by Deborah Reed
After Granddad had fetched June home from Salem, he’d reintroduced her to kindness and grace, as if she were a dog learning to trust again after being used for vicious sport. That first summer without her father, when the days were long and the light barely dimmed at ten o’clock, the first bats appearing in the sky, Granddad would be out there whistling through the shadows. “Lord of his manor,” Grandmam used to say with a wry smile. “Lord of the slugs and the birds and the leaves.” The sound of him in the dark had calmed June and allowed her to fall asleep.
Yesterday’s news claimed that today would be the hottest on record for the month, and when June looked again at the clock it was somehow eight a.m. Two cups of coffee were gone. Even so, she felt quiet beneath the weight of the coming heat, threw open all the windows in the kitchen, and was met with slow, warm air. She closed her eyes and wondered at the progress of roots and seeds and grubs churning beneath the hemlocks, the tender greens pushing up and open, to be burned by the sun.
“June! Get to work!” Granddad used to say with a giant grin, his arm sweeping in a wave above his head. What he meant was for her to get busy with life, with living, climbing trees, tending homework, reading stories about other places and other times. What he meant was for her to be absorbed in the act of making something of herself. To be engaged. What he meant, she understood now, was that she needed to keep her mind busy and bright so that it would not slip into the dangerous and dark.
The day her father died, a cool spring rain had misted the ridge by late morning, and the square windowpanes around the kitchen table were coated in steam. June had brought the fire to a roar in the living room, and the house was beginning to dry out when upstairs her father’s bedroom door groaned open. Then came the soft sound of footsteps creaking in the hallway above her head, followed by the slow tap of each wooden step. June remained still in the middle of the living room as her father descended the stairs toward her.
He was not wearing his usual cardigan, white shirt, and jeans. He wore a chambray shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows and tan canvas pants, like a laborer going off to work. June smiled up at him. “You’re here,” she said, but her father walked right past her. He stood on a leather chair but did not say, “Here, there, and everywhere!” One by one, he snapped the drapes from the rods. “Oh,” June said. “Are we washing today?”
He didn’t answer.
The day before, June had gotten into terrible trouble at school, and that trouble had followed her back to the house, thick and palpable as the steam in the kitchen. Her father was making a pile of the cream-colored drapes on the floor, and the pile was part of that trouble, too. The windows were stripped clear, and even with the thick wall of gray rain beyond them, the room felt torn into the open, wide and vulnerable, the entire space reaching beyond the comfort of where it was meant to be.
“Just these,” her father said, scooping up the heavy fabric into his arms and passing her on the way to the washing machine in the mudroom. June followed at first, then stepped back as he shoved the drapes aggressively into the drum. “It’s raining, Papa,” June said, because he seemed not to know. “We’ll need to dry them at Grandmam’s.”
Her father shut the lid, turned on the machine, and spun to face her. “We’ll do no such thing,” he said, and produced a cigarette from his shirt pocket, lit it with matches from his pants pocket, and went to sit at the kitchen table.
June had never seen her father smoke. But he was smoking now, taking long, deep drags and releasing puffs of blue clouds that filled the kitchen, and June tried not to cough. He pointed his cigarette at her when he said, “You need to learn to behave.”
Now June thought of how she had walked toward that golfer like a madwoman. She had shown herself like a half-naked ghost, and not without menace.
Somehow it was nine a.m.
She texted Jameson her address. As soon as she thought it reached him, she dialed his number. “Good morning,” she said. “Is this a bad time? Can you talk?”
“June?” he said.
“Yes. It’s me. June Byrne.”
“Good morning, June Byrne.”
“I just sent my address, but thought I’d mention a few details before you arrive. Before you hit the mountains and your service goes out.”
“I’ve just stopped to gas up. Still here in the high desert. Got at least six hours to go, depending on the traffic through Portland.”
June flashed on her father’s map, the illustrated mountains a series of shaded triangles along the right side of the page.
