly thirteen."

He grinned. "Hard to believe. Or not hard at all. Depends on how you look at it." He held his head back and peered at her. "You're gettin' taller, all right."

"Don't talk down to me," she said more soberly.

"But you are getting taller."

"And older. And I see things. I do, Cutter. And you're trying to change the subject."

"What is the subject?"

"John. You could fight him, and Daddy would be on your side."