Silent Girl

by Tricia Dower

  When she heard Jack’s tires on the gravel, she moved to where he always parked the truck. He rolled down his window, releasing a smell of dust and horse barn that washed over her like new grief. “What’s up?” he said.

  “I was wondering if you might be able to give me some extra hours. ’Til Spencer graduates.”

  “You gotta think about selling. Dave figured it would take years to come back, if ever. He reckoned you guys were hooped.”

  His sunglasses reflected her whiny mouth, the sudden anger she felt at Dave. “This ranch survived two world wars, the Depression, more than a few recessions. I can’t be the one who loses it. He had a little life insurance, but it won’t last. So, will you help me?”

  He pushed his cap back and stared at her so hard, she looked down at her boots. “Okay, Lady Blue. It’s my slow time, anyway. But you’re in charge. I don’t want the responsibility.”

  He came over that night, clean-shaven and with a six-pack of Big Rock. She was taking ornaments off the tree. He popped a can and handed it to her.

  “Don’t know as I ever told you how nice it was to look over and see that tree in the window,” he said. “I took it for granted.”

  “It went up late again this year because Dave waited for Spencer to get home from school. They always did that together, cutting it down.”

  Jack made a move for the couch and she waved him off. She hadn’t let anyone on it since Christmas Eve. She sat on the floor in front of the coffee table and gestured for him to join her. He lowered himself, groaning as his bones cracked.

  “I thought Dave would always be there,” he said. “He was dependable, you know? I mean you could depend on him being who he was. True to himself.”

  “He wasn’t moody, that’s for sure. Not like Spencer. He refuses to room with anyone at school. I wonder if he has any fun.”

  “Could be the boy’s a little different, but who’s to say what’s normal? Some folks would probably like to smooth me out like a bump on the road.”

  They sat for a while in silence, a strange experience for her. Dave had always filled their conversational gaps. Jack handed her another beer.

  “Dave was a real shit disturber when he was young,” he said. “He ever tell you about when him and me was in the barn fooling around with a pitchfork? He was probably fifteen, me twelve. Pop had a few pigs in those days. Dave threw that fork like a spear and it went right through the boar’s ear. Man, were we scared. He pinned that fuckin’ boar to the wall. It squealed like a … like a…”

  “Stuck pig?” She’d heard the story a million times from Dave.

  He laughed and she noticed that one of his teeth was discoloured, as though the nerve had died. “Yeah, just like. Then there was the time a skunk got under the porch and he shot it. The smell went through the whole house. Never seen Mom so pissed off.” He went quiet for a moment then ran his fingers through his thick hair, exposing the grey underneath.

  “I’m gonna miss him.” A tear slipped down his face. “Jesus, look at me.”

  She reached over to pat his back. The warmth of him shot through her hand and she pulled back. He stood and stumbled toward the bathroom, wiping his face on his sleeve. She opened another beer and looked at the piano her mother had taught her to play. Dead by forty-four, her mother hadn’t gone without a husband next to her in the night. Trudy got up, opened the piano bench and pulled out a songbook worn from page turning. Sat and played If You Were the Only Girl in the World. Sang in a clear, high voice that amazed her.

  Jack came up behind her. “I’ve never heard you sing.”

  “Yeah, well, I can be shy.” He sat beside her and, in a growly monotone, sang along to Carolina in the Morning. She laughed until her eyes ran over and she no longer could see the notes.

  It seemed natural, later, to curl up next to him on the bed she’d shared with Dave only a month before in what she still thought of as her parents’ room. Jack staying the next few days seemed as it should be, too, a harmless step along the continuum of moving on. They slept back to back. He filled the room with a smell she liked, of freshly dug earth and camping out and working up an appetite.

  He reached for her one night when she was breathing him in.

  “I always envied him you,” he said later. “Think he’s watching us?”

  “Spencer thinks he chose to die,” she said. Chose to leave her.

