“Yeah.” Evangeline said. “I wish Isaac had told me Jonah lived next door. I might have put it together if I’d known. Though Jonah doesn’t look much like you—well, in build, maybe.”
She’d made a mistake with the present tense. Evangeline saw it in Lorrie’s face, but it couldn’t be taken back.
“He looked like my dad, actually. Dad was wiry like that. As for Isaac, I’m sure he did what he thought best. Or maybe he was too overwhelmed to think clearly. This past year, the poor man lost his wife and his son. His mother died when he was eight, and his dad about five years back. Now his father’s last sibling is failing. It’s a lot for a body to handle.”
Evangeline hadn’t thought about any of that. Not really. Shit. What did it mean about her that she could be so self-absorbed?
Maybe Lorrie read her mind, because she said, “And you. All alone and pregnant. Only sixteen. You must be scared out of your gourd. I don’t know your story, but I do know you’re tough.” She let her eyes rest on Evangeline. “I know tough when I see it, and you’re it.”
Evangeline wondered if Lorrie meant cold or mean or rough, but she knew she didn’t. Lorrie meant she was strong, that she and the baby would make it.
“If you’d be willing, I’d love you to tell me about Jonah sometime,” Lorrie said.
“Tell you?” What could she know that his mother didn’t, except for things she couldn’t say—like how his mouth tasted of cinnamon or that they’d had sex only that one time and he’d been so embarrassed because he’d come practically on entry, and how none of that mattered because when his eyes met hers, it was as if he had entered her everywhere all at once.
“Only if you want,” Lorrie said. “There might be private things between you two—or not—but you know, how you met, what you talked about, that sort of thing. It would be like . . . I don’t know, like finding pictures of him I’d never seen.”
Evangeline said she’d have to think about it. Lorrie didn’t press, and they spent the next half hour talking about school and the hassles of pregnancy. When Lorrie left around four, she said, “See you at six?” and Evangeline nodded yes.
* * *
—
THAT NIGHT, Evangeline went into her closet and fumbled at the back of a tall shelf until she felt the bracelet. She’d hooked it over a nail up there so it wouldn’t get lost.
The day after Jonah had tied it on her wrist, Evangeline decided to stay away from the park. While she would take pleasure in breaking some boys’ hearts, she had no interest in hurting Jonah. His nerves were already primed to ignite, and he wore his love for his sister and his mother like wounds. All that intensity. It made her body buzz as if a million bees had landed and might begin to sting.
But at six, as evening closed in, she couldn’t stand the thought of him searching for her not knowing what had happened. Earlier in the day, she’d thrown the bracelet in the garbage. She dug it out, rinsed off what might have been ketchup, and tied it back on. She walked to the park and waited. With no sign of Jonah, she started home at eight, trudging up the forested road, twirling the bracelet, wondering for the thousandth time if she’d misread his feelings.
She was huffing, nearly home, when she heard thrashing in the woods. She stopped and the racket grew louder, limbs snapping, feet or hooves pounding closer and closer, echoing on ground that seemed hollow. Then the trees exploded, the monstrous thing bursting from the branches.
It landed not ten feet from her, solid as a wall. A big buck. Powerful shoulders and haunches and neck, a spiked and dangerous rack. They stared at each other, the deer’s eyes wide. It hesitated, then took a step toward her. She leaped back, and it went rigid, the two of them frozen like that. Then, ever so slowly, as if she could be fooled into not noticing, the animal lifted a front hoof and moved it forward one fraction of an inch. She wanted to shout, You know I can see you. I’m standing right here. And maybe it read her mind, because the leg froze. Then bam! The leg went down and propelled the beast airborne, where it vanished into the trees.
Her heart was still racing when she made it home, her sweater soaked through despite the cool night. Even the mail with its bold red notice of pending electrical shutdown seemed unworthy of note, and she tossed it aside. She wondered why the buck had upset her like that. This was hardly the first one that had burst from the trees. Cars were always hitting deer on the dark back roads.
