An Infinite Debt 
by Jen

Scene one 

The blue velvet ring box could have held lead, it
weighed so heavily in her hands. Yet it displayed a simple
diamond--a simple question. Christy's fingers faltered
as she tried to touch the ring, but she could only stare
at the gem as the afternoon sun sparkled in it. She held
David's hope. She held his declaration and promise to love
her. Perhaps she cradled her future. She closed her eyes
and heard herself breathing slowly and carefully, and she
lifted her head.

"Christy..." She opened her eyes as David turned towards
her, approaching her. He searched her face, but she backed
away. David stopped.

"Christy," he quietly said again. He wasn't pleading. His
eyes didn't beg her. "I love you," he stated.

She nodded slightly and paused before she spoke. "I know,"
she said softly.

"I want you to be my wife." He stepped forward again.

She decided not to retreat. "Yes. I know." In two more
paces, David closed the distance between them. Christy
noticed the warmth of his presence, how it blocked the
chill of autumn. She wanted his nearness to soothe her,
to dissolve the tension in her mind.

"Will you marry me?" he whispered.

Christy shut her eyes again as she breathed in his
question. She felt David's hands move to her arms and
hold them. She remained silent for several moments,
contemplating the promise he offered her. Again.

She had delayed committing to his first proposal for over
a year now, telling David and herself that she wasn't
ready to marry. A few weeks ago, he had reminded her of
his offer when she'd attached herself to the abandoned
baby the schoolchildren had discovered.

"It looks like we have the beginnings of a family," he'd
said. She'd been tempted. She'd loved the child. But
the baby's sudden struggle to breathe one morning and
Christy's inability to cope had frightened her to her
senses. Christy had given the child in adoption to Opal
and Tom McHone and had allowed David's second proposal to
slip away. But now she faced his question once more. She
knew he would not offer it again; he'd told her so. She
had delayed long enough.

Christy stared up at this man who had abided with her
indecision for almost two years. Her consent to marry him
lay a word away. In a moment she could promise her life
to him, and she knew he would accompany her until their
final breath together. She could rely on him.

"David,..." Her thoughts began slipping out, "I could..."

"Yes." He smiled. "You could." He swallowed and moved
to take the ring box from her. He removed the ring from
its slot and studied it. "And you would always have me,
Christy." His voice shook slightly, and Christy carefully
smiled.

"I know," she said. The thought eased her mind, although
loneliness had rarely dogged her before today. She had
journeyed alone to Cutter Gap two autumns ago. And,
alone, she had faced the mistrust, false accusations,
and impatience of the mountain people. Yet she had not
suffered in isolation for she had made friends: Miss Alice,
Fairlight Spencer, Ruby Mae, David. Neil MacNeill.

Christy's mind hesitated with the image of Neil
MacNeill. His rough face. His tumble of sandy brown
hair. His eyes--inexplicable more often than vulnerable. An
emptiness surprised her. And shame.

Perhaps David noticed these in her eyes because he held
her arms again and said, "Christy. Look at me."

But Christy remembered that Neil remained on his horse
behind her, watching her. Why was he here? Why had he
followed her from his cabin? What could he want? Christy
had ridden to his cabin to see him; instead, she had
seen him embracing Margaret. Shock, shame, and a sudden
loneliness had chased her away. Christy had galloped to the
school, ended up in David's arms, and had fallen headlong
into his final proposal. But Neil remained close behind
her. She began shaking her head.

"David,...David, I don't think..." He shook his head with
her, and urgency crept into his voice.

"No. No." He glanced behind her. "I love you."

"I know, David, but..."

"But what?" He demanded quietly. She remained speechless,
unable to meet his gaze. David regarded her confusion,
then straightened and stared at the doctor on the horse
behind her. "Christy," he said evenly, "look at him."

Christy frowned. "What?"

"Look at him!" David placed his hands on her shoulders
and turned her around to face Neil. Christy held her
breath. She focused on the horse first, on the white smudge
between its eyes.

"What do you see, Christy?" David asked.

