by André Alexis
After Tomasine’s burial, the ground in the graveyard was more dense than it had been, with another body – like cold, curdled earth – to digest. The currents of air that visited Barrow had one less person to circle or caress. And the wind as it blew through town made a sound ever so slightly altered. The ants had one less hazard, the birds one less predator, the worms one more meal. The foxes and coyotes could now go about their business without Tomasine Humble in mind. The fish – carp, bass, minnows and catfish, mostly – would have been very unlikely to feel anything at all, save that, in spring and summer, it had been Tomasine’s secret pleasure to put her feet in the Thames from time to time, to feel the cold water run gently over them. No more of that hazard for the fish.
But in the end, Tomasine’s death was most significant for a series of events it triggered.
George Bigland, the sheep farmer, was Tomasine’s second cousin twice removed. Like most in Barrow, he had always found her a sour and unpleasant person. Still, blood is blood, and he would have attended her funeral had he known when it was. Instead, he found out about his cousin’s funeral days after Tomasine was dead and buried. He was indignant. Perhaps because he was already having a bad day, this indignation over a slight stayed with him and, at ten in the morning, he decided he’d do no more work for the day. Instead, he spent hours at the Blackhawk Tavern, luxuriating in resentment, drinking a fermented cider called Bad Apple.
Now, because Bigland did not get home until afternoon, he could not correct a problem created by his son: a gate left open. The sheep, Clun Forest ewes, most of them, though unused to gates being left open, were not impressed. They stood around, nibbling distractedly on the grass in the pen. Four of them, however, drawn by the haunting smell of the woods, the trees, the earth in spring, wandered from the pen, going out in search of grass or clover or other things low to the ground. After a while, three of the escapees, having discovered they were not where they thought they were and missing their sisters, began to bleat. Hours later, these three were returned to the pen by Bigland’s son. The fourth, however, went off into the woods.
‘Eighteen,’ the daring sheep, was a striking ewe: thick whitish coat dark with dirt and redolent of lanolin, black-faced, black ears that pointed straight up and twitched at the slightest sound. Her tail was docked and her lower feet and hooves were black. By the time Eighteen discovered she was alone and that there was not much to eat in the undergrowth, she was lost in the woods. She began to bleat, ears twitching, and wandered farther still until she came to the edge of the woods, which was the side of the road. Then, spooked by a sound in the woods behind her, Eighteen ran to the middle of the road where she was struck and killed by a car. Her body flew up, smacked the car’s windshield and was thrown to the side of the road.
As it happened, the car was driven by Jane Richardson. Beside her, Robbie Myers had not put on his seat belt. He flew forward, his head smacking hard against the windshield. He hurt his neck, shoulder and back. He had a concussion and muscle strain, and he was in shock. But there was blood everywhere, so his injuries looked even worse than they were. Without a second thought, Jane, who had not been hurt, drove to the hospital in Barrow.
It’s exaggerating very little to say that everyone in Barrow who knew Jane Richardson or Robbie Myers learned of the accident within minutes of it happening. ‘Everyone’ naturally included Anne Young, who was disheartened by the news, and Elizabeth Denny, who now knew for certain that there was an unclear connection between her fiancé and Jane Richardson.
In this way, Tomasine Humble, Eighteen and Elizabeth Denny were obscurely united across a number of divides.
For Anne Young, the question was how to start a conversation neither she nor her niece wanted to have.
