by T. Greenwood
“Be safe,” I said, and firmly shook his hand.
We spent the night at the Middlebury Inn in town. After four years of sneaking around campus, having sex anywhere we could, something about clean white sheets and pillows felt illicit.
Navigating Betsy’s new body proved both challenging and scary. I was so afraid of hurting her, of hurting the baby, I found myself hesitant where I’d always been sort of reckless. The new swell of her breasts was both provocative and intimidating. I was drawn to them but too afraid to touch them. It was a terrible paralysis. More than once, Betsy picked up my hands and placed them where both of us wanted them. It was like having a free trip around the world and being too afraid to get on the plane.
We stayed awake that night, neither of us able to sleep. I suspect Betsy was uncomfortable; she was a stomach sleeper, and with her growing belly, this position was now impossible. I, on the other hand, was stricken with a bout of insomnia. I was torn up inside, elated and forlorn all at once. Everything I’d ever wanted was right here, but I couldn’t help feeling the same way I felt the one time I cheated on a test. Like this was stolen somehow. Like I didn’t really deserve it. And in the morning, when dawn finally came and the bright spring sunlight fell across our bodies, something about the lilacs that found their way from her hair onto those clean white sheets made me feel sad. Wilted already, and curling in on themselves. The heady scent of lilacs faded, replaced with a sort of small sorrow.
And two days after our wedding, before we had even returned to Two Rivers, Betsy’s father passed away.
We rented a little two-bedroom bungalow near the river that summer. Hanna made polka-dot curtains for the kitchen windows. Betsy planted flowers, and I painted the nursery a pale yellow. I framed Betsy’s best photos (many of them of the empty cottages on Gormlaith) and hung them in every room. The house was small; the garage sale furniture we collected barely fit into the awkward tiny spaces. The plumbing was cranky and the hot water never quite got hot enough, but at night, as we slept with the windows wide open, trying to stay cool, we could hear the river. Behind the house was a rambling backyard. It tumbled a good hundred yards away from the house before it met the river. We put a couple of lawn chairs back there, a plastic kiddy pool, and a picnic table. I hung a tire swing from the oak tree. It didn’t matter that the house was cramped, that the roof leaked, because there was this .
Betsy put the Parkers’ house up for sale. She wanted to start fresh, she said. Start over. She also accepted Knight Rogers’s offer to buy the barbershop. Knight had worked for Betsy’s father since he opened the shop twenty-five years before. Selling the barbershop was hard for Betsy. But though she never once complained about taking care of the shop (or of her father for that matter), now that these burdens were lifted from her shoulders, there was a new sort of calm about her. There was a certain stillness about everything that summer. We didn’t talk about the future, about what we would do after the baby was born. It was too soon, I think. We were on the edge of something huge, but for now, everything was easy. Every day felt like one, long breezy sigh.
I took the job at the freight office not long after the wedding. The station was close enough to our house to walk, which, at twenty-two seemed like a pretty good reason to take a job. Besides, I knew it wouldn’t be forever. What I hadn’t told Betsy was that I’d been applying for jobs in Portland. I’d also gotten applications to the University of Southern Maine for her, found scholarships she was eligible for. I wanted to surprise her. Now that her father was gone, and nothing was keeping her here except for me, I wanted to give her everything she’d wanted. She never said so, but I knew she still felt trapped in Two Rivers. And I also knew that my getting a job somewhere else would be the key to unlock the cage.
Each morning, I left before Betsy awoke, kissing her on her forehead and then her stomach as she lay sleeping, and then I walked along the tracks to the station. When I got home at night, she was usually in the backyard sitting with her feet soaking in the swimming pool, a pitcher of lemonade and a pile of books on the table next to her. We’d sit out there, listening to the river, chatting about our respective days until the sun went down. I’d grill hamburgers on the barbeque, make a salad from some of the things growing in our little raised-bed garden. Betsy had taught herself both how to garden and bake bread, and almost every night, she’d bring some delicious smelling steamy loaf to our outdoor table.
Sometimes Ray and Rosemary would come with their baby, and we’d play cards outside as J.P. toddled about the yard. I watched Betsy watching the baby, watched as she cradled her own belly with one hand. She’d started wearing loose skirts, Indian print dresses, when nothing else would fit. When I remember Betsy those last few months before Shelly was born, I recollect the softness of cotton. The colors of India. The little bells that jingled on the bottom of her skirts when she walked. I remember the sway of her new round hips beneath the fabric as she and Rosemary walked alongside J.P. near the water.
Brooder visited sometimes too, usually arriving just as we were about to eat. After Brooder’s accident, Betsy’s heart opened up to let him in. On those nights, she always ushered him through the house to the backyard, where she would set an extra plate for him. Pour him a glass of something cold. Sometimes, he’d come by before I got home, and I’d find them in the backyard looking at the garden or just talking. Their new friendship mystified me.
