new growth: the world becomes more beautiful with each day.

Mose’s early twenties pass with few exceptional events to break up the monotony. He tries to get off the farm more often, mostly to sell beets at the local fairs and markets. He doesn’t often speak to anyone, but still it’s something. He likes to watch the people go by without admitting to himself that he’s looking for Cecilia. She’s dead, he knows that. The nightmares remind him each night. Something in him searches anyway.

Dwight’s new job at the paper company in Scranton keeps him away from the farm most of the time and Mose finds himself working harder to pick up the slack. The result is a record beet harvest year at the turn of the century just as Mose was hoping to pursue his new ambition of becoming a motocross champion. He loves the roar of the engine as the bike shakes his body and how the whole world seems to disappear.

His friendship with his cousin becomes strained when Dwight eventually lays down the law with a speech about responsibility to the family land and resistance to frivolous obsessions, even though Dwight devotes all of his time to an apparently all-powerful man named Michael and later, a severe blonde woman named Angela. Mose sees this woman at the farm only occasionally – glimpses taupe and grey on the staircase or behind the wheel of a retreating beige car.

Eventually she deigns to join them for evening meals and then morning ones as well. She speaks to Mose in clipped tones at first, although his infinite patience for rudeness wears her down over time. Sometimes while Dwight is patrolling the cemetery for lustful teenagers, Mose keeps Angela company in the kitchen. She’s pretty good at chess and carefully explains God’s love for the virtuous. Mose isn’t quite sure where Angela fits in since she sleeps over at the farm three times a week and if they were locked in that bedroom praying, she probably wouldn’t be calling “Oh, D” over and over.

*

One spring afternoon while they’re tilling the soil in the East Field, Mose tries again to explain to Dwight what’s been troubling him for the last few years, why he has trouble sleeping. Cecilia had been his secret – he hadn’t breathed a word of her existence to anyone in the family. Now that she’s gone, he can’t convey what she meant, how the sound of her voice felt. He can’t tell Father Schrute that he loved her because they grew up together. He can’t tell his cousin Dwight that she was perfect because she taught him Creole and whittling and all about chickens and never once spoke a cross word when he got it wrong. 

In any case, Dwight has just broken up with Angela – something about French Fries and a cat named…Cupcake? Icing? He can’t quite remember. Dwight looks like he could use someone to talk to. He’s been moping around the farm since October, probably doesn’t realize Mose can hear his desperate wailing from all the way up in the attic. Even though Mose’s nightmares have been a lot better the last few years, lately he has been woken in the night by his cousin’s grief and feigns bad dreams to justify a trip downstairs.

It seems to comfort Dwight, so Mose makes the trek down his narrow staircase every night to sit at the end of Dwight’s bed. He asks for stories – all of Dwight’s favourites, since he knows the value of a man’s preferred food or pair of the thickest socks during a difficult time. They make their way through a vast mess called the Silmarillion and the Harry Potter series (a baffling adventure about children who learn magic instead of practical skills and find themselves in danger because of it). Mose has little sympathy for a society so dependant on the invisible. Trees, the earth, a hammer – that’s what’s real and true. In this case, he misses Miss Angela’s anti-Rowling stance. It’s a corrupt world and gives children misleading ideas. True talent is something you must demonstrate with your hands, not some nonsense word that can conjure a campfire or a silver stag.

*

Sometime in late May, Dwight returns home from work long after dark, everything about him rumpled. It’s the first time Mose has seen him smile in eight months and he doubts it has anything to do with raccoon prank they pulled earlier in the day. Even his laser tag team’s recent tournament win had only succeeded in producing a slightly less homicidal frown. Mose settles into his attic room after greeting his cousin, content in the knowledge that he would not need to ask for a bedtime story that night.

Only a few weeks go by before Dwight informs him that they will need to build an indoor bathroom, since Angela has agreed to be his wife. It turns out she refused the first four times on account of her aversion to using an outhouse, regardless of whether or not Mose had fixed the lock on the door. Apparently a flushable toilet is a deal breaker for some women. In this matter, Mose is only too happy to oblige.

All of his supplies arrive one afternoon in a big white and orange van. Dwight had gone all out with the internet ordering, buying all the fanciest fixtures; they had some extra cash lying around from the recent eBay sale of Dwight’s new X-terra. The delivery man glances at the outhouse as he hands Mose a box of tiles. His name tag says Hubert. “You upgrading?”

“Ladies don’t like to pee in the yard, Hubert,” Mose replies in his very precise English.

Hubert laughs good-naturedly. “Ain’t that the truth. I couldn’t have said it better myself.”

Mose signs for the delivery by carefully printing his first name, then pulls a measuring tape from his pocket. He has a lot of work to do. “Safe travels, Hubert. Thank you for coming.”

