by Anne Simpson
The boy lifted some crumpled papers and took them to the table, where he studied them, one at a time. Then he turned them over. The man gazed at his face; he hadn’t recalled the boy’s features exactly. Anguish changed a face, he thought, and he’d first seen the boy when his sister had died. He was very good-looking. His mouth, not unlike a girl’s, was full and sensuous, though his face was that of a man: his jaw was angular, his brows dark, and his hair shone brilliantly under the light.
Much would be forgiven this boy because of his beauty. The man thought of his own son and sighed, and perhaps because of this he could feel himself becoming more lenient. He knew the boy had been devious in order to break into the place – he was sure Heinrich didn’t know him – but he wasn’t angry with him. He was filled with curiosity, though, and without thinking he knocked on the French doors. The boy ducked. He left the papers on the table and slipped down behind the couch. There was, amusingly, the man thought, a bare foot showing at the base of the couch, but it was drawn in as he watched.
He knocked again. He waited, and then it occurred to him that the French doors might not be locked. He turned the handle of the left-hand door.
Stay, Max, he commanded in a low voice.
He opened the door and stepped inside. Hello, he said.
There was a regular tock, tock from the grandfather clock.
This is Heinrich Kaefferboch’s house, said the man, because he wanted to invoke Heinrich’s presence. Did you know that?
No, of course the boy didn’t know that. The man stood looking at the painting above the stone fireplace. He always did this. Heinrich would go to the fridge and get him a beer, but he would stand at this same place each time, as if to pay homage, and Heinrich would return with the cold beer in one hand and a hand-blown glass in the other, and pour it for him slowly, letting the honey-coloured liquid run down the inside of the glass.
The painting was about five feet long and three feet wide, showing fields in the evening, perhaps in autumn, with a darkening sky. In the foreground, blown by the wind, several fires fanned up in ruddy orange and yellow-gold, with smoke feathering into the air. At the brow of a hill was a small, bunched-up tree, an apple tree gone wild, its dark branches formed into claws by the wind. He liked the thought of evening fires in such a forgotten landscape, with fields going on and on into blue-blackness. It haunted him, and made him feel almost tender. He wasn’t always aware of paintings, but this one was different, and it made him want to keep looking at it.
That’s a fine painting on the wall above you, said the man. I don’t suppose you’ve noticed it.
Silence.
It wasn’t the smartest move, he went on, breaking in here. It’s a good thing I came, instead of the Mounties. It’s probably a good thing.
The boy got up abruptly, rushing forward as if he meant to tackle the man, who moved quickly out of the way.
He hit the French doors instead. If the way the boy slammed into the doors hadn’t hurt him, if he hadn’t fallen down, the whole thing would have struck the man as absurdly comical.
Are you all right? he asked, bending over the boy. He helped him to the couch, surprised at the thinness of the boy’s body. You’ve never played football, have you? That’s not the way to –
I saw the painting, grunted the boy.
How long have you been here?
He shrugged.
Days? pressed the man. Weeks?
The boy turned his face away. I don’t know.
You’ve heard me coming in and out?
It was strange that the man hadn’t seen traces when he’d come in before. What did you eat? he asked. Did you gnaw on the furniture?
The boy laughed.
The man went into the kitchen and opened the cupboards: several boxes of chicken noodle soup packets, canned tuna, canned peaches, tea, hot chocolate, one box of English water biscuits, white sugar in a cork-topped container, cinnamon sticks, salt and pepper in their shakers. Not much of anything. Only the things Heinrich had left there. He went back into the living room, and it crossed his mind that the boy might not recognize him.
What’s your name? asked the man.
Damian.
Damian. From the Greek – it’s a Greek name.
It was clear Damian didn’t care where his name came from.
Anyway, Damian, you should come with me. I think you could do with a good meal.
Damian didn’t move from the couch.
You all right? asked the man.
Yes. I shouldn’t have taken a run at you.
No, probably not.
Damian sat up.
You sure you’re all right?
I don’t know. Yes.
Do you have a few things? A sleeping bag?
The boy didn’t look well. His face was gaunt and there were blue shadows under his eyes as if he hadn’t slept. He appeared to move lazily, but perhaps he had no energy.
He got up now, taking the papers from the table to the kitchen and stuffing them into the garbage, and the man could see how his dirty clothes hung on his frame.
Shoes? Sweater? asked the man.
He collected his sweatshirt and sandals, tossing them into an old knapsack.
Is that everything?
Yes.
The man went back into the kitchen. He checked the stove, switched off the light, and came back into the living room.
Damian was by the door, looking at him.
Do you remember me? the man asked.
You’re the one who helped me, aren’t you? When my sister died.
Yes.
What’s your name?
Raymond.
Raymond. Damian’s lips curved up. From the Greek.
From the German.
Oh, from the German, said Damian wryly.
They went out into the darkness together, after Raymond turned out the lights. He’d come back the next day and find out how the boy had got in.