  Jack was more demanding than Dave. “Do me,” he said, and she didn’t know what he meant. She felt like a hick, a farmer’s wife, ashamed at her lack of imagination, furious at Dave – so unfair, she knew – for not preparing her for life without him. Sometimes she wanted Jack to go away; it was too much for her. But his expectations excited her, made her feel powerful.

  Spencer called one Sunday, his voice tight with energy, to tell her he’d been dreaming about Dave. She didn’t want to think about Dave. Or Spencer. She wanted to feel unencumbered, adrift on the river of desire that had broken through her mourning.

  “I feel such love in the dreams, I wake up crying.”

  He’d been dry-eyed at the funeral. Perhaps she’d been wrong to insist he go back to school. She’d gotten over her parents easily enough but, then, she’d had Dave. And so much to do. She honestly didn’t miss them right away. Not until Spencer’s birth, when she cried like a forsaken child. Look what I made, she wanted to tell them.

  “You’re grieving,” she said. “Perfectly natural.”

  “I don’t think that’s it, well maybe a little. Wish I’d thanked him more. Can’t believe I argued with him about meaningless shit like grazing techniques.”

  “Well, there you go,” she said and changed the subject.

  Jack moved a few things over but continued to park his truck by the cabin. He’d duck out the side door and head for the barn whenever he heard a car coming. “You need your neighbours,” he said. “No sense shifting their tongues into gear so soon.”

  “There’ll be no pleasing some, no matter how long we wait,” she said. “They expect me to spend the rest of my life getting ready to join Dave.” She packed up Dave’s clothes for Spencer to look through later. He might disapprove of her and Jack at first, but he’d get over it.

  She and Jack worked the ranch together, ending each day shaking off the manure and dirt, showering together. She corralled her hair into a rubber band and tucked it under a cap. Her face got chapped and her muscles tight. She felt more authentic, like an intense beam focused on something at last that mattered. Thinking about returning to the bank made her claustrophobic. She’d kept the job all that time because she earned more than Dave could by hauling silage, the only paying job he ever held. If he had appreciated her letting him have the freedom of all that sky, he never said.

  Spencer’s midterm break came in February. Jack moved into the cabin for the week so she could slide Spencer into the news. She was in the kitchen when he arrived.

  “These don’t look like Dad’s,” his voice said from out of nowhere, making her jump. He’d come through the porch and was holding Jack’s skates up by the laces. She forgot they were there, leaning against the freezer next to hers. She’d gone through the house that morning collecting evidence Jack had missed – a shirt in her closet, his razor in the medicine chest. She hadn’t thought to look on the porch.

  “Jeez,” she said, her hand on her chest. “You should feel my heart. I didn’t hear you drive up.” She took the skates from him and set them on the floor, gave him a quick hug.

  “You smell like fries.”

  “I stopped for a burger along the way.” He dropped his backpack to the floor and draped his parka over a kitchen chair. “You look thinner. Is that a new sweater?”

  She was in tight black jeans and a turquoise sweater Jack said made her green eyes pop like a wildcat’s. She’d forgotten Spencer was used to seeing her in shapeless sweats. She f
elt almost naked.

  “Just a cheap thing I got at Zeller’s.”

  “It feels brighter in here,” he said. “You change the lights?”

  “No, the walls. Jack painted them last weekend. Lemon Meringue. You like?”

  “He has time to paint?”

  “We’re keeping up with the chores real well. You look beat. How was the drive?”

  “Roads were clear. I made good time. Whose skates are those?”

  She looked down at them, frowning slightly, as though struggling to remember. “Jack’s, maybe? Yes, of course. We went skating one day.” Her words raced out like startled mice. “Such a clean freeze on the pond this year, no ripples.”

  There was always a splash of re-entry when Spencer came home from school, some awkwardness as they bridged the distance that had grown between them. It was greater this time, her distance entirely, making her nervous. She took a breath and spoke more deliberately. “Now, tell me about those circles under your eyes.”

