Chapter 9 - The Clearing of the Land
Six months later, the first snow of November fell over the gravel quarry forty miles west of the city.
The old limestone house had changed.
The green steel shutters were gone, replaced by wide, double-paned glass windows that let in the soft, gray light from the cornfields. The red oak lane had been paved with smooth, dark asphalt, lined with small stone lanterns that glowed softly when the sun went down.
In the backyard, where the old tractor shed used to stand, sat a bright wooden playhouse painted light blue with a red cedar roof—built by hand by Marcus over three weekends in October.
A big gray dog—a stray shepherd mix Voss had found near the docks in South Chicago three months ago—lay on the front porch, its head resting on its paws, its tail giving two lazy thumps against the wood as Voss stepped out onto the porch.
Voss wore an old flannel shirt, gray trousers, and work boots. He had a mug of black coffee in his right hand and a wooden plane in his left, which he used to smooth the edges of a pine shelf he was building for the kitchen.
The sound of a school bus engine echoed down the lane.
The heavy yellow bus pulled up to the stone pillars at the end of the driveway, its red lights flashing against the white snow.
The door folded open, and Elena stepped down onto the asphalt.
She was eight now. She had grown two inches over the summer, her cheeks rounder, her dark eyes bright and clear, free of that cold, terrifying calm that had broken Voss’s heart in his kitchen six months ago.
She wore a bright yellow snowsuit and carried a red backpack covered in small silver butterfly pins.
"Hector!" she called out, her voice ringing clear through the crisp winter air as she ran up the driveway, her small boots crunching in the fresh snow.
The gray dog stood up, its tail wagging frantically as it trotted down the steps to meet her.
Voss set his coffee mug down on the porch railing and squatted down, holding out his arm.
She didn't hesitate. She threw herself against his chest, her small arms wrapping tight around his neck, smelling of cold wool, sweet milk, and the red apples she’d had for lunch.
"How was school?" Voss asked, standing up and lifting her—backpack and all—into his arms.
"I got an A on my spelling test," she announced proudly, pulling a folded piece of paper out of her coat pocket and holding it up to his face. "Look! Mrs. Gable put a star on it!"
Voss looked at the paper. At the top, written in neat, round pencil letters, was her name: Elena Voss-Morales.
He looked at the small silver star glued to the corner of the page.
"That’s a good star," Voss said, his voice soft, rough with a warmth that had taken thirty-eight years to find its way out of his chest. "A very good star."
They walked inside the limestone house.
The kitchen was warm, filled with the rich, heavy scent of beef stew simmering in a heavy iron pot on the stove. Marcus was sitting at the pine table, wearing a red flannel shirt, reading the afternoon paper with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose.
"Hey kiddo," Marcus said, looking over his paper. "Did you bring my paper back?"
May you like
"It’s in my bag!" Elena cheered, sliding down from Voss’s arms and unzipping her backpack. She pulled out a small, rolled-up comic book and set it on the table in front of Marcus. "The lady at the store said this one came in today!"
Marcus smiled—a real, wide smile that reached all the way to the scar through his eyebrow. "Good girl."