After the accident, the rumours about Jane Richardson’s relationship with Robbie became more frank. The worst things were said as if they were true. For instance, that Jane and Robbie had been fondling each other while driving, that Jane had not been looking where she should have been, that Robbie and Jane, with their motor-car sex, were a bad example for younger kids, that the Richardsons and the Myers were (had always been) bad parents. Didn’t Fletcher Richardson know his daughter was screwing a man with a fiancée? No one actually said ‘screwing,’ but that’s only because the word was superfluous, it being perfectly obvious that that’s exactly what the two were doing; perhaps even doing it in the car as they hit Bigland’s sheep. And didn’t Dinah Myers know her son was putting his money in the wrong bank? What a state we’d reached when parents couldn’t control their children. And what about poor Elizabeth Denny in all this? Wasn’t there a kind soul out there to tell her what was going on between her fiancé and the town floozy? (Well, Jane Richardson wasn’t the town floozy per se. There was competition for the title. None of the Greenwood girls, the ones who lived off Tenth Line, could darn a sock or cross a street without fucking. And Melanie Beauchamp was a known nymphomaniac, having done her own brother. But still, young Jane was certainly headed in that direction.) Not that everyone was against Jane. A sizable faction felt sympathy for her. If Liz Denny couldn’t keep her man, why should that be held against Jane Richardson or even against Robbie himself? True love is a mysterious thing. And God works in mysterious ways. So, let Liz Denny move on. There was bound to be someone else for her around the corner.
No one related the gossip to Anne Young directly. That would have been unkind. Even those who disliked her had, at this point, to be circumspect. But shades of meaning were conveyed in the secret language of spite: a too kind look, a hypocritical touch on the arm, a pointed chattiness that was as prickly as the leaf of a thistle. Anne could feel in others the raw urge to ask if she’d heard about Jane and Robbie, if she knew about them, if Elizabeth had heard, if Elizabeth minded, if the wedding was still on.
The wedding. That was the big thing. Anne herself was dying to ask about it. Rather than avoid the subject, as her husband advised, or wait until Elizabeth brought the matter up on her own, Anne decided to ask her niece directly. She waited until one afternoon when Elizabeth had just come back from work at the bakery. Her niece had made herself a cup of tea and a piece of toast when Anne asked
– Liz? Are you and Robbie still getting married?
They were in the kitchen. The fridge’s hum sounded almost aggressive. The afternoon sun was so bright Anne had had to get up and pull the half drapes closed so there was enough shadow to make sitting at the table bearable.
– Yes we’re getting married, Elizabeth answered. What makes you think we’re not?
– Well, I’m sure you heard about Robbie and Jane Richardson. Their accident?
– Aunt Anne, what does that have to do with anything? He was in the car with Jane and she drove into a sheep. You want me to cancel my wedding for that?
– I don’t want you to cancel your wedding, sweetheart. I want you to do whatever feels right.
Elizabeth had eaten her toast and gooseberry jam. The crumbs clustered on the white plate looked vaguely like a face: eyes, nose, a small mouth. The knife she had used for the butter and the one for the jam were crossed like an elongated X on the table, until she took them up and put them in the sink.
– You know, Anne continued, there’s a lot of talk about Robbie and Jane seeing each other. I don’t think anybody knows anything for sure …
– If nobody knows for sure, why do they all talk about it?
– Barrow isn’t the city, Liz. You know as well as I do that people around here can talk about cow dung for hours. Talking about you and Robbie must be a relief, when you think about it.
Despite herself, Elizabeth laughed.
– That’s true, she said.
This was just the thing she loved about her aunt: Auntie Anne could always find the thing to make her laugh or bring her around. In this matter, though, Elizabeth didn’t want to be brought ’round. She did not want to talk about Robbie or Jane or marriage until she had worked through her feelings on her own.
–
I’ve heard all the same rumours as you, Elizabeth said.
She’d heard more of them and heard them directly, because even people she hadn’t spoken to in years felt it was their duty to let her know what a shit-heel Robbie was. Everything was said in the guise of friendly service. Some even expected gratitude in return.
– Robbie wouldn’t do anything to hurt me. If he says there’s nothing going on between him and Jane, I believe him.