  He straddled a chair. “I can’t get back to sleep after I dream about Dad. Too wired, too excited about what it means. Some nights he’s on King, wearing those dorky shades, grinning as if he’s sold a cow for a thousand bucks. Other times he’s at the end of a long hallway in front of a gigantic computer, his fingers flying over the keyboard. I’ve never had dreams so real. Does he visit you?”

  She didn’t want to tell him she’d been jolted out of sleep one night by Dave’s voice calling her, that she’d tiptoed through the house afterwards with a flashlight and a feeling of dread. “I hardly ever remember my dreams,” she said.

  She turned back to the counter, to the file she’d been searching through when he arrived. “I’m looking for that recipe you like – the one with the hard-boiled eggs and pickles inside. Was it Meatloaf Surprise?”

  “I’ll take this stuff to my room,” he said, picking up his backpack, disappointment in his voice. She let out the breath she didn’t know she’d been holding. She was disappointed, too. He expected her to help him keep Dave alive.

  Later that night, as Spencer slept down the hall, she called Jack’s cell phone and, keeping her voice low, said, “I couldn’t do it. I need your help.”

  ”You want me to break it to him?”

  “No, no. Just spend some time with him before I tell him.”

  “What for?”

  “He’s always wanted you to care about him. Mooned over you when he was little. Remember him asking you to play Hot Wheels all the time?”

  “No. But I was a selfish prick then. Still am, I reckon.”

  “He misses his father. I think he’ll accept us better if he’s closer to you.”

  “Listen, I don’t know where you and me are going, but you can’t put your life back the way it was. I’m no Dave. Never wanted children, for one thing. Don’t see why people have ’em.”

  For a second chance, she thought. You hope they’ll be a better version of you. She had failed her parents in that, managing to keep only a fraction of their livestock. Spencer was better educated, but she wondered if he could stand on his own. Wondered if she and Dave had made life a little too easy for him.

  “I didn’t realize how hard it would be to face him,” she said. “Maybe we should wait until he graduates. ’Til he’s over Dave a little more.”

  “Sure. It’s your call. We don’t have to do it ever. Say the word, I’m outta here.”

  It was tempting. She was exhausted. It had been so easy with Dave, so unchallenging. She thought about spending her days and nights with Spencer. The widow and her son, watching Wheel of Fortune every evening after putting the cows to bed.

  “I don’t want you to leave.”

  Early the next morning, she watched from the picture window as Spencer strolled out to the cows. They were lying around the feed bin like a heap of discarded carpets. Jack was there already, tossing them hay. Spencer got a pitchfork and started to help. Such a small thing, but it lifted her enough to envision the three of them in days to come banding together to keep the homestead. She and Spencer would work the ranch. Jack would go back to shoeing full-time, bringing in the cash they needed. Spencer could have the cabin to himself. He liked being alone.

  A few hours later, she saw them by the barn working on a pump. When she checked again around noon, they were gone. She was along the east side of the house dumping coffee grounds into the composter when they stepped out of the cabin and raced each other to her side, laughing loudly, red in the face.

  “We might’ve had a beer or two,” Jack said to her questioning look.

  “I told Uncle Jack about my plans for the place,” Spencer said. “He’s going to loan me some money to get the sheep started.”

  “Really,” she said. She bit her lower lip and squinted at Jack.

  “The boy’s got some great ideas,” Jack said. “First off, get rid of the cows. Then, plant canola to sell for cash. Other stuff – solar energy, new irrigation techniques.”

  “Sometimes I feel like a furnace ready to blow with all the ideas burning inside me,” Spencer said. He took off his gloves and pulled a paper from his parka. “We roughed out the numbers. It’ll take a while to break even, but we should get by with what you earn at the bank. Won’t need much help from the neighbours. Sheep are a heck of a lot easier than cows.”