She shook her head. "David, I don't think this--"

"Then I'll tell you what I see." He bent down to speak into
her ear. "I see a troubled man. A married man. I see a man
haunted by his past and his present." He paused. "Isn't
that what you see?"

"David..." she said weakly.

"Christy."

Christy lifted her eyes at the sound of Neil's voice. She
found his clouded expression fixed on her.

"Christy," David continued in her ear, "what do you see
that he can offer you?"

Christy pulled her ear from David's
questions. "Dr. MacNeill has offered nothing but his
friendship," she asserted.

"And what more can he promise?" David insisted. Christy met
Neil's eyes again. They remained veiled. She saw neither
hope nor fear in them, only his familiar, mysterious
intensity. Of course he could promise her nothing, at least
nothing like the love and companionship David held out to
her. Everyone in the cove knew Neil's situation with his
estranged wife. But only Christy and Neil (and Margaret)
knew that his wandering wife had returned home with her
belongings. And only the three of them knew that Neil had
left his wife's arms to follow Christy here. But nothing in
Neil's expression would tell Christy why. So she remained
silent to David's question. Neil, however, did not.

"Grantland," the doctor said flatly, "why do you concern
me...if I'm nay a threat?"

"You're not a threat," David assured him. "But you are
here."

Neil slowly inhaled. "So I am."

"And why are you here, Doctor?"

Christy thought she saw uneasiness steal into Neil's
composure. He shifted in his saddle and gazed over at
the children who continued watching from the schoolhouse
porch. None of them had uttered a sound all this time. Then
Christy noticed Neil's jaw tighten. He finally looked down
upon David and replied, "I'm here, Reverend, because I
care about Christy."

"Indeed." Triumph crept into David's voice.

"Yes," Neil confirmed. "But I believe you were aware of
that already."

David Grantland nodded slowly. "But I'm not sure how much
you really care, Doctor."

"David, please..." Christy said, pulling away from her
suitor's grasp.

"I care enough," Neil said, speaking over her, "to tell
her the truth."

"And what is the truth?" David questioned. Christy faced
David and silently implored him to stop. But he was too
busy scrutinizing Dr. MacNeill to look at her. When Neil
didn't answer right away, Christy turned once more to peer
up at him. Regret stared at her.

"The truth is," he began quietly, "that dreams can be as
beautiful as promises. An' they're both as binding. But
to mistake one for the other.." He paused, shaking his
head as his thoughts seemed to drift. Then he continued,
"Dreams can be mended when they break." He glanced at
David. "Promises, however, will only sever those they
disappoint. An' who can recover from that?"

"You have," Christy quietly ventured. Neil regarded her.

"Have I?"

"Not all promises are disappointing, Doctor," David
interjected. The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

"True."

"And I don't intend for mine to be. Not that it's any of
your concern."

"It's nay my concern," Neil admitted. "But then, I was na
referring to your promises."

Before David could challenge him further, though, Christy
said to Neil, "Margaret...made vows to you. And she broke
them. But she..."

"I made those vows, too," Neil countered. "I never should
have." Christy heard the plea in his voice.

"But you did," she said unsteadily. Neil swayed back in
his saddle, helplessness lining his forehead.

"Yes." Then he said, almost inaudibly, "I'm sorry."

The tenderness in Neil's confession captured her
momentarily. Unexpected relief suspended her anxiety,
and she had the impulse to cry. But her abandon startled
her. Joy tumbled into heartache, then shame. And the
loneliness that had pursued her from Neil's cabin returned
to ridicule her. Wordlessly, she lowered her eyes to the
brown grass and the scuffed hooves of Neil's horse.

"Christy," Neil began again, although she wouldn't look
at him, "vows aren't the promises we make only to others;
we make them to ourselves."

"I know that," she told him, embarrassed and weary.

"Dreams are the promises we make only to ourselves."

Christy didn't respond. Behind her, though, David stepped
closer. She didn't move to face him.

"There's no reason," David said, "why vows can't fulfill
dreams."