*

Angela’s maid of honour, Pam From Work (not Pam from the County Fair Cotton Candy Booth, obviously) spends the two days before the wedding at the farm organizing a reception, stringing white lights and garlands in the yard and all over the house by day and sleeping amongst the American memorabilia by night. It’s Mose’s favourite guest room and he insists she stay there this time around. He wants her to appreciate what a beautiful job he’s done with the decorations: there’s a hand-stitched Stars and Stripes and Cheeseburgers quilt, Mose’s own paintings of the Kentucky Derby Winners for the last six years and of course the bedside table with a mosaic surface of Budweiser beer caps (a tribute of sorts to Dwight’s laser tag team – they had really pulled out all the stops to supply him with enough tiles to complete the project. Sure, there had been the incident with the pig, but ultimately Mose was very pleased with the finished product.) Pam, on the night before the wedding, expresses enthusiastic approval for his work, but declines his offer for a themed Davy Crockett bedtime story, even though he already has on his raccoon hat (to be fair, the raccoon had been asking for it).

It’s nice to have a woman around the house again, someone to remind him of deft fingers and tender words. Their wisdom is different, seems rooted in something he and Dwight will never understand. Despite Angela’s harshness, he could never argue with the sagacity of “God helps those who help themselves” and of course the phrase she most often used in his presence: “If you have poor table manners, no one will ever love you.” Sting though it may, her prudence is unparalleled.

Pam’s wisdom is worded more kindly, but is no less true. While they press the antique lace table clothes and finish hemming curtains for the new bathroom, she asks about his life and reminds him to do what makes him happy. They work, sewing machines humming into the night and he considers what his future should hold. The farm – he has always loved the farm, from the first time he swilled the soil across the back of his tongue. And Dwight, well Dwight would probably starve if it weren’t for him. Plus they’re best friends, which won’t ever change unless Dwight finds someone cooler to spend his time with.

Of course there are his dreams of Cecilia and all the people who have passed and left him here. It’s Heaven, he supposes, or Valhalla, or the Grey Haven, or whatever they call it in all the countries he’s never been to. He tells Pam of his heaven’s autumn leaves and how there are no skiing accidents and no lightning and no guns. She hugs him a little before retiring to the America room and he can hear her whispering on the phone to Jim Who Doesn’t Like Trampoline Shows long after lights out.

If Mose belonged to any other family he would probably class Dwight and Angela’s wedding as bizarre. However, he is a Schrute and such things no longer faze him – they are common place to a boy once horrified by strange customs. For better or worse, this is his world now and he loves it: the incomprehensible names everyone has given him; international beet sales, even though he’s terrible at it; the monthly goat Christenings as per Schrute slaughtering guidelines.

The pre-ceremony takes place in a pair of freshly dug graves at sunrise. Mose stands next to Grandmutter Mannheim’s headstone and watches the grim swapping of canvas funeral shrouds. Mose, Angela and Dwight then relocate to Angela’s parish chapel where the couple exchange vows under the strict gaze of Angela’s childhood minister and the congregation she judges and is judged by. Mose has heard her speak imperiously of sisters, but they do not attend. Instead Pam stands faithfully at her side and holds Angela’s tea rose bouquet when the tradition requires. Dwight has often spoken of Pam’s capability and trustworthiness as a deputy and Mose knows Angela’s flowers and train are in deft hands.

As the wedding party passes back down the aisle, a camera crew tries to conceal itself in the back pew and seems to have a keen interest in the thinnest of smiles a woman named Phyllis offers the brides as she ushers a group of her co-workers into a van with “Vance Refrigeration” printed on the side.

The guests caravan up to the homestead, welcomed by twinkling lights that guide them up the dirt driveway. All the cousins who won’t go into a Christian church have champagne and beet wine chilled and ready to serve. It’s moments like these that Mose loves his family, despite all his original misgivings. Before the celebration kicks off, everyone gathers in the front hall, cheering as Mose produces a silver key to unlock the door of what had once been the grubby old canning room. Inside is a shining oasis of white porcelain, brass taps and hand-planed wood.

“Pam picked the curtain fabric.” Mose offers humbly when Angela throws her arms around his waist. All this happiness looks good on her, even as she straightens up again to tug fussily at the hem of her cream jacket. Dwight seems a whole foot taller as he offers his new wife first flush.

The Schrute clan has always thrown the best parties. This one is no exception – Uncle Grit is still strumming her guitar for an enthusiastic crowd at sunrise. Mose makes his excuse and finds himself walking north towards the maple grove. He hasn’t been back in over eight years, not since Cecilia died. It’s been a long week for him, seeing all the love his cousin carries in his heart - it’s hard not to think of what his own heart is missing. He longs to touch those trees again, to remember how things had been before The Storm.

Mose follows the creek, the dark mountains beyond his left shoulder. To his right, there is a warm peach sky building to a clear morning. Behind him is the melody of a green plastic recorder that ends with a wave of joyous cheering that startles all the early morning birds. Mose is smiling as he steps within the borders of the grove. He could feel so many things – sadness, regret, loss, guilt. Instead he feels lightness, a near contentment. People he loves are happy. And Cecilia is here; her shape in the limb of every tree; her strength in the vein of every rock; her spirit in the flutter of every leaf.