  “We’re gonna be shepherds,” Jack said, opening his arms wide. “How ’bout that? Gonna get us a couple of staffs – what’s the plural of staff, staves? Gonna get us a couple of staves and several coats of many colours.”

  Spencer put his hands together as if in prayer. “Be not afraid, the angel said. I bring you news of great joy.” He looked light-hearted enough to float away. She wanted to be happy for him but a cavity had opened in her chest.

  “You can be the Virgin Mary,” Jack said. He laughed so hard he snorted, sending Spencer into fits.

  “I hate to piss in your puddle, boys, but I’m not going back to the bank.”

  “Did they fire you?” Spencer asked, his smile disintegrating.

  “No. I’m not going back, that’s all.”

  “We can’t make it without outside income, Mom.”

  “You better get a job then.” She turned abruptly and headed back to the house.

  Jack hurried after her. “Hey, what gives? Why are you p.o.’d?”

  “You can’t push me aside like that. And how come you’ve got money to burn all of a sudden?” She opened the porch door and let it fly back in his face. Threw her jacket and gloves on the freezer. She was so livid she didn’t know where to go, settled on the kitchen, Jack right behind her.

  “C’mon,” he said, pulling her into an embrace. “Cut me some slack. I was trying to help like you asked. Bonding with the boy.”

  They hadn’t noticed Spencer following them in.

  “Were you two getting it on when Dad was alive?”

  “Shit,” Trudy said softly. She sank to the floor, her back against the cupboards. Spencer stood in the doorway, his arms dangling, his face a question mark.

  “I was waiting for the right time to tell you,” she said. “Jack and I are making a home together.” They had agreed on those words, thought they’d come across as responsible and reassuring. With the proper set-up.

  “Nothing went on when your dad was here,” Jack said. “I swear.” He held his hands out, palms up. Trudy was embarrassed for him.

  “It just happened,” she said. “We were so sad by ourselves, then sad together.”

  Spencer put his fist to his mouth and blew softly on it. “That’s cool,” he said. “You were sad. I can relate.” He turned and left the room.

  Trudy thumped the back of her head against the cupboard, one, two, three times.

  “Hey, hey,” Jack said. He dropped to the floor beside her and took her hand. They sat like that
until Spencer returned with his backpack.

  “I’d like to stay in the cabin tonight.” He looked at Jack. “If you don’t mind sleeping here.”

  Jack looked at her.

  “Fine,” she said. As though her opinion mattered.

  “Give me a few minutes,” Jack said. “I’ll clear out my stuff.”

  After he left, Trudy pulled herself up and followed Spencer onto the porch. It smelled of wet boots and a pine funeral wreath that lay forgotten on the floor. The cold went right through her. She retrieved her jacket from the top of the freezer.

  “Nothing is forever, sweetheart,” she said.

  Spencer punched the wall with his fist. “It was supposed to be my time.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You were supposed to believe in me. Everything’s shit now.” He kicked the door open and walked out into the dying light.

  She spent a fitful evening replaying Spencer’s words, stung by his inability to see how much she had believed in him. Working at a job she hated, selling off livestock so there’d be a piece of land for him to inherit. She slept, eventually, until Jack shook her roughly and shouted, “Get up! Cabin’s on fire.”

  She heard popping; saw shadows spiking on the bedroom wall. The bedside clock read 3:10 a.m.

  “I’ll wake Spencer,” she said. Then she remembered where he was.

  She grabbed her robe and stepped into loafers. Bolted through the living room and out the porch. Jack was paces ahead, carrying a shovel.

  “Spencer!” she yelled. Running across the field towards a stack of smoke twisting like a tornado, she breathed through his failing lungs, saw through his stinging eyes. The fire consumed the cabin as though it had started in all places at once. It generated so much heat and light it might have been a day in Hell.

  “Did you call 911?” she shouted. Jack tossed snow onto the fire. Hopeless.

  “What for? There’s no hydrant.”

  “Jesus, Jack! Not for the fire. For Spencer.”