"Sometimes," she heard Neil reply, "they do."

"And what about now?" David asked. Christy knew he'd
directed his question at her. When she remained motionless,
though, David stepped around to face her. He still held the
ring in one hand and its velvet box in the other. "What
about now?" he repeated. "There's no reason...that we
shouldn't..."

"David...," she whispered sadly.

"Is there?"

"I don't know."

"Why not?"

Before Christy could answer, though, she noticed the
horse's hooves step backward. She looked up to find Neil
tugging on the reins, his horse reared its head as it began
to trot away. But just as she stepped away from David, Neil
prodded the animal into a gallop, and she watched Neil ride
out of the schoolyard, into the trees and out of sight.

"Christy," David said behind her. Christy stared at where
Neil had vanished into the shadows. Then she reluctantly
turned around. However, David wasn't looking at her but
at the engagement ring in his hand, rolling the band
between his thumb and forefinger, gazing at the diamond's
sparkle. Finally, he met her eyes. The hopelessness she
saw in him surprised her. "I need an answer," David stated.

"David, I don't want..."

"Just...just your answer. I need to hear it."

Christy's gaze drifted toward the silent school
children. For them, she had journeyed to Cutter Gap. For
them she had remained in the mountains, despite the
hopelessness that could tatter the beauty she'd found
here. And she had come to assume that she would spend
her life battling the ignorance, illness and despair that
besieged her students constantly. She sighed.

"I know you care for these people, David," she quietly
said.

"I do," he affirmed. Then his brow furrowed and he looked
away. "I don't think...not as deeply as you do, though." He
gazed behind her, beyond her toward the mountains thick
with trees. "You've grown deep roots here, Christy."

"And have you?" He said nothing, but she saw doubt in
his eyes.

"You've worked hard for these people," she reminded him.

"That's not same, though, is it?"

Christy opened her mouth, hesitated, then admitted, "I...I
don't think I can say yes to you."

"Then tell me no."

"No." Her voice cracked, and she whispered, "I'm sorry."

The silent pain on David's face would haunt her for
several nights to come. And as he left her standing in
the schoolyard with the children still immovable from the
schoolhouse porch, Christy doubted she would ever again
feel so old or alone.

Scene two 

Mist drifted through the Smokies as soon as
afternoon shadows began stretching in the valleys. By the
time the daylight had faded into dusk, then nightfall,
the fog had risen toward the mountainsides. The breath of
dying leaves on damp earth floated through the branches of
the yellow buckeyes, tulip poplars, and other hardwoods
that had been rusting in the autumn air. The fog slipped
beneath a fallen maple, hovered over the flow of a creek,
and shrouded a man perched on a rock overlooking the water.

He had been blinded by the rising mist, yet the water
gliding over the stones in the creek below assured his
ears that he hadn't stirred from the granite outcropping
since sunset. He didn't move now, either, as he blankly
stared into the obscured darkness. Not even the moonlight
reached him here--only the mountain fog which he inhaled
and exhaled, allowing its chill to penetrate his lungs.

And as the night wore on, the vapor penetrated any
opening that it came upon. It moved upon each cabin in
the Cove, invisible tendrils winding through gaps in
the walls and window sills. By dawn, though, the pale
sunlight began revealing the haze in each home. Early
risers awoke and moved through the blurred light into
their morning rituals--pumping water, kneading dough,
grinding coffee. They worked the mist into their morning
meals and ate while the sun strengthened, burning away the
fog. The haze vanished before mid-morning, but its damp
scent lingered beneath the trees of the Cove for several
hours more.

And it was to this aroma of earth and leaves, as well as
coffee, that Margaret awoke. In Neil's bedroom, she lay
on her side, fully dressed and without covers. Her long,
black curls concealed her face.

She slowly rolled onto her back, her hair sliding away and
her eyes still shut. She lay motionless for several moments
before she opened her eyes, blinking with grogginess. When
she noticed the bare rafters above her, she frowned. She
turned her head toward the window to the left, then to the
corner of the bedroom on that side as she raised herself
up on her elbows. Margaret stared at her surroundings,
still frowning, until she looked to her left again at the
empty pillow beside her. Her frown gradually vanished in
recognition. She sat up, sighing.

