The Longest Ride

they finally sold the house a couple of months ago, I found it in one of the boxes they sent me. Daniel was very proud of it, and it just didn’t feel right to throw his painting away.”

“A painting?” I asked.

“He told me once that painting it had been one of the most important things he ever did.”

It was hard for me to grasp her meaning. “You’re saying that Daniel painted something?”

She nodded. “In Tennessee. He told me that he painted it while living at the group home. An artist who volunteered there helped him with it.”

“Please,” I said, suddenly raising my hand. “I don’t understand any of this. Can you just start at the beginning and tell me about Daniel? My wife always wondered what happened to him.”

She hesitated. “I’m not sure how much I can really tell you. I didn’t meet him until we were in college, and he never talked much about his past. It’s been a long time.”

I stayed quiet, willing her to continue. She seemed to be searching for the right words, picking at a loose thread in the hem of her blouse. “All I know is the little he did tell me,” she began. “He said his parents had died and that he lived with his stepbrother and his wife somewhere around here, but they lost the farm and ended up moving to Knoxville, Tennessee. The three of them lived in their pickup truck for a while, but then the stepbrother got arrested for something and Daniel ended up in a group home. He lived there and did well enough in school to earn an academic scholarship to the University of Tennessee… we started dating when we were seniors, both majoring in international relations. Anyway, a few months after graduation, before we headed off to the Peace Corps, we got married. That’s really all I know. Like I said, he didn’t talk much about his past – it sounded like a difficult childhood and I think it was painful for him to relive it.”

I tried to digest all this, trying to picture the trajectory of Daniel’s life. “What was he like?” I pressed.

“Daniel? He was… incredibly smart and kind, but there was a definite intensity to him. It wasn’t anger, exactly. It was more like he’d seen the worst that life could offer, and was determined to make things better. He had a kind of charisma, a conviction that just made you want to follow him. We spent two years in Cambodia with the Peace Corps, and after that he took a job with the United Way while I worked at a free clinic. We bought a little house and talked about having kids, but after a year or so we sort of realized that we weren’t ready for suburbia. So we sold our things, boxed up some personal items and stored them at my parents’, and ended up taking jobs with a human rights organization based in Nairobi. We were there for seven years, and I don’t think he’d ever been happier. He traveled to a dozen different countries getting various projects under way, and he felt like his life had true purpose, that he was making a difference.”

She stared out the window, falling silent for a moment. When she spoke again, her expression was a mixture of regret and wonder. “He was just… so smart and curious about everything. He read all the time. Even though he was young, he was already in line to become the executive director of the organization, and he probably would have made it. But he died when he was only thirty-three.” She shook her head. “After that, Africa just wasn’t the same for me. So I came home.”

As she talked, I tried and failed to reconcile all she had told me with the dusty country boy who’d studied at our dining room table. Yet I knew in my heart that Ruth would have been proud of the way he turned out.

“And you’re remarried?”

“Twelve years now.” She smiled. “Two kids. Or rather, stepchildren. My husband’s an orthopedic surgeon. I live in Nashville.”

“And you drove all the way here to bring me a painting?”

“My parents moved to Myrtle Beach – we were on our way to visit them. Actually, my husband’s waiting for me at a coffee shop downtown, so I should probably get going soon. And I’m sorry to just drop in like this. I know it’s a terrible time. But it didn’t feel right to just throw the painting away, so on a whim, I looked up your wife’s name on the Internet and saw the obituary. I realized that your house would be right on the way when we went to see my parents.”

I had no idea what to expect, but after removing the brown paper, my throat