It wasn’t until she climbed into the broken sofa bed that she noticed the bracelet was missing. She thought back and could almost feel it flying off when her arms had flung in surprise. Just as well. It’d been a mistake to accept the thing. But she kept touching her wrist, expecting to find it in her fingers.
She had just fallen asleep when the buck landed before her again. A dark oiliness spread at its neck, and its nostrils flared in effort. Buried in its exhalations was an odor bitter with adrenaline. Then a sudden noise, a harsh, guttural clunking like a machine irreparably broken. She woke panting, a branch scraping across the metal roof.
The next morning, she retraced her steps, but everything looked different in the day. It was pure luck that she glanced over when she did, saw the pathetic rag of a thing caught in a thicket. She clambered up and almost had it, but on a final thrust, her foot slid from beneath her. When she regained her balance, the bracelet had fallen deep into the long-thorned brambles, well beyond her reach.
* * *
—
NOW EVANGELINE RETURNED IT TO THE NAIL ON THE SHELF, glad she had managed to retrieve it. She would tell Lorrie about the bracelet. The tenderness of it—Jonah’s love for Nells and maybe the tiniest bit for her. Lorrie could know that.
41
Day of My Death
Nells is mumbling in her room. She does that sometimes, talk in her sleep. I snuck in once, hoping to get some dirt to harass her with. She was whimpering, jerking and twisting her sheets. She kept muttering no and stop it, but it didn’t seem to be doing any good. She looked defenseless, like a blind baby animal. I felt more ashamed standing there than if I’d seen her naked.
There’s nothing I can do about Nells’s demons now, but she has Mom, and that should get her through. For everything my father wrought, it was my mother I always saw as a god. She might have let my father hit her, might have covered his dirty tracks, but you’d be wrong in thinking she couldn’t take care of herself. Or us.
When I was fifteen, I woke on a Saturday to one of those rare March mornings when the sky was this surprising blue. You never expect it that time of year, and it could make you all riled-up happy. I got out of bed and kept my eye on that promising sky as I plodded toward the kitchen. Nells and Mom and Dad were in there, and I could tell before I got to the door that every bit of blue had been sucked out of the place. A ballbuster of a storm was building, and there was nothing I could do to keep from being swept in.
Nells was begging to go to a friend’s birthday party that afternoon. She’d waited till the last minute, afraid of what Dad would say. I was the one who convinced her to give it a shot. But Dad, who was chugging a Bud though it wasn’t even eight thirty, was saying no way. I guessed he didn’t want to cough up for a present. Nells must have thought so too because she said, “You won’t have to do anything. I’ll walk to town and buy a present with the ten dollars Grandma sent me.”
Dad was furious. “I’m not going to have you show up with some cheap piece of crap, even if it is for a kid who’s a spoiled brat.”
“You don’t even know Madison!” Nells said. “She’s super nice—”
“She’s a spoiled brat like her mom. I can tell you this: the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
Dad was always saying that, how the fruit doesn’t fall far from the tree.
“You’re wrong, she’s—”
“It’s not the money. You’ve got your chores. I want every bit of mold off that shed out back.”
Mom, slicing
ham into ribbons for scrambled eggs, said, “Can’t we give Nells another—”
His head snapped toward her. “Did I ask your opinion? Did I?” His tone was vicious, his face red and bloated with anger.
Dad didn’t usually talk to Mom this way, only when he was getting into one of his moods, which happened every couple months. Nells knew the signs. She should have been quiet, should have suffered her losses and left it at that, but she jumped up and shouted, “You’re a total asshole!”
Dad was out of his chair, lunging at her, slapping her hard, and she stumbled back. I rushed over, planning to hammer the crap out of him, but Mom beat me there. She’d come up behind him, pressed the carving knife to his ribs. When he went still, she said in a cool, low voice, “You hit one of our kids ever again, you hit me ever again, this knife is going to find you when you least expect it. You got that?”
