The Cove

by Ron Rash

  The women and many of the men wore fancy costumes and all appeared to enjoy the fun which had been provided for them. A portion of the starboard side of the upper promenade deck was fitted up with flowers and flags, where pictures of a tour through Palestine were shown, accompanied by orchestral music, including harps, and was labeled “In Heaven.”

  The crowd filled the other place opposite on the port side, which was decorated with scenery, depicting the infernal regions, artistically constructed by the crew of the Vaterland and filled with small tables, where waiters dressed as imps staggered to and fro carrying trays laden with glasses of cheering beverages.

  Commodore Hans Ruser sat at a table surrounded with a bevy of fair women, and appeared, for the time, to have forgotten the war was on. Vice-directors Julious P. Meyer and William G. Siskel of the Hamburg-American Line, who gave the use of the liner for the fete, were present to support the Commodore.

  Among those who were on the list were Mr. and Mrs. William Randolph Hearst; Hy Mayer, the cartoonist; Major Hans Tauscher; Jacques Urius, the German tenor from the Metropolitan Opera House, and many others well known in the social and professional world. The officers and crew of the Vaterland were all dressed in muster uniforms, and it was expected that the last of the guests would leave the Hamburg-American Line pier this morning as the Hoboken milkman is going his round.

  Laurel folded the article and placed it in her dress pocket. Her father’s bad heart, her mother’s infected thumb, Hank’s conscription. They’d happened and she’d had no say in any of it. But she did choose to bring Walter to the cabin and to lay down with him, and now, another choice. Preacher Goins claimed at her father’s funeral that all things human had been decided before God created the world, but Laurel didn’t want to believe that. She could turn around and walk back this very moment to town. Or she could pretend she didn’t know who Walter really was or tell him to his face she did know. But choose wrong and she would live out the rest of her life knowing it might have been otherwise.

  When Laurel came to where she could turn off the pike or head on to Marshall, she went up the wayfare a few yards and sat on a log. What if Chauncey Feith was right, that the men in the camp were spies and Professor Mayer was one too? There was the newspaper article, but couldn’t that be made up, just a trick to make folks think the Vaterland hadn’t had a bunch of spies on it? She read the article again. Like something out of a fairy tale, and couldn’t that be simply because it was? But the print and paper looked real, and in the upper corner the words New York Times and a page number, same as the Marshall Sentinel. Laurel placed the article back in her pocket.

  An acorn lay at her feet and she picked it up, settled its roundness between her finger and thumb. She thought again of how Walter could have gotten on the train that morning when Slidell took him to town, left once and for all. Yet he’d come back to the cove, come back to her.

  She had blinded herself before by expecting the best, first with Hank and Carolyn and now with Walter, when her whole life had taught her to expect the worst. If you can’t believe some good things can happen in your life, how else can you go on? Laurel thought, but now she’d let herself ponder only the bad outcomes of what she’d learned, then decide which would be the worst one. She rubbed the acorn, feeling its smoothness but also its solidity. The woods were very quiet, no breeze to stir the leaves. A wagon passed on the pike, a whole family from the sound of the voices.

  The woods had begun to get shadowy by the time Laurel dropped the acorn and stood up, brushed the back of her dress, and walked on up the wayfare. You’ll have to live with what you’ve decided the rest of your life, Laurel told herself, and if Miss Calicut and Professor Mayer are right, that might not be very long. But dying, even if it was today, wasn’t the worst. Being alone in the cove, like last winter, that would be the worst thing. Dead and still in the world was worse than dead and in the ground. Dead in the ground at least gave you the hope of heaven.

  As Laurel approached Slidell’s house, she suddenly remembered the boar hog. She’d walked right past where Slidell had seen it again last month, even got a shot at it. Maybe there was only so much scared a body could hold. Laurel didn’t stop to speak to Slidell. She passed under the ash limb and its bottles and tin scraps, feeling the spills of salt and the broken glass beneath her feet. The path slanted downward and the shadows deepened. She felt like she was wading into dark water, with little in the gloaming to anchor her to the world. Then she heard the flute, faint and far off, a sound she’d followed up the creek to its source three months ago and followed the night she and Walter first laid down together. Follow it a while longer, Laurel told herself.

  Chapter Sixteen

  We were of a mind to wait for you,” Hank said when Laurel stepped on the porch, “so I asked Walter to play some tunes while we did.”

  “That was kindly of you,” Laurel said.

  When he put the flute in its case and stood, she turned away. I’ll not be able to hide the knowing from him, Laurel told herself, not even one evening.

  “Let’s eat then,” she said. “I need to gather some mint before it’s full dark.”

  After supper Laurel didn’t bother with washing the dishes or putting things up, just said she’d like some company. She got an egg basket and they walked into the woods, the leaves thick and rustling at their feet, the branches above black and stark. She didn’t speak.

  When they got to the creek, Laurel set the basket on the bank. Even if Hank heard a scream, he’d not get here in time. She wouldn’t scream though, or even try to get away. She’d just let it be over and done with. Walter crouched and began picking mint leaves as Laurel stood behind him and let the words gather inside her, each finding its proper place. She pictured every letter’s curves and lines to make the words more solid and real. When Laurel had her sentence, she spoke.

