Page 8

8

Clayton Falls

T he first rays of early sunlight filtered through the thin curtains and fell across Bodhi’s face. He opened his eyes and blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings. Then he remembered. He was in the guest room above Dot’s. The sparsely furnished bedroom had a simple, almost monastic quality—a twin bed with a metal frame, one wooden chair in the corner, and a small dresser that held a tray with a pitcher of water and a drinking glass. If he squinted, he could almost believe he was at a meditation retreat center. He smiled softly. Dot should market the place that way. She’d have to beat off the would-be meditators and yogis with a stick.

He sat up and rolled first his neck, then his shoulders, working out the kinks from the previous day’s long hike. Outside, a robin chirped, welcoming the spring morning with its song.

Bodhi threw back the handmade quilt and padded to the chair where he’d rested his backpack before settling into sleep. He unrolled his thin travel mat and moved through his morning yoga routine—cat-cow, downward dog, the warrior poses, forward fold, mountain pose, and, finally, extended child’s pose, each asana flowing into the next like water. As he moved, his muscles warmed and loosened and his mind shed the last residue of sleep.

He arranged himself in the lotus position on his mat and transitioned into his medication practice. He focused on his breath, taking note of each inhalation and exhalation. Thoughts arose—reflections on yesterday’s encounter with Gracie, concern over Joey’s addiction, curiosity about what the future held for Dot and her town. He observed them, then invited them to drift away like clouds moving across the sky as he returned to his breath.

Twenty minutes later, he opened his eyes, his mind quiet and at peace. He rolled up the mat and returned it to its bag before gathering his toiletries and a change of clothes. He walked lightly down the hallway to the shared bathroom. The pipes groaned when he turned the shower knob, but the water was hot and the pressure was strong.

After toweling off, he brushed his teeth, combed through his damp curls, and dressed in lightweight hiking pants and a moisture-wicking shirt. When he returned to the bedroom, he folded his sleeping clothes and tucked them into his backpack along with the toiletry case. He moved with unhurried efficiency. After smoothing the quilt and plumping the pillow, he surveyed the room to confirm he was leaving it as he’d found it. Then he shouldered his pack and descended the narrow staircase, each step creaking under the weight of his boots.

The scents of coffee, French toast, and frying bacon wafted up to greet him. The diner was already half-full. A few people nodded in his direction, curious and welcoming. He heard Joey’s name and understood that the small-town grapevine was doing its job.

As he passed by the counter, Dot called out to him from behind the grill, raising her voice to be heard over the sizzle of bacon in a cast-iron skillet. “Morning, Doc!”

“Good morning, Dot.” His efforts to get her to call him Bodhi instead of Dr. King had been futile. ‘Doc’ was progress.

“There’s a baked oatmeal finishing up in the oven for you. I’ll be out with your tea in a flash. Grab the paper from the counter while you wait.”

A copy of The Allegheny Herald lay folded on the counter next to the cash register. Bodhi took it to the same corner table he’d occupied the night before. He skimmed the front page—local politics, a debate over school funding, an upcoming strawberry festival. Flipping the page, his gaze snagged on a black-and-white photograph that took up the top half. He studied it.

An old man sat on the porch of a modest house. Light filtered through the porch’s weathered railings, casting striped shadows across his lined face. His strong, gnarled hands gripped the knees of his khaki work pants. Behind him, a window reflected the shape of a hulking excavator across the street. The photograph highlighted decades of grueling work and hinted at a harbinger of change—or was it doom?

The caption read: “Edward Kovalic, 86, the last resident of Company Row, reflects on a lifetime in coal country as demolition begins on neighboring homes. Photo by Aurora Westin.”

An article below the photograph focused on a new exhibit at the Western Trail History Center outside Union Hill, titled Vanishing Coal Country: A Visual Record. It quoted both the photographer and the center’s director:

“’These company homes aren’t just buildings. Think of them as a living record of the coal industry, the miners who settled here and built these towns, or a living archive of our region’s industrial heritage,’ explains photographer Aurora Westin. ‘Each home holds generations of stories to be preserved, even as the region moves forward in a new direction.’”

“Professor Evan Jeffries, director of the Western Trail History Center, praises Westin’s work for its ‘unflinching honesty and deep empathy.’ ‘These photographs force us to confront difficult questions about progress and preservation in communities like ours,’ Jeffries notes. ‘They remind us that history isn’t just in the past—we’re making it with every decision about what we keep and what we discard.’”

Bodhi studied the photograph again. There was a quiet dignity in the man’s face. The composition was somehow at once haunting and hopeful.

A ceramic mug of steaming tea appeared at his elbow, followed by a bowl of golden-brown baked oatmeal topped with diced apples dusted with cinnamon.

“Rory’s got an eye, doesn’t she?” Dot said, nodding toward the newspaper as she lifted a small pitcher of what appeared to be milk over his oatmeal.

Bodhi looked up. “She certainly does.”

“She had a whole series in the paper a few months back. Took pictures of all the old miners and mill workers she could find. Asked them their stories, too.” Dot caught him looking at the pitcher. “Don’t worry. Joey’s mum—Wendy Alton—works at the natural food store on the square. She brought over a carton of soy milk for you.”

“She didn’t need to do that,” he protested.

She raised an eyebrow. “You saved her numbskull of a son’s life. I think a carton of milk is the least she can do.” She poured it over the oatmeal and then placed it on the table beside his tea.