Dad went all limp and pathetic like he did, started crying and sat down. But Mom wasn’t buying it. “Get out of here,” she said. And he went.
Mom ended up serving Nells and me the pile of eggs, though neither of us had much appetite. Dad came back at the end, saying Nells could go to the party and Mom would take her to buy a decent present. But Nells wasn’t going anywhere, not with half her face looking like she had the mumps or something.
The next day, when I was helping Mom unload the groceries, I said, “Dad deserved that yesterday.”
She kept unpacking. “Sometimes you need to be clear.”
* * *
—
LIKE I SAID, my mother could take care of herself. And I have to give her credit. Dad never did hit any of us again.
Of course, there are worse things than being hit.
42
It was a little after eleven on a Wednesday night when I entered the house after my flight home. Evangeline was cuddled with Rufus on the living-room couch, watching an old movie. At the sight of me, she clicked off the TV as if she’d only been killing time.
“Tomorrow is Thanksgiving,” she said. There was no how was your trip or you must be tired. “Lorrie took me to the store today. I bought a turkey—a small one—and some dressing mix and salad stuff and potatoes and a pumpkin pie. We should invite Lorrie and Nells to eat with us, don’t you think? She didn’t ask or anything. I just think it’d be nice.”
“I’m sure they already have plans,” I said, shifting my duffel to my other shoulder. “Besides, Thanksgiving is really for family.” This made no sense considering the holiday’s history and our current situation. Yet somehow I’d stumbled on the right word with “family.” A smile flashed over Evangeline’s face, one she tried to suppress.
“Okay, but we’ll have lots of leftovers.”
“Nothing’s better than turkey sandwiches,” I said. “I’m heading to bed. It’s after two in the morning East Coast time.”
I was nearly out of the room when she said, “Oh my gosh. I can’t believe I didn’t even ask you about your trip. Did everything go all right back there?”
I stopped and turned to her. I think she saw my surprise.
“I’m working on not being a selfish asshole,” she said. “I need a lot of work.”
* * *
—
AFTER THE LONELINESS OF PENNSYLVANIA, Thanksgiving Day—with its lit kitchen and warm smells, the two of us working side by side, laughing when the stuffed turkey slipped to the floor and Rufus scarfed mouthfuls of sausage dressing—felt an entirely different world.
As we sat at the dining-room table, candles lit, Evangeline asked about my aunt and my childhood and my trip east. I could see her mind wandering at my responses, but I also saw her efforts to bring it back. In the two weeks I’d been away, the girl had changed, newly open to the possibility of relationship beyond transaction.
I think it was the growth I saw in her, the potential for more, that made me consider my own restrictions, had me wondering who I might be if I were willing to face them.
* * *
—
A WEEK LATER, I stood at the kitchen sink at eight on a Saturday morning, rain hitting the window in waves. The old plum tree thrashed with such fury I worried its limbs might break, and I was thankful to be inside with Rufus snoring in his chair, with the woodstove kicking out a good heat, with the drip-drip-dripping of the faucet I needed to fix. Thankful to be inside with the girl, the pregnant girl, sleeping late in her room down the hall.
Student projects on the physiology of microflora stacked the kitchen table, but I was too distracted to start. Just then Rufus bounded off his chair, barking and leaping at the mudroom door. George Ellis, the Friend who’d taken over my clerk duties, stood huddled under the mudroom eave, round and wet, looking like a water-slicked pumpkin in his orange rain jacket.
When I opened the door, the dog jumped happily on George. I grabbed his collar, trying to yank him off.
“It’s okay,” George said, removing his coat and shaking it outside as he stepped in. “You know I love Rufus.” He knelt and began petting the dog. “You and I go way back, don’t we old boy? I’m happy to see you too.” He stood, an effort with that large belly, and said, “Been a while.”
“I appreciate you coming,” I said, leading him into the kitchen.
“I was grateful to be asked.”
As I poured him a cup of coffee, I said, “My father’s name was George.”