As Margaret's bare feet touched the chilly floor planks,
she shivered. She rose to her feet and moved toward the
dresser across the room. A thin woman in the mirror stared
at her--her clothes disheveled, worn from the previous day,
and her brown eyes puffy from a restless sleep. Margaret
gathered her hair in her right hand and twisted it into a
dark rope, loosely wrapping it into a bun at the nape of
her neck. She studied herself again. Her face appeared
rounder now. She tucked in her wrinkled shirtwaist and
smoothed her dark woolen skirt down the front and along
its sides. After another evaluation of her own reflection
and the reflection of the empty room behind her, she shook
her head and managed to smirk at herself.

"It's like you never left," she told herself. But as she
continued to stare into the face before her, her smirk
faded, and finally she turned away.

Margaret descended the stairs, her shoes and stockings in
hand, and the aroma of coffee strengthened. At the foot of
the stairway, Margaret paused and watched the man across
the cabin. Neil stood over the stove, pouring coffee into
a mug, also wearing the same blue chambray shirt he'd worn
the day before.

As Neil turned and lifted the mug to his lips, he noticed
Margaret. Several moments of careful silence passed between
them before Neil set his mug on the stove top and reached
for another.

"You're finally up," he stated.

Margaret wordlessly stepped forward and walked across the
room. She took the mug of coffee Neil handed her and drank
from it, eyeing him over its rim.

"I was surprised to find you here still," he told her.

Margaret took another sip. "Why?" she finally
asked. "Because you ran after Miss Huddleston as if you'd
never see her again?" She vaguely smiled as Neil's jaw
tightened.

"So, you were you hoping I'd run away again--as if I
couldn't stand the thought that you'd rather be with her?"

"I don't care what ya think," he said evenly. Margaret's
smile disappeared. But then she lifted her chin and
turned away.

"Well, that's nothing new." She set her coffee mug on
a nearby table and moved a chair to sit down. "Fact is,
I've no where else to go." She began rolling up a woolen
stocking to slip onto her foot. "I waited for you last
night," she admitted, "just like I use to wait...watching
the fog rise from the ground and the darkness creep into
the cabin." She reached for the second stocking. "And you
didn't walk in with it."

"Margaret..."

"I used to cry," she continued over him, her voice steady,
controlled. "I used to rage and scream at the walls because
I couldn't scream at you."

"You've told me..."

"And I used to plan." She jammed her foot into one of the
shoes. "And dream about life outside of these godforsaken
mountains."

"And then ya left," Neil finished for her, "to find out
for yourself. I know. I remember." He paused. "And what
happened, Margaret? Could ya not find your freedom?"

Bitterness twisted her mouth into a wry smile, and she
leaned over to button the shoe. "There's no such thing as
freedom, Mac. Not if you're penniless, with one foot in
the grave."

Neil slowly nodded, watching her. "And so you've come
back."

Margaret sat up in response to Neil's flat tone. She
studied his face.

"You're all I have left," she told him quietly. "I have
nothing else--"

"And nowhere to go. So you've said." Neil's expression
gradually hardened as he stared at her. "You've not
changed. You're still the selfish woman who fled from all
the *boredom* I provided for you. You've managed to find
emptiness everywhere else, and now you're back. What do
ya hope to find here that's different now?"

"I don't," she said. "I don't hope. I don't hope that
anything has changed. Not you," her wry smile flashed
again, "or even me." She leaned back in the chair. "I
just wait. Like last night. You were gone all night,
but I just waited." She shook her head. "No raging. No
crying. Just..." She shrugged.

"What were you waiting for?" he asked her. Margaret
wouldn't answer him. Neil crossed over to her and knelt
by the chair to look her in the face. "What have you come
here to wait for, Margaret?" When she remained silent and
looked away, he said, "To die? Is that it? Because you
'don't want to die alone'?"

