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The coffee churns up into the cap of the pot, signaling it’s ready to be poured. I grab an oven mitt off its hook and pour the coffee into the mug. The delicious scent of a hickory fire and fresh-roasted coffee is the perfect welcome home.
I kick the screen door open and go out on the porch to watch the sun take its place in the sky over Big Stone Gap. Autumn is my favorite time of year; it seems to say “Let go” with every leaf that turns and falls to the ground and every dingy cloud that rolls by overhead. Let go. (So hard to do when your nature tells you to hang on.)
At the edge of the woods, a spindly dead branch high in a treetop crackles under the weight of a blackbird, which flies off into the charcoal sky until it’s a speck in the distance. I have to remind Jack that the property line needs some attention. He’s always so busy fixing other people’s houses that our needs are last on the list. The wild raspberry bushes have taken over the far side of the field, a tangled mess of wires and vines. Pruning, composting, raking — all those chores will occupy us until the winter comes.
I hear more snapping coming from the woods, so I squint at the treetops, expecting more blackbirds, but there is no movement. The sound seems to be coming from the ground. I lean forward as I sit and study the woods. I hear more crackling. What is it? I wonder. Then something strange happens: I have a moment of fear. I know there’s nothing to be afraid of — the sun is up, Jack is inside, and there’s a working phone in the kitchen — but for some reason, I shudder.
As I stand to go back into the house, I see a figure in the woods. It looks like a man. A young man. With curly brown hair. I can see that much from my place on the porch, but not much else — his face is obscured behind the thick branches. I raise my hand to wave to him, and open my mouth to shout to him, but as soon as I do, he is gone. I close my eyes and listen for more footsteps. There is nothing but silence.
“What are you doing out here?” Jack says from the door. “It’s cold. Come inside.”
I follow him into the house. Once we’re in the kitchen, I throw my arms around him. “Honey, I saw something. Someone.”
“Where?”
“In the woods.”
“When?”
“Right now. This second. He was walking along the property line. I saw him.”
“Well, it’s hunting season.”
“He wasn’t a hunter.”
“Maybe he’s hiking.”
“No.”
“What, then?”
“It was Joe.”
“Joe?” Jack Mac is confused — so confused, he sits. “Our Joe?”
I nod.
“Jesus, Ave Maria. You know that’s impossible.”
“I know.” My eyes fill with tears. “But I think I’d know my son when I see him.”
Without hesitating, Jack takes his work jacket off the hook, pulls it on, and goes outside. I watch him as he walks across the field and into the woods. He surveys our property line, looking for the young man. Sometimes he takes a few steps into the woods and disappears. I don’t know why, but I’m relieved each time he reemerges. I stand at the window waiting as he checks the side yard and his wood shop. I half expect him to return with someone. With Joe. I hear the bang of the screen door.
“There’s no one there. It was a long trip. You’re tired. You’re imagining things. Really.” Jack takes off his jacket. “I didn’t see any footprints in the mud. Nothing.”
“I’m not making it up.”
Jack sits and pulls me onto his lap. “What did he look like?”
“He wasn’t four years old, like when he died, but older. Like twenty.”
“You know that can’t be.”
“I know.” I stand up. I go to the stove and pour a cup of coffee into a mug and hand it to him. I pull the rolls from the tinfoil and put them on a baking sheet. I slide them into the oven to warm them.
“It was someone else,” Jack says practically as he sorts the mail.
“Or it wasn’t anybody. My eyes played a trick on me. I hadn’t even had my coffee, and I’m half asleep here in my big fat empty nest. I miss Etta, and that always makes me miss Joe.” I pull the rolls from the oven.
“You’re not going to lose it on me, are you?”
“I’m not crazy.”
“Good.” Jack Mac smiles at me. “I can handle just about anything but a crazy woman.” He tosses the junk mail into the fire.
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