“I remember that.”
“It’s a good name.”
“I always thought so.”
We didn’t talk as I got out the prior night’s biscuits and pushed aside the stack of papers on the table. George pulled up a chair and took a bite of biscuit, gazing about the kitchen as if seeing earlier times. He likely expected me to explain why I’d invited him, but I hesitated. I hadn’t been to meeting since Daniel’s memorial, and my planned request would not be a small one.
After a prolonged silence, he said, “Is there anything the meeting can do—I can do—to make it easier for you to return?”
I shook my head. “I’d hardly be good company.”
George sipped his coffee, set it down, and said in deadpan, “Ah, yes, meeting, it’s all about being entertained.”
I laughed, and it felt so good I said, “You jackass.”
He smiled. “There’s my friend. You’re too hard on yourself, Isaac. Come to meeting. It’ll do us all good.”
I shook my head. I had no interest in a God who denied me his presence while inflicting loss after loss. Yet there was George, radiating an easy grace as he sipped my terrible coffee, took another bite of stale biscuit, as if everything he wished for were here, in this kitchen, on a wet Saturday morning.
I took a deep breath, held it, allowed one last second to retreat, then said, “Not meeting. I can’t do meetings right now. But I’ve been thinking about a clearness committee.”
His hand with the biscuit dropped.
“Do you think you could put one together?” I asked.
“You sure? You want to dive right into the deep end like that?”
I nodded. I didn’t know what else to say. Didn’t know how to explain that if I were to find my way to truth, I needed eyes and hearts focused solely on me, watching my every move.
“Then of course I can. Of course.”
“It may be a substantial commitment.”
“My God, Isaac. We would commit a year to it. Two if needed. You know that.”
I laughed. “I doubt I’m that hopeless. A few months, maybe.”
“Anything. Tell me what you need.”
Most clearness committees were transient, a couple of two-hour meetings held a week apart, usually to help process a major life decision such as a career move or a marriage. My needs were more complex. I couldn’t even name the issues I’d seek to clear.
We agreed that George would find two other Friends. We’d start once a week for two hours, and h
e’d try to secure an initial two-month commitment.
When George left, I slumped in Rufus’s chair. The dog sat at my feet. I patted his head, and a deep kindness rose in me—a brief but remarkable love of the world. Remembering what a comfort a dog could be, I thought of Jonah’s dog, Brody, of Lorrie’s anguish when she found him torn from his grave.
Rufus placed his paws on my thighs, gave me a look as if his heart ached with mine, and I felt the world’s suffering as a vast and permanent expanse, an ocean that stormed and settled, that could on a moment’s whim sweep anyone it chose to its depths.
Rufus began to whine and nudged my thigh with his nose. I got up, and he bounded into his chair, a dog content to recover what was his. He stared at me a long while, as if speaking to me. At last, frustrated at my obvious lack of understanding, he sighed and turned away.
* * *
—
THE FOLLOWING FRIDAY, George called to ask if I’d be up for sailing the next day. When Daniel and the Ellis kids were young, the eight of us would crowd on their thirty-two-footer and take off for a day sail, dogs and kids in colorful life vests tripping over one another. As the kids grew busy with their own affairs, the four adults would sail without them, though less and less over time. It’d been years now since I’d been on his boat.
“Mid-forties, ten to twenty knots,” he said. “Should be fun. Bring Evangeline along.”
The next morning, we arrived at the marina at eight. The sun glowed fuchsia behind a distant ridgeline, the air pungent with low tide. Gulls, resting on pilings, flapped their wings and squawked as Evangeline and I headed down the dock. She wore Katherine’s discarded ski jacket and a pair of rain pants she couldn’t quite zip, the legs swishing noisily.
When we reached Simplicity, Evangeline stared at the boat as if she’d never seen one this close, walked up and down the dock, checking it from every angle. I saw in her eyes my own love of boats, their grace and functional beauty. The wild, dangerous freedom of them.
What Comes After Page 19