“Well. Are you making it OK? So far, I mean?”
“All’s well,” he said.
“That ends well,” she said.
“It’s been said.”
“You’re good to come all this way.”
“Your call came at a good time. It’s no trouble, like I said.”
For a moment neither spoke.
“Right, then,” June continued. “You’ll see the small shed between the houses that you can run all of your cords to.”
“Sounds good.”
Why did he sound so restrained? He seemed far friendlier when they first spoke. June cleared her throat, feeling defensive, protective of her home, her life. “Anyway, I’m telling you all this now because I probably won’t see you when you get here.”
“Oh?” he said. “All right.”
Why had she said this? And how had he taken it—that she wouldn’t see him at all? Or just when he arrived? Maybe she should clarify.
“You sure?” she said. “I mean, I’m not sure myself—”
“I’ll know what to do,” he said. He wasn’t asking her to clarify.
“Of course.”
“If you’re not around.”
“But I could be.”
“Either way.”
“I sort of hide from the world as it is.”
“Oh. Well, that’s . . . you . . . ?”
“Not hide, exactly. I do, I guess, but it’s writing. I’m supposed to be writing. Usually I am.”
Jameson didn’t ask what kind of writer. Nearly every time she’d told someone she was a writer, the first thing they asked was what kind.
She could hear movement around the phone, and she imagined him drawing his hand over his mouth, sliding it down his chin, as if clearing a grin from his face. She could not picture his face, only his hands.
“Yes, well, the back door will be unlocked,” she said. “It leads into the dining room. Just go on in and do what you need to do to get started. Let me know if I can help.”
“I appreciate it,” he said.
“But you’ll need to go through the kissing gate first, the gate, I mean—my grandparents—it’s what the Irish call it, but no matter, I wanted to say it’s broken. Just shake the latch to get it loose.”
“Got it,” he said, with what sounded like a small chuckle. “I can always call if I have questions—”
“You can always call if you have questions.”
“Right.”
“Right,” June said, certain now of stifled laughter on the other end.
She felt her body go stiff, her mind switching strictly to the issues of broken sashes and the sagging bathroom floor. She mentioned the storm that took out the tree and the gutters. It sounded as if Jameson were wrestling all over, perhaps changing clothes. She heard small grunts and moans and imagined him bending over and pulling on socks.
“What’s going on there?” she asked.
“What do you mean?”
“The grunting.”
“Oh. I’m cleaning my windshield. Was I grunting?”
“Groaning. Grunting. One could say so, yes.”
“My father used to do that. I’m turning into my father.”
Crisp shadows fell all around the yard, the chickadees and juncos taking turns at the feeder, and June considered telling Jameson not to come after all. She wasn’t sure she could manage the invasion of her privacy, the work she was struggling to get to, not to mention the str
ains of her new and solemn sobriety. No, no. It was just that she had barely slept.
“Before I forget,” she said. “I put you up at the San Dune Motel.” It wasn’t true. She’d planned on it and forgot to follow through. But saying it had a way of keeping him at a distance, placing him anywhere but here.
“That’s not necessary,” he said.
“But of course it is. I can’t expect you to pay—”
“No, I mean I’ll just sleep in the house.”
“In the house? What do you mean? The house is a mess. It’s uninhabitable. You’re coming to repair it. The electricity is off, the panel needs updating . . .”
“You just said I could run my cords to the shed.”
“Jameson,” she said, and his name in her mouth gave her a jolt. “There won’t be any heat.”
“Not exactly an issue.”
“I guess not.”
“How’s the plumbing?”
“The plumbing. Well, the water runs and the toilets flush, if that’s what you mean. But I’m not hopeful about the state of things underground. I just had everything over here replaced.”
“It doesn’t matter. There’s a campground with showers in the state park if need be.”
“Listen,” she said, “there aren’t any beds in the house. No furniture at all.”