They went across the lawn, a lawn that needed cutting, Raymond noticed, and Max trotted behind them. The leaves that had fallen on the grass looked like phantoms, pale in the darkness. They passed the bench Heinrich had made for Jutta, and the stand of slim birches; stones clattered on the rocks below as they made their way down the steep path. Raymond used the flashlight, but the circle of brightness illuminated only a few things and made the night seem darker all around, so he switched it off. Max had bounded on ahead, but now he returned to his master, jostling him.
No, Max.
Soon they reached the shelves of rock where it was easier to gain footing. Damian walked along easily and jumped down onto the sand on the far side.
It happened right over there, Damian said as they walked.
They stood together listening to the small sounds of the water against the sand.
I couldn’t do much, said Raymond. To help, I mean.
Damian didn’t move. Raymond shifted his gaze and looked up at the shaving of moon. What a tiny thing it was. He thought of his telescope and reminded himself to take it inside. And then, abruptly, he remembered the girl’s face, with that look of the dead: that look of having gone so far away she couldn’t be called back. Cecily had looked the same.
I often wondered what had happened to you, said Raymond.
You did?
Yes.
It made me a little weird.
It would have made anyone a little weird.
Damian went ahead, and Raymond walked briskly to catch up.
When they reached the house, he showed Damian the shower and offered him soap, shampoo, and a clean towel. It was a blue one, with green leaves and nodding lily-of-the-valley flowers that Cecily had always saved for visitors. He made up the guest-room bed with yellow sheets and folded an extra blanket at the bottom of the bed because the room was on the north side and tended to be cold. He put out a pair of old trousers and a long-sleeved green T-shirt that had Notre Dame Fightin’ Irish emblazoned on it. Then he went into the kitchen and poached some eggs. He put bread i
n the toaster and the little jar of raspberry jam and the ceramic pot of honey on the table. It was the kind of thing he might have made for breakfast, but it was good, comforting food.
When Damian came into the kitchen he had rubbed his hair dry and it hung over his shoulders in damp ropes. He smelled of soap and shampoo, but there was something feral about him. He was wearing the long-sleeved T-shirt, a relic from Raymond’s alma mater, which was too big for him.
Here’s a plateful to keep you going, Raymond told him.
Thanks.
Damian ate with ravenous speed, as if he expected the plate would be taken away from him before he finished. But a person’s hunger was a private thing, and Raymond faced away from him, turning on the kettle to make tea.
They sat up for a while that night. Damian drank his tea, and Raymond put some music on the CD player: Waltz for Debby, one of his favourites. He leaned back in his armchair and shut his eyes, half-sleeping, half-awake. Damian fell asleep on the couch, and Raymond didn’t wake him later, when he got up and turned off the CD player, patted Max’s head as he slept on the rectangle of rug that was his own, and got the extra blanket from the guest bed. He put it over Damian as he slept, though how anyone could sleep on a couch like that was beyond him. Then he went back and got a pillow, but he couldn’t put it under the boy’s head without waking him.
In the morning, Damian was still asleep on the couch – his hand drooping so the fingertips touched the floor – when Raymond got up and made his usual breakfast of toast and coffee. Damian didn’t wake when the coffee bubbled through the coffee maker, nor did he wake when Raymond went out the door and slid it shut behind him. Max trotted out at the same time.
Raymond realized he’d forgotten about the telescope, which had been left outside all night. But it promised to be another good day, which made him think that the fall would be mild. He raised his hands over his head and stretched his back. The dog had already gone down the steps and was racing across the beach, after something, perhaps another dog.
Max. Here, Max.
The dog wheeled in its tracks and ran back to him.
Good dog. Get a stick.
They went up the hill together and stopped at the top to look down at the dark blue water and beyond it to the headland. There was a jutting red-brown cliff topped by spruce, and farther northwest were the hills around Cape George, with the trees on the distant slopes beginning to be tipped, here and there, with yellow and crimson. A few colours blazed among the dark green spikes of spruce, and he found himself wanting to stay for another couple of weeks, watching the colour flame through the woods.
He checked each room of Heinrich’s house, and saw that things were untouched for the most part. Damian must have slept on the red couch, because none of the beds had been disturbed. The window in the bathroom was unlocked when Raymond checked it – Damian could have come in here and jumped down on the toilet. The floor was a little dirty. In the kitchen, there was nothing to show that anyone had occupied it. The tuna cans had been cleaned and put in the recycling bins in the mud room. The garbage in the kitchen was stuffed full of the papers Damian had thrown out the night before, but Raymond took them out.
They were drawings, much crumpled drawings, of a slim, pretty girl. The expression on her face, her dark hair, the quality of her skin, and the way her body was modelled and shaped by lights and darks so it seemed real – all of it was drawn with deftness. But it was her eyes that caught him, because they seemed to hold the light. She could have been looking at him. There was some luminous quality about this girl, some grave, indefinable sweetness in the way she’d been drawn.
He put them on the floor in the living room, shifting the table out of the way, so he could see them better. Damian had drawn the girl from one angle and then another, as if he had walked around her, stopped, made a drawing, then walked around her a little more and stopped again. Here she was from the front, then from a three-quarter view, then from the side, so her face was in profile. There was one from behind, showing her buttocks and strong, lean legs. There were eight drawings in all, and in each one the girl’s features were consistent, and recognizable, even though in several there was less detail in the rendering of the mouth, nose, or eyes. Yet it was as if Damian saw that this girl was not just one person, but many. He’d seen all the way through her to some transparency within, as if she were made of water, not flesh and bone.