“What do you two talk about?” I asked Betsy one day.
“I don’t know.”
“Well, you must talk about something.”
“We talk about books sometimes.” She shrugged. “Brooder likes mysteries.”
“Brooder can read?” I asked, smirking.
She rolled her eyes and then continued, “He brings his guitar. He’s been writing songs lately. They’re just beautiful. He’s a real poet.”
I laughed despite myself. Brooder had never struck me as much of a wordsmith.
She nodded and said, “I’ve asked him to play at the protest next month.”
The annual county fair was coming up, and Betsy had organized a peaceful protest in front of the Army recruiting tent. I was worried about it; the recruiting exhibit was usually right next to the beer tent. Military guys and drunks and antiwar activists seemed like a potentially dangerous combination to me. What I wanted to say was that I was worried about the protest. She didn’t know Brooder like I did; she didn’t know that he sometimes would take things too far. That for Brooder the term peaceful protest was an oxymoron. What I did say was, “I think he’s got a crush on you.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” she said.
“I’m just saying you shouldn’t encourage him. He’s not right in the head. Not since he got back,” I said.
“You’d be messed up too if you’d seen half of what he’s seen.”
My shoulders tensed.
She threw up her hands in defeat. “Listen, he just needs a friend, and so do I,” she said. “I enjoy his company.”
“Fine,” I said. “Have fun with your friend .”
I went inside to sulk, leaving her alone in the backyard. The kitchen smelled of rye bread. I sat down at the table and started thumbing through the mail that was sitting in a heap. Betsy never bothered with the mail, leaving it for me to sift through. Near the bottom of the pile was a postcard. It looked like it had weathered some pretty serious storms to reach us. The photo was scratched, and the ink was blurred. Below the picture it said, “Lighthouse at Peggy’s Cove, Halifax County, Nova Scotia.” And on the back, in messy handwr
iting it said simply, “ Docendo Discimus . By teaching, we learn.”
Freddy . I forgot all about the argument with Betsy. I flew out into the backyard, where she was kneeling in the dirt. She was barefoot, and the pink soles of her feet were dirty. When she wiped her forehead, she left the faintest trail of soil on her cheek.
“Look!” I said, thrusting the postcard at her.
She set down her trowel and took the postcard in both hands. “What does it mean?”
“It’s from Freddy .”
Betsy’s eyes welled up and she smiled at me. “Canada?”
I nodded, squatted down and hugged her. She smelled like bread and earth.
“I’m sorry about earlier,” I said. “It’s not about Brooder. I’m just worried about you. I don’t want anything to happen to you. To the baby.”
She nodded, as if she’d been scolded. I didn’t like the way that made me feel.
“What are you planting?” I asked.
“Bulbs,” she said. “They won’t come up until spring though. Daffodils,” she said. “Irises.” Her hair was in a braid over her shoulder. There were wisps of hair around her face. I watched the gentle curve of her neck as she contemplated the arrangement of the bulbs.
“I really am sorry,” I said. “I know this is important to you. I’m proud of everything you’re doing.”
“It’s okay .” She nodded, turning to me and reaching for my hand.
And for a moment, I thought about telling her that a woman from the University of Southern Maine had called me at work that morning. It had only been a brief interview over the phone, nothing definitive, but she did seem enthusiastic. It was a job in the university’s business office. Starting January 1. A good salary, full benefits, and free tuition for spouses. I thought about telling her that I’d been calling on some rentals on the harbor in Portland, that we might finally get to Maine. But instead I just held onto her, as she stroked my thumb, the one that I’d broken smashing Howie Burke in the face. Instead of telling her, I closed my eyes and thought of daffodils. Irises.
That night Betsy and I made love. Gingerly. I kept thinking about how precarious everything was: our little life, the one we’d made in this house by the river. It was like a miniature world inside a snow globe. Perfect. Delicate. The job in Maine would change everything.
Afterward, when she had fallen asleep, I pressed myself against her, wanting every inch of my body to touch every inch of hers. I laced my arm across her belly and pressed my palm against her skin until the baby acknowledged me with a gentle kick.
I couldn’t sleep, so I untangled myself from Betsy and went to the nursery. We didn’t have a crib yet, not even a dresser; I was waiting for my next paycheck to buy the bigger items we would need for the baby. The only piece of furniture in the room was Betsy’s father’s rocking chair. It was late July, the air muggy and hot. I opened the window as quietly as I could to let some air in. With the window open all of the sounds of summer filled this quiet room: crickets, bullfrogs, the river. Mother Nature’s cacophonous symphony. I peered out into the darkness. There were no street lamps here, only the sliver of moon illuminating the yard, intermittent flashes of fireflies. I sat down in the rocking chair near the window and closed my eyes. Here it was. Everything I’d ever wanted.