“I’ve got my sleeping bag and mat. I’ll make a pallet on the floor. It’s what I do.”
“It’s what you do? ”
“Well. Yes. I thought you knew. You said . . . What was it you said about me . . . unorthodox? ”
“I meant your work.”
“That’s what I’m saying.”
“I didn’t know this.”
“What do you know?”
She hesitated. “I’m not sure.”
“OK,” he said.
“If you prefer,” she said. “Whatever you prefer. I suppose that’s all.”
“Thank you.”
“Certainly not.”
“June,” he said, and now her name in his mouth gave her the same kind of jolt. “I promise it’s fine. I’ve done it this way for many years.”
Several beats passed. It wasn’t his turn to talk.
“Van told me you’re a stickler for period detail, which is great, but you should know that my grandmother changed a few things.” What was wrong with her? Her grandmother had done no such thing.
A clear sigh traveled across the line. “Are you saying you don’t want me to change those things back to the original?”
“I hope you won’t be disappointed, but maybe we should keep it all as is.”
“Well,” he said.
“It’s not too late to say no, I mean about the whole project. You’re uncertain, I can tell.”
“No,” he said. “I can work with you on this. It’s not a problem. I hear how important it is for you to have it the way you want it.”
“Well, thank you. My grandfather would appreciate you saying that. He came over from Ireland with just enough money to mail-order a house.” She could hear her own accent thickening at the mention of her grandparents. “He cleared the land and built everything with his own hands, and he loved it all.”
“I’m guessing I would have liked your grandfather.”
June brought her fingers to her lips. She dropped her hand. “Then I’m guessing you would have, too.”
After a moment he said, “So . . . I’ll see you or I won’t.”
June smiled. “Yes. That is exactly right. Goodbye, Jameson.”
“Goodbye, June.”
“Wait,” she said. “Just one more thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Your name.”
“Like the whiskey,” he said.
“Yes. I’m aware. It’s just . . . Jameson. I’m a dry drunk. And your name . . . it’s funny. Don’t you think it’s kind of funny?”
“If you’re laughing, then I’m laughing,” he said.
“The house where Jameson was needed,” she said, and for a moment no one spoke.
“Listen,” Jameson said, “it keeps slipping my mind, but have you replaced the roof?”
“Not yet. The guys will be here in a couple of weeks.”
“Ah. That’s not what I wanted to hear.”
“Why is that?”
“It’s the order of things. I can’t really be inside while that’s going on. It’ll jar my teeth loose.”
“Oh.”
“Did they say how many days it would take?”
“Two,” she said.
“That means four,” he said.
“Does it?”
“You need to double whatever they say at the very least, to make allowances for trouble and slackers.”
“And what does that mean for you?”
“It’s one of the reasons I prefer to work alone. I can get things done when I say I can without relying on unreliable people.”
“So, then . . . what will you do when they come?”
“I’ll be having a few days off.”
“I see. All right. I’ll still pay you, of course. I’m so sorry.”
“You’re paying me by the project, not the hour. It’s my fault. I should have asked, and planned to come after they were done, but no matter. I’ll accomplish what I can before they get there.”
“I appreciate you working with me on this.”
“I’ve had that impression.”
“Well. It’s true.”
“All right, then,” he said.
“All right.”
“Cheers,” he said.
“Cheers to you,” she said. “Here’s to seeing you or not seeing you.”
“Sláinte,” he said, and June quietly hung up the phone.
12
Jameson hated stopping for gas. Mini-markets attached to the stations in particular left him with a sickening unease. Oregon drivers weren’t allowed to pump their own gas, and he was grateful to remain behind the wheel and distract himself from the smells of corn dogs and burnt coffee, which he imagined to have been among the last perceptions on earth that his children would have taken in before the terror of what was happening overtook them.