He jerked his chin toward the photograph and article. “Is this series on display at the history center now?”

She nodded. “Yep. When Professor Evans saw the series, he approached Rory about expanding it into a permanent exhibit. The whole thing caused a bit of a stir in the string of towns between here and Union Hill. Some folks thought she made the region seem backward or downtrodden, but some of us were glad someone was paying attention.”

“It must be a difficult balancing act to acknowledge the past without getting trapped in it.”

“Don’t know that there’s much balancing happening.” Dot glanced at the photograph again. “They’re tearing down the whole Company Row to put in a tech incubator. The promise is it’ll bring jobs, but they sure won’t be for the families from Company Row.”

No, he imagined they wouldn’t be.

She gestured toward the bowl. “Go on, try it.”

He dug his spoon into the oatmeal and took a mouthful. The hot grains were sweetened with maple syrup and studded with walnuts, apples and dried cherries, and several spices. He could make out cinnamon, ginger, and cardamom. “It’s delicious.”

Dot beamed. “I thought so, too. I had a bowl myself to try it. Even used the soy milk.” She lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Don’t tell my regulars, but I think I’m gonna add it to the menu. No need to announce that it’s vegan.”

He chuckled and Dot bustled off to refill several coffee mugs and deliver a plate of home fries and eggs to Camden, who turned to wave to Bodhi at her direction. By the time she returned to check on him, his bowl was half empty.

“You must like it,” she said in a satisfied tone.

“I never lie,” he told her. Then gestured toward the paper. “There’s a line at the end of the article that mentions an upcoming exhibition in Pittsburgh. I know the gallery. That’s a big deal.”

“Her first time for a major gallery show, from what I hear. Rory’s been published in magazines and such, but this is different. Folks around here are pretty excited for her, even the ones who don’t much like her subject matter.” Dot replaced his mug of tea with a fresh one. “She lives just up the trail in Union Hill. Can’t miss her if you’re heading that way. Tall, striking woman. White-blonde hair. Looks like she stepped off the cover of a fashion magazine. I suppose because she did.”

“Pardon?”

“She used to be a model.” Dot’s eyes narrowed and she tilted her head. “You single?”

“I am.”

“Into women?”

“I am,” he repeated, amusement crinkling the corners of his eyes.

“Well then,” Dot said, letting the implication hang in the air.

Before she could elaborate, he added gently, “I’m on a solo journey at the moment. Seeking clarity, not companionship.”

To his relief, she didn’t press. Instead, she nodded her understanding. “Sometimes you’ve got to get your own house in order before inviting anyone else in.”

“Something like that,” Bodhi agreed.

His last relationship had been with Bette, the chief of police of a small town in Illinois. They’d maintained a long-distance connection for many years, finding a rhythm of visits and video calls that suited them both. But when Bette retired and decided to move to Oregon to be near her sister, she’d made the unilateral decision that the new, longer, distance was insurmountable.

Bodhi hadn’t argued. He understood her reasoning. In some ways, he was relieved. They ended their relationship on good terms. Still, it left him contemplative about what he wanted from his relationships, his work, his life. These were the questions that had set him out on the trail in search of answers.

He finished his breakfast and unfolded the map he carried. Studying it alongside the trail guide, he traced his finger along the Great Allegheny Passage.

“Planning today’s journey?” Dot asked, appearing at his shoulder.

“Yes. I’m deciding how far to go.”

“Weather’s supposed to be good. Clear and cool.” She pointed to a spot on the map. “Union Hill’s about forty miles up. It’s a pretty little town. On the leading edge of our regional rejuvenation, as the chamber of commerce likes to say.”

Bodhi aimed for roughly twenty miles a day. It was a reasonable, sustainable distance.

“That’s a good goal for tomorrow,” he told her. “What’s halfway between here and there?”

She waved her hand. “Eh, Clarksville. Not much there, I’m afraid. But my cousin’s youngest boy has a burger joint. Stop in and grab a bite. Tell him Aunt Dot sent you. He’ll find you somewhere to lay your head for the night.”

“Where exactly is the burger place?”

“Like I said, there’s not much there. You’ll find it.”

“Okay, then.”

“But then, you’ll aim for Union Hill tomorrow?”

He decided he would. “Union Hill it is.”

She smiled. “If you get there before dinner, try the bistro on Railroad Way. It’s pricey, but they’ll have your plant-based dishes. And you might even run into our local photographer. A solo journey doesn’t have to mean complete solitude, does it?”

Bodhi thanked her for the recommendation without commenting on her obvious matchmaking. He settled his bill for the meal and the room, added a generous tip, and thanked Dot warmly once again for her kindness and hospitality.

She surprised him and, judging by her expression, herself by enveloping him in a brief hug when he stood to shrug into his backpack. Then she shooed him out the door.

The morning air was cool, but it held the promise of warmth. Across the street from Dot’s Place, young green shoots peeked out from a small vegetable garden ringed by a chain-link fence. Even this tired part of town held signs of spring, life, and renewal to inspire gratitude.

He oriented himself toward the trail and set out on the day’s journey, syncing his breath to his footfalls. Before long, his thoughts wandered from the trail to return to the photograph of Edward Kovalic and the photographer who saw the truth so clearly. What had the professor said about her work? He called up the quote from his memory: “unflinching honesty and deep empathy.”

The exhibit sounded impactful. Maybe he’d detour to the Western Trail History Center to see it for himself. Despite Dot’s good-natured hints, he was more interested in the photographs than the photographer.