Broken
O utside the station, I managed to get on my bicycle only to find that I couldn’t ride it because of my hand. Still pissed by everything Lenny had said, and more pissed that I’d lost my temper over it, I got off the bike and when it fell to the ground I gave it a good kick. It didn’t take much; the front wheel bent, and the fractured spokes punctured the tire. I gave it another kick, and the crossbar crumbled. I gave it one last kick for good measure, and the handlebars twisted from a U into a sort of misshapen W. Winded from the assaults on both my boss and my bicycle, I huffed and puffed to the main road, where I stuck up my one good thumb, hoping to hitch a ride to the hospital.
I must have walked two miles before a car passed. I had made a makeshift sling out of my work shirt, but it kept slipping. The pain in my thumb was excruciating. I was kicking gravel and cussing out loud by the time Rene pulled up next to me in his truck. It was chilly outside, but I had worked up quite a sweat. My hair was stuck to my head, and I could feel perspiration soaking under my arms.
“What happened to you ?” he asked, pulling up next to me.
I shrugged.
“Who at de other end o’ dat fist?”
“Lenny,” I said.
Rene threw his head back and started laughing. “Glad somebody did it. I’da mind to myself a few times.”
I felt a smile creeping up on me.
“Well, get in da truck, Mr. Rocky Balboa,” he said, reaching to open the door for me.
“You sure you have time?” I asked. The closest hospital was in St. Johnsbury, which was more than a thirty-minute drive from here.
“No problem,” he said. “I’m off Tuesdays.”
Rene was one of the few car knockers who were consistently friendly to me and the other guys who worked inside the station. Most of the yard workers stayed to themselves. He and I worked different shifts, but we ran into each other every now and then. I hadn’t seen him since he’d shown me the way to the wreck.
“You can drop me off here,” I said when we pulled up to the emergency room entrance at the hospital in St. Johnsbury. “I’ll find a ride home.”
“I’ll wait right here for ya; dey got a cafeteria where I can get something to eat. I done spent lots of time at dis hospital,” he said. I seemed to remember someone telling me once that he’d lost a child a few years back, a toddler who had run out into the road.
The emergency room was empty except for a woman who kept running to the restroom, where I could hear her vomiting. Her husband was with her, and during one of her trips he said, explained, as if he had to, “Food poisoning. She just had to order the clams.”
I was frustrated that it was taking so long, when there didn’t appear to be anyone there besides the bad seafood victim and me. Finally, the woman was called in and a few minutes later the nurse beckoned me in as well.
Three nurses, one doctor, and an X-ray later, I went back out into the waiting room with a brand new plaster cast and a prescription for some painkillers. I had hoped Rene decided to head back to Two Rivers without me, but he was still there, fast asleep in an orange plastic chair.
“Hey,” I said, gently prodding his arm with my good hand.
Rene’s eyes shot open, wide and startled. “It broke?”
I nodded and held out my hand for him to see. I could feel my heart beating in my hand, the rhythmic pain strangely soothing. An odd music.
“Thanks,” I said, as he pulled up next to my apartment building. “I owe you one.”
I got out, careful not to bump my bum hand on anything. After I shut the door and was walking to the sidewalk, Rene rolled down the passenger side window and leaned out. “Hey, before I forget agin…I mean to ask you something.”
“What’s that?” I asked, turning to the car.
“The day of da wreck, dat girl, dat colored girl. Did she find you?”
“What do you mean, did she
find me?” I asked. The pulsing in my hand intensified. I held my arm tightly into my waist.
“Strangest ting,” he said. “She com’d up to me, soakin’ wet, asking if I know somebody named Montgomery. Dat worked for da railroad. Course, I know she means you. She ask if I know where you live. She had a piece of paper, wid your name on it.” Rene paused, adjusting his visor to block out the sun. “She said she needed to go to your house, that she come looking for you.”
My arm throbbed. My head. My chest.
“And I told her, You don need to go to his house. He right over dere underneath dat big tree. ”
Midway
I t began to rain in August and did not stop until September. The river swelled with the initial deluge and then spilled over, flooding the entire village. Depot Street became an extension of the river; the culverts were so blocked with leaves and debris, the rain had nowhere to go but through town. Our little backyard became a sort of marshy bog. If you tried to walk across the grass, you’d sink in to your ankles. The hole in our roof turned into a dozen holes. We had little tin pots placed all over the house to catch the steady drips. Walking through any room in our house required a series of quick steps and dodges. There was almost no place to go to stay dry. Betsy was still afraid of storms, and it was a month of storms. She spent a lot of time sitting in the car in the driveway, waiting out the lightning, convinced our little house would get struck one of these days. That it was only a matter of time, and she didn’t want to be inside when it hit.
The county fair was postponed for the first time in Two Rivers’s history, and the whole town was in an uproar. The fair was a tradition, the official end to the summer. Without the fair, summer might go on endlessly. And so might the rain, it seemed.