He has avoided this place for so long, only to discover that it brings him peace. He can remember her fondly. He can remember her well. His heart aches from fullness and emptiness, both at the same time.

Halfway across the grove he can see light between the branches, the openness from her family’s fields. A shadow moves and flickers among the thickets. He waits patiently, expecting a young doe (he has long since overcome his fear of Tasmanian Devils). The creature has a strange gait, almost as if it’s walking on three legs.

And it’s…well, he hasn’t slept in over twenty four hours and all these memories must be playing tricks on his mind. Because it can’t possibly be Cecilia stepping out from behind that tree. It can’t be her struggling towards him, leaning heavily on a cane and smiling. A delicate hand touches his as the sky lightens and he must be dreaming at home in his attic bed. Nine years her voice whispers as lithe arms slip around his shoulders. I’ve been counting the days and he kept me there and now he’s gone and I missed you and and and... Despite her weakness, the old grace is still there. Before he will kiss her, he makes her pinch his arm to prove he isn’t asleep.

She obliges impatiently and begins to explain. “All this time, my father told me you died in the storm, that you were killed by the same lightning strike that crippled me. I heard the party and I wanted to meet them, all the cousins you spoke of.” Her fingers curl tightly in his. “I was lying in my bed in my empty house, thinking of your family celebrating without you. I had to see them, maybe share what I knew of you. I wanted to see all the things you described and it would be like you were still a part of the world. Cecilia has to stop for a minute, searching for breath, for composure. “I never imagined I would find you here. How are you here?”

Mose laughs then, not because it’s funny, but for joy and bad luck and all the wasted time that suddenly meant nothing the moment he laid eyes on her. He shares his story, his grief, his years, as he helps her back towards the homestead. Hungry Schrutes are an unruly bunch and he has biscuits to get in the oven.

Cecilia rests at the kitchen table, politely receiving Dwight’s invasive questions and fielding Angela’s concerns about voodooism with serenity. In fact, she barely takes notice of their well-meaning insults; she’s too busy grinning at him from across the room. The new day’s sun and the stove warm the room as Cecilia wins everyone over, even the bride. And though the cost is visible in the strain of her muscles, she stands at his side, rinsing each freshly washed dish the family leaves behind.

After everyone has gone to bed with stomachs filled to capacity by the traditional wedding-hangover-breakfast, Mose leads Cecilia out onto the porch. They mean to talk about all the things that have happened between then and now, only it’s been a long night for them both. The last thing he remembers is her hand cradling the back of his.

Mose’s next moment of awareness is being woken abruptly by his Aunt Shirley. She is a day late for her son’s wedding – typical for a mother who would steal the copper pots and pretend her own child is a foundling. Shirley passes into the house and Mose turns to look over at Cecilia. The rocking chair is empty.

A dream, he thinks; it was only a dream. The reality of her loss comes again like the first day. It sinks him back down onto the wicker bench. He wraps his arms around his knees and tries not to rock since Dwight tells him it makes him look weird in front of guests.

The mesh porch door slams. “I thought you would sleep until the sun went down. I couldn’t sit any longer, so I went inside to help Angela clean up.”

“Oh.” Mose replies quietly, then more loudly: “Oh!”

Cecilia is there, staring at him strangely. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” The melody of her Creole is warm and familiar and he has missed it almost as much as the curve of her lips. “Dwight sent me out to find you. He wouldn’t tell me why.”

“It is the best man’s duty to give the bridegroom his first haircut as a newlywed. Dwight must be properly shorn before the festivities can recommence.”

            She grins and grins and grins. His own cheeks ache. “Well, you’d better get to it then.”

            “Yeah. Right away. I can’t think of anything more important.” He pauses, enthralled by her smile. “Please sit next to me.”

            “Your cousin…he’s waiting.” She lingers by the door, suddenly shy.

            One of the little nephews races past into the yard, punching Mose in the thigh on the way by. Mose bears it easily and reaches for her hand. “It doesn’t matter. I want to talk with you. I want to hear about everything.”

            Cecilia tugs at his beard and coaxes him up off the wicker bench. “We have time for that. Let’s go inside. Your family is waiting.”

*

On the northern border of the Schrute beet farm, there is a grove of ancient sugar maple trees. A hundred years earlier their numbers had been so great that a person could hide undetected in them for days, even when pursued by the most competent hunter. It so happened that this had been tested on more than one occasion. And while the trees had dwindled, the family spoke of this grove with unfailing reverence. Beets were the lifeblood of the farm, but the maples had provided the very floorboards under their feet, the roof over their heads, the table they prayed at and the posts of their lovingly hand-made beds. The year of the great 1955 cutworm infestation the family survived solely by selling the sturdiest dining sets in the county. Possibly in all of America, if it such a thing could be accurately judged.

It is in this grove of maples that Mose falls in love for the first and only time. And it is beneath the boughs of these maples that he marries his Cecilia.