Margaret's chin quivered, and she covered her mouth with
her hand. After awhile, Neil sighed. He stood and ran
a hand through his unkempt hair. "Well, it seems as if
you're hopin' for somethin' after all."

Margaret brushed her eyes with her fingers and leaned
forward to resume buttoning the shoe. "It doesn't matter. I
know you don't want me here. And you know I don't want to
be here. But...I have no choice."

"Then neither do I."

Perhaps the lack of resentment in Neil's voice surprised
both of them, for Neil walked away as Margaret looked up
at him. He moved to stare out the window by the stove.

"Each time you left, you stayed away long enough for me to
believe I'd forgotten you. But then ya'd come back..." He
slowly shook his head. "And I know now I can't forget what
you've done." He stepped back from the window to face her
again. The rims of her eyes were still damp. "Then don't
expect me to forget what you didn't do."

Another silence stretched between them while Neil
considered Margaret's terms. Finally, he said, "I can live
with my memories...if you can live with yours."

"And we can go on from there?" Hope laced her question.

"We can't go back."

Margaret sighed. "And I suppose we can't begin again,
can we?"

Neil's expression remained neutral. "No."

Margaret studied him for a moment. Then she reached for
her coffee mug and raised it in the air.

"Then here's to the truce." She brought it to her
lips and drank. She lifted her dark eyebrows and
smiled tightly. "So, now we both wait. No illusions. No
expectations. Just waiting." Margaret chuckled. "I wonder
for how long. Don't you?" Neil didn't reply.

Scene three 

By now, undoubtedly, the entire Cove had heard
of the previous day's events in the schoolyard. When
Christy had dismissed the children from school--or,
rather, the schoolhouse porch--they had scattered into the
mountains like bees buzzing with news. Christy had dreaded
facing her students the next day, almost as much as she
had dreaded facing David, Miss Alice, and Dan Scott at
supper that night. As a result, she had succumbed to the
temptation of going to bed early, thereby avoiding supper
altogether. She hadn't felt hungry anyway--or sleepy, for
that matter. But sleepless isolation in her room seemed
a more bearable companion to her emptiness and shame than
the strained atmosphere which would have awaited her with
David at the same table. And Miss Alice might have asked
what was wrong. In fact, just after dinner, Miss Alice did
knock on Christy's door, asking her if she was well. But
Christy did not answer, feigning sleep, and Miss Alice
eventually went away.

In the morning, though, Christy mustered enough
determination to leave her room and journey
downstairs. She couldn't avoid everyone forever, she told
herself. Fortunately, though, only Miss Alice and Ruby
Mae were at the breakfast table. Miss Alice was frowning
and peering out the window, and Ruby Mae was chewing the
last spoonful of her oatmeal. As she swallowed, the girl
glanced uneasily at Miss Christy and scooted her chair
from the table.

"Uh, well," she said, "I best get to my chores 'fore
school."

Miss Alice noticed Christy's presence. "Thank you, Ruby
Mae," the woman told the girl as she hurried from the
room. Christy stood at the foot of the stairs while Ruby
Mae brushed passed her. Miss Alice then smiled at Christy.

"I suppose thee has quite an appetite this morning, seeing
as how you skipped supper last night."

Christy moved to the oatmeal pot, took a bowl, and spooned
a mound of the sticky cereal into it.

"Yes, I have," she admitted with a forced smile and sat
down at the table.

"Did you sleep well, then?" Miss Alice asked.

Christy automatically shook her head. "No..." Miss Alice's
raised eyebrows stopped her, though. "I mean," she began
again, frowning into her bowl of oatmeal, "I wasn't feeling
well. I kept waking up..."

Miss Alice nodded. "David must be suffering from the same
illness as thee. He, too, turned in early before supper
last night and walked in this morning looking as tired as
you do." She smiled again at Christy and saw her glance at
David's chair at the table. "He and Dan Scott left early
to salvage some of the burnt timbers at Dan's place," the
woman explained.