It was worse for Sarah Anne. The first time they pulled into a station after the twins were killed, she got out of the truck and vomited into the garbage can next to the pump. Jameson was still fumbling out of his seat belt when a woman rushed over to help with a handful of paper towels. Jameson got out and held Sarah Anne’s hair as she continued to vomit what little breakfast she had eaten. The woman asked her if she was suffering from morning sickness. It was eight a.m., and Sarah Anne collapsed to her knees.
When June called, Jameson was sitting at a station ninety miles from home, drinking the last dregs of coffee from his thermos while the attendant filled his tank. He was watching a young couple in rumpled clothes hold the hands of two young girls dressed in matching blue sweats of different sizes. They rounded the corner to the bathroom at the side of the store, but not before Jameson saw the younger girl stand in place and cry, as if the parents had woken her hours before she was ready. The mother, he guessed it was, lifted the girl to her shoulder, and Jameson was seized by a gasp, a sob he tried to restrain.
And then a text, and then the ringing, and there was June.
It took some effort to concentrate on what she was saying. He watched a silver-haired couple in a blue Mercedes coupe next to him, reading and typing on their phones, the blue light of the screens reflecting in their glasses, faces devoid of emotion. He turned toward a tall man in leather pants, shoes, and jacket, just off his motorcycle, removing his gloves and helmet. The man rubbed his hand around his face and hair, and the burning knot in Jameson’s leg fired up.
Everyone at the station seemed to have the same weary expression of early-morning fatigue, having strayed away, gone adrift, far from anywhere, certainly far from home. Jameson replaced the lid on his thermos and looked in the direction of the highway. His windshield was filthy.
June’s voice was a
s magnetic as it had been the first time they spoke. He’d leaned back into the headrest, wanting only for her to keep talking. But the entire conversation couldn’t have lasted more than five minutes.
The attendant had startled Jameson at his window, handing him the receipt. Jameson reached for it while June spoke of the gutters and a storm that had ripped them loose. “Eighty-two-mile-an-hour winds, according to my grandparents. Two years ago, I think.”
Jameson eased his truck to the side of the station and shut the engine. He and Sarah Anne would have left the coast by then, and they had shut the world out, the nightly news especially, for the better part of the following year.
June mentioned all the things important for him to know, but he could not squeeze past the melodic sound of her voice and on to the meaning of her words. Her accent slipped on and off her tongue, and he found himself trying to predict which words carried more brogue than others, and whether or not it was random. It wouldn’t be random.
I can work with you on this. It’s not a problem. I hear how important it is for you to have it the way you want it.
He’d never said anything like that to anyone he worked for in his life. He had a compass of conviction, and the side effect was the confidence it instilled in homeowners. They felt their property was in good hands, and because he believed in what he did and the way he did it, they believed it, too. And yet he’d said what he said several hours ago to June.
And all the rest? What was that? There was something she wasn’t saying, even as she’d openly shared her problem with drinking. Jameson hadn’t found a way to ask her if there was something else she needed him to know. Maybe he was reading her all wrong. Maybe talking at the gas station had spun him off in the wrong direction. But he’d sensed some kind of trouble. Of what nature, he couldn’t say. He’d gone silent on the phone when he’d meant to speak up, and he was sure it had made her uneasy.
When he’d hugged Sarah Anne goodbye this morning his heart had moved nearer to hers, his face buried in her hair, her arms gently rubbing his back in the bright cold dawn. He’d felt her presence when he was on the phone with June at the gas station, her spirit swirling past whatever was happening. And what was happening? Nothing he could put his finger on.
Sarah Anne had woken early to have breakfast with him, heating up the leftover omelets and biscuits from two days before. He’d thanked her, but she didn’t have much to say, just shuffled around the kitchen in her underwear, an old, boxy white shirt of Jameson’s, and white cotton socks. Her silence was only a symptom of not enough sleep. That’s what he told himself. She didn’t bother to run her fingers through the back of her hair; she walked around with a teased clump sticking out in all directions.
