probably rented the cheapest car they had so she can pocket the rest of the car allowance. Can’t blame her for that. I remember pinching every penny when I started out.”
“You must have pinched hard. Moving from the Osburn ranch to Manhattan with nothing but a little money from Betty Osburn to get you started.”
Some stories are best left untold. My early months in Manhattan are one of them. How I even got to New York? Nobody knows that but me.
“Generous Betty and Jud,” I said. “Foster parents with big hearts.” Robin knew I was being sarcastic.
“And for Jud, at least, a big mouth,” she said, right on cue. “Plus a big appetite for the waitress at the Blue Heron diner.”
“His downfall.”
Jud Osburn was the final foster father in a long series for both of us. Near the end of our stay at the Osburn ranch in Cold Creek, Florida, he and the black-haired temptress who had faithfully served him ham and eggs on his trips into town had disappeared on the same day. Thoughtfully Jud had left a note for his wife.
Not coming back. Dont give a rats ass what you do with this hellhole you call a ranch or your wornout useless body. Don’t want a thing that blonges to you.
Jud had never been much of a speller.
Neither Robin nor I had been sorry to see him go. I was pretty sure Betty hadn’t been sorry, either. She sold the ranch and left Florida forever.
We were due to film at the ranch sometime after Christmas. Since Robin had lived there with me, returning was going to be tough for her, as well. I had asked to make the ranch our final stop, a chance to put memories firmly behind us at the end of this trip before we went back to our lives, and Mick had agreed.
Robin slipped behind the wheel, turned the key and immediately put the windows down. I have cars at most of my houses and use them when absolutely required, but nobody will ever vote me driver of the year. I learned how to brake and steer in the battered pickup Jud used exclusively on the ranch, followed by years in Manhattan when I didn’t drive even that much. Donny swears he’s going to hide my license because his livelihood depends on me staying in one piece.
I got in, too, tossing a jacket on the seat behind me, and we sat there a moment letting the car air out while she familiarized herself with the dashboard. Then she backed out, following the farm drive to the road and, once there, turning in the direction the innkeeper had told us to go.
“It’s lovely country,” Robin said.
“Coal country usually is—until the mining companies destroy it. And let’s not talk about mountaintop removal.”
“How close to Randolph Furnace do you want to get?”
“As close as I can without having a panic attack.”
Robin kept her voice casual, but I knew she was worried. “That’s something new, isn’t it? Panic attacks, I mean.”
I’m almost as good an actress as I am a singer, so I sounded casual, too. “I’ve probably been having them for years. Smaller ones, of course. I thought of them as nerves. Stage fright. Whatever I could call them to make them seem normal.”
“You’re one of the most courageous people I know. You always keep going, no matter what.”
“Not so much anymore.”
“What do you call this?” Robin glanced at me. “I don’t know anybody else who would decide to expose herself to the world as a way to drive out her demons.”
“Demons. Perfect. I like that better than nerves.”
“I’m serious.”
“It’s not courage. I just know I have to put things in perspective. My life now. My life then. My life tomorrow.”
“What part of your life now isn’t going to follow you into the future?”
“Trust you to go right to the heart of it.”
“Are you thinking about slowing down? Having a different life?”
“I’m thinking about a lot of things.” I let the subject rest.
Robin doesn’t push. If I don’t embroider, she knows I’m finished. Sometimes learning the fine art of conversation late in childhood is a plus.
“What about you?” I asked, after a few minutes of silence. “Just coming along with me is a huge change. Is this the start of something new? Or a temporary aberration?”
“I would never call you an aberration. Annoying, sure, but that’s as far as it goes.”
I also know better than to push. We talked about Mick and the crew. They had met before dinner to discuss what tomorrow would bring. Mick seems like a laid-back guy, but Robin said the meeting was under his tight control every minute. He briefed everyone on the logistics of our location and concerns to watch out for, including a neighbor at the home where my grandparents had lived, who had flatly refused to allow any shots of his home or yard. I zoned out when she recounted information on storyboards, equipment and shot lists. Thankfully she covered most of that quickly.
In addition to Jerry, the DP who had been with us on the plane, a gaffer and sound technician had joined us at the inn. While Mick was both producer and director, a line producer whose job was day-to-day production would join us early tomorrow morning. She was still finalizing details.
Documentaries are often shot with skeletal crews because finding enough money for salaries and expenses is problematic. Since this one had enviable funding, including a grant from a foundation dedicated to improving the future of dependent children, we had our own executive producer in New York. He might visit us at some point, but his job was the business side of making this film, securing more funding and publicity, but not the creation. That was all Mick.
We drove for ten minutes before Robin slowed. “City limits.” She nodded to a sign on the right and slowed so we could read it. We could have parked in the middle of the road; we were the only car in sight. Off to the left was what looked like a man-made mountain, maybe of coal that had never been shipped, with what looked like trees and shrubs springing out of it. It seemed familiar.
Randolph Furnace. I licked my lips. If the sign had been here when I was living with my grandparents, I’d been too young to read it. “‘Population 803.’ The place is booming. Quick, let’s buy property before it skyrockets.”
“I guess it was a different town back in the day, when the mine was open.”
“The mine closed a year or two after my mother swept me back into her hopeless little life. She hated everything about this town, although at that time she probably could have found a job. She had bigger aspirations, though. Places to see, things to do.”
Through the years I’ve learned to tell that story without bitterness in my voice, but Robin knew me well enough to hear the undertone.
“It’s really a pretty area, CeCe. Frank Lloyd Wright’s Fallingwater isn’t far away.”
“I don’t think Frank was building coal patch houses. You’ll see the one