  “The reason you pretend you can’t talk is because you’re German, isn’t it?”

  He slowly dropped the mint he’d gathered into the basket. His eyes were on the creek, maybe gauging its depth before splashing across and running on into the woods, or searching for a rock big enough to fill his hand.

  First came a cough, then a clearing of the throat followed by a raspy yes before a bout of coughing as he turned to face her.

  “Some people say you could be a spy.”

  “A musician,” he said, clearing his throat with each few words. “Not a spy.”

  “The professor I talked to today claimed you weren’t a spy,” Laurel said. “He told me about the camp up at Hot Springs.”

  He still crouched, his left hand on the ground to better steady himself.

  “Will he turn me in?”

  “He doesn’t know you’re in the cove,” Laurel said. “He just knows you escaped.”

  “And you,” he said, his free hand rubbing his throat as if to coax the words out. “Will you turn me in?”

  “If I was I’d have already done it.”

  He stood up and Laurel handed the newspaper clipping to him.

  “I know you can read it.”

  He studied the article for a few moments and handed it back.

  “What’s your name,” Laurel asked, “your real name?”

  “Jurgin Walter Koch.”

  “You thought I’d turn you in if you told me, even after I’d laid down with you?”

  “No, not you.”

  He was not whispering now, and she heard the accent through the raspiness and throat clearings.

  “You think Hank would turn you in?”

  “You think not?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I could not take the risk.”

  For a moment, it was as if, after a few dozen words, they had run out of things to say. The creek was low and muted, nothing like in spring or after a summer thunderstorm. Soon there’d be days cauls of ice silenced the creek completely. Tr
out would be locked beneath the ice, hardly moving.

  “Tell me your real name again,” Laurel said. “I want to be able to say it right.”

  “Walter is my real name, and just that name is better for now.”

  “How did you learn English?”

  “Some at the conservatory, then on the Vaterland since half the passengers spoke English. Most I learned in New York. Off the ship, speaking German, especially my last year there, could be dangerous.”

  “The conservatory,” Laurel asked. “Is that where you learned to play music?”

  “Yes, in Leipzig. I went there at age twelve.”

  “Did your parents send you?”

  “They were farmers. I was a stipendiat, so my parents did not have to give money.”

  “So that’s how you learned to do farmwork,” Laurel said. “How come you were on the Vaterland?”

  “My teacher at the conservatory arranged it. He saw the war coming and decided I’d be safer in the ship’s orchestra. It was not a thing I wished to do, but he said I owed it to him, that he had made too many efforts for me to become war fodder.”

  “Did you want to get back to Germany when you escaped?”

  “No, New York. I thought I could be safe there.”

  Laurel looked into his eyes and was reminded of the first time she’d seen them. The same blue as a river pool, but also that same sort of depth.

  “Which is why you’ve stayed here. To be safe, I mean?”

  “At the first, not now,” Walter said, his hand reaching for hers.

  Laurel hesitated, then placed her palm against his as she spoke.

  “They say the war is almost over.”

  “I hope so.”

  For a few moments they held hands, their eyes not on each other but looking at the creek. The water was so clear that even in the waning light Laurel could see a rhododendron leaf slowly drifting over the pool’s sandy bottom. Know everything now, she decided, right now once and forever. She tried again to summon the right words, then turned to him.

  “When the war is over, you will still want to be with me?”

  Walter did not reply at first. It was as if he’d waited until this moment to decide. Don’t look away, Laurel told herself. When he answers, make him look you in the eye so you’ll know it’s certain true.

  “Yes,” Walter said. “Yet what about Hank?”

  “We won’t let him know until after the war’s over. Then what I do is not Hank’s concerning. He never asked me about his plans.”

  Laurel moved closer and took his free hand.

  “I’ll leave right now if you want me to. I’ll go with you to New York or Germany or anywhere else.”

  “Traveling now is too dangerous,” Walter replied.

  “Then we’ll wait for the war to end,” Laurel said. “Where will we go?”

  “To New York. Before I was arrested, a man named Goritz offered me an audition.”

  “He’s the conductor in the newspaper article.”

  Walter nodded.

  “We’ll go to New York then,” Laurel said.

  A soft crunching of leaves came from the ridge.

  “It’s nothing but a squirrel or turkey,” Laurel said, but she felt Walter’s hands tense.

  “We mustn’t speak anywhere near the cabin.”

  “I don’t think I can stand that,” Laurel said. “I mean, we could whisper, if Hank was outside and us inside.”

  Walter let go of her hands and took a step back.

  “No, we will not risk that,” he said, the harshness of his tone surprising her. “The newspaper article, give it to me.”

  Laurel handed it to him. He shredded the article and threw it in the water. They watched the pieces grow soggy and then sink.

  “The newspaper made it all seem so magical,” Laurel said.

  “I have come to believe it was,” Walter said.

  “And yet, real too.”

  “Yes,” Walter said.