This was not quite a lie. If he had said such a thing, she would have believed him. But, in fact, the night before, he had said the opposite. Not only had he admitted to his relationship with Jane, but he’d insisted he would not give Jane up, though, inexplicably, he still wanted to marry her, Elizabeth. It should have been a simple matter after that. Any self-respecting woman would have slapped his face and left on the spot. Any self-respecting woman would have refused to see him again. But, to her shame, Elizabeth found it wasn’t so simple. She knew one thing (that she should leave him) and felt another (that she should stand by him, whatever he did). This is what she couldn’t admit to her aunt, for fear she’d seem ridiculous or weak or irresolute, all of which she felt.
The memory of the previous night returned to Elizabeth as she stood at the kitchen sink. The knives clicked on the white enamel and she remembered that Robbie had not wanted to see her after the accident. He needed to rest, he’d said. He didn’t want her to see him as he was: injured, depressed.
– But that’s when you should see the people you love, she’d answered.
– Can I have a little time to myself, Liz? Please.
Which was when all doubt vanished. There was something seriously wrong. Still, it was not in her nature to be angry or resentful. She had not complained. She wasn’t the type to make a scene or cause pain. That may even be what he held against her, that she could not love him the way he wanted. How unfair, because he made her happy. Effortlessly, it seemed.
In any case, she had said she’d wait for him to call or to meet her at the bakery. And a day after they’d spoken, he had come to the bakery. It had upset her to see him: two black eyes, his neck in a brace, wincing as he walked. It had taken great self-control to keep from crying at the sight of him, to keep from taking him in her arms. Her touch would have caused him pain, he’d said. It was even painful, he’d said, to hold hands, but he had come to show her the state he was in, so she could see he hadn’t been lying about his need for rest and solitude. Also, there was something he had to tell her, something important.
– About the accident? she’d asked.
– Yes, he’d answered.
But he would not speak to her then, not in front of the bakery. He had not wanted the whole big-eared town to know their business. So, they had arranged to meet in ‘their’ clearing in the woods behind her uncle’s property.
It was early evening when she got there. The sky, visible above the treetops, was red-orange. The woods were quiet and smelled of pine, of mushrooms and of rotten undergrowth. Robbie came some time after her. She heard him before she saw him. He sounded like a large animal, a deer, say, crashing through the woods. Then, there he was beside her, still wearing the brace that made him look so vulnerable. He was alone. (For some reason, she’d been afraid he would bring Jane.)
He wasted no time on kindness.
– I’ve got something to tell you, he said. I should have told you sooner. I don’t know how to say it, except to say it. So … I’m in love with Jane Richardson too.
It took a moment for Elizabeth to comprehend.
– What do you mean ‘too’? she asked.
– I mean I haven’t stopped loving you, Liz, but there’s Jane too, now.
– You love us both? That’s convenient. Are you screwing us both too?
– Yes, I am. I’m sorry. I should have told you.
Well, what could you say to that? And he had the nerve to look contrite, as if he’d broken a plate and forgotten to mention it. She could think of nothing to say. Instead, she wondered what would happen if she punched his neck. Would he die? Or would the brace save him?
– I know this is the worst thing to tell you before we get married, he said. But I still want to marry you. I still love you, Liz.
– How long have you been seeing her?
– A while. Maybe a year.
– You’ve been sleeping with the two of us for a year?
– I know, and I’m sorry. It’s not like there are rules for this, you know. I tried to do the right thing.
– You proposed to me while you were sleeping with someone else. You proposed to me.
– I love you and I want to marry you. This doesn’t change how I feel about you.
– Why me? Why do I get to be the wife whose husband is screwing someone else and everyone knows except me? Is that because you love me too?
– I knew you’d be mad. I don’t blame you. I really don’t understand all this any better than you. But I think we should think this through. You know how I feel about you. I swear I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone, but I love Jane too. And I’m asking if you would marry me, despite everything.
Up to that moment, all of her emotions had been in a kind of suspension; no single one presided. Elizabeth was furious, humiliated, amused, unbelieving and stunned that the one man she loved, the one man she thought would protect her from shame, could do this to her. And as happened when there were too many emotions to deal with at once, she shut down. Completely. Door after door closed within her, until she was no more than a surface.