Raymond rolled the drawings up and put them under his arm. He latched the French doors from the inside and went out the front door, locking it behind him. Then he slid the key under the stone owl in the garden and went down the hill.
JASMINE FOUND ROGER in the backyard working in the herb garden. She propped her bicycle by the back door and walked across the lawn to the garden. He was taking out some of the mint, which had grown raggedly wild through the oregano, basil, dill, and thyme. His hands fingered the mint plants and moved underneath to uproot them, pulling hard.
Hello, she said.
Jasmine. He sat back on his heels. How’ve you been doing?
The heaps of uprooted mint lying on the grass filled the air with a strong, pungent scent.
Oh, not good, she said. Nothing’s certain.
That’s the trouble.
It makes you go around in circles. She bent down and picked a mint leaf. You think if he’s dead, why did he do it? On the other hand, you think if he’s alive, why did he do it? Where did he go? But if he went and – her voice broke.
She crushed the mint leaf and let it drop. She tried to gather herself.
If he went and killed himself – I don’t know. Do you think he saw us and jumped to conclusions? Maybe I should have said something –
You’re not to blame, said Roger.
We could have set him off. Anything could have set him off. He’s like that, she cried.
Roger had a hat made of heavy cotton with a floppy brim and a cord that hung down to his neck. It made him look old. Jasmine wanted to take it from him and hurl it to the grass.
How could he do something like this?
I don’t know, he said, poking at the heap of mint aimlessly. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he just wanted to throw Lisa’s ashes on the river and have done with it.
Do you really think it was an accident?
No.
Do you think he was in the boat?
I can’t say, Jasmine.
Sometimes I think I’m losing my mind. It must be awful for Ingrid – how is she?
Not good. He grunted, yanking a root. She won’t come out of her room except to make a cup of tea and eat a couple of crackers.
I’d like to see her.
You would?
No, said Jasmine. Yes.
She won’t bite you, said Roger. She might not answer the door, though. She’s in pretty rough shape, he said. I guess it’s to be expected, but it would be good if you could rouse her.
People should go around howling when things like this happen, don’t you think? Why don’t they go around howling?
I don’t know.
That’s the kayak over there, isn’t it? Jasmine stared at it.
The kayak lay beside the carriage house. The yellow plastic had been bashed in near the bow, and it was covered with scratches and one blotchy, rust-coloured stain, but it was intact.
Yes. Ingrid won’t let me get rid of it.
Jasmine turned away and started to sob. Oh – I can’t stand it.
Come here, kiddo.
No.
But he found her and put his arms around her. He waited until she stopped crying and stepped back from him.
Fuck, he said quietly, what was that kid thinking?
He wasn’t thinking, said Jasmine. Or at least, he wasn’t thinking about any of us.
She went into the house. It had been such a short time since she’d been there, but so much had changed. Here was the large kitchen with the table and chairs, the pantry stocked with soup cans and jars of pickles, the leafy greenery outside the window.
She left her flip-flops by the door. It was as if she were in a church; she didn’t want to make a sound. As she went up the stairs, she noticed the snake skeleton hanging from the light fixture, fine bones bristling from its spine.
From the top of the stairs, she could see the butterfly cases half hidden in shadow at the end of the hall, and it reminded her of the time she’d stood there, talking to Damian. No, she didn’t want to think about that.
She wasn’t sure she wanted to see Ingrid, but something compelled her to go down the hall to the closed door and knock on it.
Ingrid, she called.
Something dropped on the floor.
Ingrid.
There was a sound of someone walking to the door, and then it opened.
Jasmine. It’s you.
Ingrid’s face was frightening. It was grey and completely without expression.
I came to see you, said Jasmine.
Why? said Ingrid blankly. She left the door open and vanished into the room. I won’t be any good to you.
Jasmine stood at the threshold.
Come in, said Ingrid. If you’re still there.
The room was dark because the blinds had been drawn, but ladders of light showed through. Jasmine entered cautiously. There was a faint, cloying scent of perfume. Roses, she thought, but not real roses. On the floor were a few scattered pieces of clothing: a blouse, a T-shirt, a white sweater.
Oh, where to sit? said Ingrid. Just throw the things off that chair.
There was a suitcase on the chair and Jasmine put it on the floor. Ingrid was sitting on the edge of the bed, her white hair hanging down, uncombed. She wore a lacy camisole and gym shorts. She hadn’t cared at all what she put on, Jasmine thought. She was past caring.
You don’t mind if I lie down, do you? Ingrid asked.
No.
Good. My head is better if I lie down. Things don’t fly around.
Are you all right?
Ingrid laughed. Then she stopped. She lay with one arm above her head and the other hanging slackly off the bed.
I’m all right if we don’t talk about Damian, said Ingrid. I can’t talk about him. You start, Jasmine. Tell me something.
Jasmine was silent.