Christy nodded and stuck her spoon into the oatmeal, but
she merely stared at the food. She didn't rouse herself
until she noticed Miss Alice still watching her. Christy
tried to smile again and shifted uncomfortably in her
chair.

"What is troubling thee?" Miss Alice inquired gently.

Her friend's tenderness toppled Christy's facade,
and Christy sank into her chair. "Oh, Miss Alice." She
sighed. "David..." She shut her eyes. "David asked me to
marry him."

After a moment, Miss Alice asked, "Again?"

Christy nodded. "Yes. And, I told him no."

"Again."

Christy nodded once more.

Miss Alice studied her young friend, then ventured, "And,
you regret your decision?"

Christy looked over at Miss Alice, a tremor in her voice,
"Um, no. No." Her thoughts drifted to the previous
afternoon again, and she said, "I just...couldn't say yes."

"Why not?"

The question surprised Christy, its abruptness
unexpected. But Miss Alice continued to smile calmly, so
Christy tried to ignore her unease. "Well...because I'm
still not ready," she explained. "If David ever wanted
to leave Cutter Gap to pastor another church..." Christy
shook her head. "I belong here."

"To teach the children," Miss Alice concluded.

"Yes," Christy replied, puzzled by the clarification. Miss
Alice's troubled expression returned, overshadowing her
calm appearance.

"So, then...what has distressed thee, Miss Huddleston, if
not regret or doubt?"

Christy frowned, too. "Well, it's just that David... He
was so... I never wanted to hurt him, but... All the
schoolchildren were there--"

"And as Ruby Mae tells it, so was Neil MacNeill."

Christy peered at Miss Alice, stunned again by her
abruptness. "Ruby Mae told you what happened yesterday?"

Miss Alice dropped her gaze as she opened her mouth. "I
could hardly keep her from telling me."

"So you've known, even though you've been...*probing* me
like you don't." Anger had crept into Christy's voice.

"I did not know thine perspective," Miss Alice corrected,
her composure intact. "Ruby Mae cannot tell me how you
were...feeling." She briefly smiled. "Only thee can."

"I felt horrible," Christy stated flatly, unwilling to
specify further.

For a moment, the two women remained silent as they
regarded one another. Then Miss Alice cleared her throat
and carefully said, "Ruby Mae says that Neil rode up
into the schoolyard as if he were...trying to catch up
with thee. As if he were chasing thee." She stopped at
that. Christy didn't respond, however; she simply continued
to stare at Miss Alice in fearful defiance.

"Christy," Miss Alice began again, "it is unwise to--"

"You don't have to worry," Christy informed Miss
Alice. Christy stood and picked up her bowl.

Miss Alice watched her dump the untouched oatmeal back
into the pot. "But I know how feelings can deceive--"

"I said you don't have to worry."

"But if you love a married man--"

"Then it doesn't matter!" Christy swiftly faced her
mentor, her heart and humiliation exposed. The truth
that Miss Alice had unleashed reverberated against
the walls. It shook loose the determination Christy
had mustered during the night to steal herself from her
feelings so she could go on. "You don't have to worry," she
repeated slowly, managing to breathe against threatening
tears. "Anything...foolish...I might have thought, or done,
...I have been saved from doing." In spite of herself, she
smiled with bitter gratitude at the truth she'd spoken. Yet
Miss Alice frowned in confusion.

"How do you mean?..."

This time Christy did not look at Alice as she
explained. "It's Margaret. She's back home. With Neil."

Miss Alice seemed dazed. "With Neil?" And her voice became
smaller. "How do you know?"

"I...saw her," Christy admitted. When Miss Alice acted as
though she would ask another question, Christy turned and
stepped outside through the breezeway door. She faced
Miss Alice once more, though, and attempted to smile
reassuringly. "God intervened in my foolishness, Miss
Alice. Don't worry about me. Your daughter...she will be
the one who needs you."

Miss Alice continued to stare at Christy, but her amazement
eventually faded and was replaced by a hardness around
her mouth. "No," she told Christy. "No, she will not need
me. God will need to intervene upon her life as well."