  “I can’t imagine such a thing, much less believe such a thing could be,” Laurel said. “But if you tell me everything about the ship maybe I can.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.”

  “My voice won’t last so long.”

  “Tell me about one part of it then,” Laurel said, “your favorite part.”

  Walter was silent for several moments. She could tell that he was forming a picture of the ship, or part of it, in his mind.

  “The orchestra performed on the B deck,” Walter said, “so I’ll tell you of it.”

  “Everything you can remember,” Laurel said.

  As he spoke she stopped him to ask about a term or describe something more slowly so she could see it in her own head, remember it better.

  “Tell it to me again,” Laurel told him when he’d finished. “And if there’s something you left out make sure you put it in. I want to know it every bit as good as you do. That way it’s part of me, and this place can’t lay claim on me any more, not really, even if the war never ended.”

  Walter took a long breath and exhaled. He began again, added a few more details. When he finished, Laurel asked who’d done the oil paintings but he didn’t know.

  “We had better go back,” Walter said, “while there remains light.”

  “I know,” Laurel said, “but let’s stay just a while longer. I’ve got so many questions but it’s not only that. I need a few minutes to let myself know all of this is real.”

  IV

  Chapter Seventeen

  You ever dug a well?” Hank asked on Friday morning.

  Walter shook his head and Hank gave a wan smile.

  “You’re going to find out why we cut firewood and boarded windows first. I figured if there’s a chore to run a man off it’s likely this one.”

  They went to the shed and once inside shouldered themselves into the sledge’s leather harnesses. The runners had sunk into the dirt floor so they heaved at the same moment to free them. Once they got the sledge outside, they paused to catch their breath. Laurel was at the old well and Walter saw the curve of her breast as she reached for the bucket. A languorous yearning overcame him as he recalled that breast cupped in his hand last Sunday morning. Afterward, Laurel had risen from the bed, turning her back to him as she put her gown on. There had been an inexplicable sadness in that, not the turning away, but seeing the white and purple skin, its beauty and smoothness, hidden again.

  “A horse would sure make this easier,” Hank said, “but I figure we can get it up to the cliff and back.”

  They dragged the sledge past the cabin and the cornfield where the scarecrow stood amid the wrack of graying cornstalks. They followed the fence line and entered the cliff’s densest shadow. Rocks and boulders thickened, soon too many to navigate. Whether from fallen stone or lack of light, no trees grew here, only scabs of grass. Hank picked up a rock the size and shape of a dinner plate.

  “Ones like this is what we’re needing,” he said, and dropped the rock into the sledge.

  They wandered amid the rocks and boulders, gathering suitable ones. More than any time before, Walter was aware of the cliff’s magnitude. He had seen icebergs almost as huge, but the granite’s solidity was something that could not be breeched by a hull or softened by the sun, so solid it appeared capable of outlasting time itself. When the sledge was three-quarters full, Hank raised his hand.

  “That’s enough. We just need to rock the walls three foot high.”

  The trip back was more jerks and stops than a steady drag. When they finally got the sledge beside the new well, sweat beaded their brows despite the cool weather. Hank took out his handkerchief and wiped his face. He motioned Walter closer to the well so they both could stare into its black void.

  “This is as onerous a chore as I know and it’s two spades to a pair of clubs which
is worse, hauling that barrel up or being the fellow who fills it. But I do know it’s more dangerous being in the hole. If that rope snaps when you’re going up or down, you’ll be getting off light with a broke leg. If it happens when the barrel’s coming up, you’ll likely be graveyard dead, because there’s nowhere to dodge and it’ll stove in your head. You don’t want nothing, I mean nothing, falling in a hole when it’s that deep. A fellow over at Antioch dropped a hammer and it killed the digger. And that’s just one thing to fret over. Your walls can cave in if they ain’t plumb, especially if you hit sand, and the air can get gassy on you, which is why you got to work without a lantern. What I’m saying is we need to be damn careful, whether we’re the one up or down.”

  Hank paused.

  “Have I scared you off it?”

  Walter shook his head as he studied the wooden windlass and staved oak barrel, most of all the rope that linked them. Set inside the barrel was a shovel, its handle no longer than a piece of firewood.

  “Come winter, you’ll be glad we put up with this aggravation, especially when you don’t have to send that bucket down halfway to China to draw water.”

  Hank nodded at the hole.

  “Want me to go first?”

  Walter shook his head.

  “All right,” Hank said, and positioned himself by the winch handle. “Put your feet in the barrel and it’ll make it easy on your arms. When you get to the bottom, tug the rope and I’ll know to raise some so you can dig. Tug on it again when you got a load. I’ll spell you midmorning.”

  Walter grabbed the rope with both hands and set his feet in the barrel. He leaned back until his head cleared the windlass. The winch creaked and he descended, the cove’s shallow light only a narrowing circle above. Soon he could not see the walls or hear the winch. The air moistened and smelled of earth. The barrel kept descending. He looked up and the opening was no bigger than a silver dollar. The barrel finally bumped not earth but a cairn of rock left from the dynamiting. Walter got out and looked up at the coin of light. He tugged the rope and the bucket rose level with his chest.