– I have to go, she said.
And she’d left him in the woods.
After his words in that place, their place, how could she be irresolute? There was no chance the two of them would see each other again. So, why talk about marriage? Yet, when her aunt had asked if the marriage was still on, she’d said yes and she’d said yes because she still had feelings for Robbie, whatever may have happened.
On the other hand, though she still loved Robbie, she wanted to get back at both him and Jane for putting her through this misery. Jane she wanted to hurt outright. But Robbie she wanted to hurt in a way that would leave the door open for him. He would have to work to regain her trust, if he wanted it, if her trust mattered to him. She was not certain she would ever forgive him, but she would give him another chance. How this would happen, how she would deal with Jane, she did not yet know. The first thing to do was to tell Robbie she had thought things through, that she would marry him, if he still wanted her. That would buy her time.
So, again, she had not lied to her aunt. As far as she knew, there would be a wedding.
When she had finished washing her plate and knives and again told her aunt that all was fine, she went up to her bedroom. As she often did these days, she took out the prayer book her parents had left, curious to see if there were a prayer for someone in her position.
There were certainly a number of prayers related to love: a prayer to find love, one to keep love and one to regain lost love. There were prayers for those who had never been in love, who had been abused by love, who had been betrayed by love. There were even more, but Elizabeth chose to read this last one, the one for those who had been betrayed:
Lord, free me from the flame of this betrayal.
Let this pain pass and with it the love I feel
For my beloved. Though love is your greatest
Gift, let me put it by and begin again.
Make me anew in the fire of your true love.
Make me in the balm of your mercy. Teach me
The divine art, forgiveness, that brings peace,
And in peace let me know love again, new forged
From the broken remnants of my ruined Self.
Amen.
This prayer was not what she needed. The time would come for forgiveness and rebuilding, but not yet. Not until she had settled matters for herself.
During his first months in town (with Lowther’s guidance and, most often, his company), Father Pennant took to explor
ing the fields and woods around Barrow: open fields, abandoned farms, fields lying fallow. All of this walking and looking was done to familiarize himself with the new world: shrews, deer mice, milkweed, monarch butterflies, deer flies, horseflies, blackflies, dragonflies. He noted what he saw, where and when things were seen, and he drew (precisely and beautifully) the flora and fauna of the place. His forays brought him considerable pleasure, as well as instilling the sense that he was getting to know the land at the same time as he got to know the people who lived on it.
In all of this, Lowther was a wonderful companion. He was a naturalist of sorts, infallible when it came to birds and trees. He could, for instance, tell most birds by their song, and it was a pleasure to walk with him, if only because it greatly increased Father Pennant’s awareness of the sounds this bright world made. Moreover, April and May provided them with ideal weather: sunshine, light rain from time to time, cool nights, more sunshine. The plants were nourished and thriving and it was exquisite to go out on dew-wet mornings to explore the greening: weeds, flowers, cow manure, sheep shit, the wet spoor of deer, coyotes and, in one field, what looked to be the spoor of a bear, fresh.
One day, when Lowther was unexpectedly called away and could not go with him to the old Stephens place, he warmly insisted Father Pennant explore the abandoned farm on his own. The farmhouse looked to be sturdy, though it smelled of wood that had rotted. The barn was ready to collapse on itself, as if a great hand had pressed down on it and burst its roof. Decades previously, the Stephenses had planted apple trees in a modest, ordered grove: thirty trees in tight rows, five by six. At a distance from the apple trees there were other trees (willows, birches and maples), tall, yellowed grasses, thistles, buttercups and an unexpected clump of purple lilac bushes that intoxicated with their perfume. A brook, a tributary of the Thames, ran across the property: narrow, four feet across, its waters clear as glass, its banks low and rounded to an overhang in places. In and around the brook: turtles, frogs and small fish that swam like living slivers of birch bark. Beyond the brook, a wide, open field, alive with grasshoppers, crickets and mice.
