“All right, dear. I won’t stay up much longer, though.”
She picked up the book—one of Lillian’s Agatha Christies—and opened it, then closed it. She was remembering how thrilled she’d been for Laura when Annie was born. It was wonderful to have sons. But daughters were such company. Growing older, it mattered even more, to have a daughter’s care.
For a moment, the hurt dragged at her heart again. Why hadn’t Laura wanted her? Might things have gone differently if she’d gone to live with them? Maybe they wouldn’t even have gone to that place in Colorado. “We want some time together,” Laura had said. “It might be our last chance, once Bart gets a job.” And now…
She glanced down at her watch: 9:30. Maybe if she got into bed and read, she’d get sleepy. “I think I’ll take my sleeping pill,” she said. She called into the next room, where the children were watching TV. “Whose turn is it to get Grandma’s drink of water?”
Lillian sighed. “I’ll get it, Mother. No need disturbing them, tonight of all nights.” She went to the kitchen, turned the water on full force. She took the glass, still dripping, to Rachel. “Have you got your pill?”
“Yes, right here.” She took it from the small reticule she always carried. “All right. Help me up?” With a grunt, she pulled herself to her feet, and they walked haltingly from the room.
At the doorway to her bedroom, she paused. “You know, it’s the first time I’ve been glad your father’s gone,” she said. “He’d have taken this so hard.”
Lillian nodded, tears in her eyes again. “I know. I was thinking of him.”
Rachel looked out the window into the drifting dark. Oh, Will! Why Annie? Why couldn’t it have been me?
In the night, Laura woke from sleep. The heaviness came to her first, the drag of something ominous and full of pain. Then—a sharp arrow in the midst of it—she remembered: Annie was dead. “Ohh…” A whimper only, no more than that of a child rebuked for walking on wet grass. The events of yesterday went by, particular moments stopped—distended, timeless—then jumbled together again like stones rolling down a chute.
“Trace?”
“Yes.”
She moved to put her arms around him. “Have you slept?”
“I don’t think so.”
They lay together, strangers to themselves, strangers to the bed they lay on, strangers to the embrace in which they clung to each other.
A sound came from the boys’ room, a sob. “Have you heard the boys much?”
“No. Off and on. They talked some.”
The sound came again.
“It’s Bart.” She wondered how she could tell. A slight cough and she knew immediately which of them it was. But how did she know their tears? They didn’t often cry, her sons, grown to manhood.
“I’ll get up and go to him.”
“Would you like me to come?”
“Whatever you want.”
She slipped from the bed and went in the stream of moonlight to the hallway, steadying herself with her hand on the paneled wood. “Bart?”
A murmur.
She went in and stood by his bed. On the far side of the room, Philip was asleep. Bart lay on his stomach, his face turned sideways on the pillow, his bare shoulders wide above the rumpled edge of the sheet. Since they’d been grown, they’d slept in their undershorts—a strange custom. Pajamas would be more comfortable, wouldn’t they? She wondered if he owned any that fit him. Maybe they’d give him some for his birthday.
She sat down on the edge of the bed. The dizziness came over her and she bent forward quickly and then sat up. “Have you been to sleep at all?”
“No.”
“Is there anything you want to talk about? Anything I can do for you?”
He sniffled. His head moved against the pillow. “You could rub my back.”
She put her hands on his shoulders, moving back and forth, a slow rhythm. She used to rub their backs, singing to them, easing them off toward sleep. Singing the longest song they could think of. One year, all through the spring, the hot summer, and on into fall, she sang “The First Noel” to Philip his nightly choice, the longest song he knew.
And Annie. Sometimes, alone in her room at night, Annie would call out, “Mom?”
She’d go in to Annie’s room. “Scaryitis?”
“Yes.” It would be noises, or shadows on the wall, being alone in the room. “Everybody else has somebody to sleep with.”
“I know. We’re right in the next room.” Laura would lie down beside her, on top of the covers, the child’s body hardly a ripple under the blanket. She would sing, stroke Annie’s hair. When she was sure Annie was asleep, she would ease off the bed and go back, weary and cold, fall into bed beside Trace. “Everything all right?” he’d say, his voice thick with sleep. She used to wonder whether he minded—or was he relieved—that Annie didn’t call his name?
Trace came in. He squatted down beside the bed. “Anything I can do?”
Bart groaned, shook his head no against the pillow.
After a while, Laura said, “I wonder if it isn’t harder for you, because you were there when it happened.” In her mind, she had seen it—Annie, the horse, the trail, some trees. But there was a haze between her and the image—maybe it filtered out some of the horror.
“I don’t think so. If anything, I think it was easier, being there.”
Trace murmured, “I’d like you to show me the place before we go. I want to see it.”
Laura turned her head away, her hands suddenly stilled. Why? A shudder of revulsion went through her. Why would he?
*
In the morning, hungry at last, they went down to the lodge. The breakfast hour had passed. They’d had a call from the owner, “Come down when you want to. Someone will be waiting.”
They walked close together, through a world that called out for Annie. The flowers, the pine needles on the path, the water of the swimming pool. So freshly remembered—the mirrors of her life everywhere.
Roger was there, his face pale and drawn. He brought them tea, rolls, juice. They ate and drank, the rolls in their mouths like cotton, chewed over and over, hard to get down. He hovered close. “Can I bring you something more?”
“No thank you.”
They finished eating. Laura looked at the clock on the wall. It was only eleven. The day was already too long. They’d been up less than two hours.
In the lobby, a man approached, eyes sad, mouth drawn beneath his gray mustache. He extended his hand to Trace. “Say, I’m so sorry.”
Trace introduced him. “This is Don Hetzl, from Grinnell. My wife, Laura. My sons, Bart and Philip.”
“I’m so sorry,” he repeated. They acknowledged his condolence. The boys wandered off.
The three of them stood awkwardly. At a small writing desk, a woman addressed postcards. Two children leaned over a jigsaw puzzle. At the main desk, the clerks were busy at their work.
“You want to sit down?” Trace asked.
They sat. Don Hetzl said, “This whole place was stunned last night when we heard.” He paused. “You were right there when it happened?”
“Actually, we weren’t,” Trace said. “My son Bart was.” He began to recount the whole thing—the ride to the clinic, the first wait, the statements of the clinic doctor, then the drive to Boulder, the wait there, and, finally, the nurse summoning them. “The chapel was a giveaway,” he said. “If we’d had any doubts before…”
Laura listened in mounting horror—every detail, but delivered as factually as the evening weather report. She felt as though a giant shell were closing down on her. She would be crushed. She could not breathe.
“Excuse me.” She stood and hurried out onto the porch, ran the length, to where it became a balcony overlooking the pool. She sat down and leaned her head against the railing. The sound of laughter drifted up from below. A woman’s voice: “Don’t you want to come get some lunch?” She raised her head to look. A girl of about ten, her dark braids wet from swimmi
ng, came running. “There you are, Mama. I was looking all over for you.”
*
In the afternoon, up at the cabin, Trace came to her. “Bart is taking me to see the place where Annie fell. Do you want to come?”
She drew in her breath. “No, I don’t. I think it’s bizarre.”
“It’s not bizarre to me. Not at all. I want to see the place.” His jaw was set, tense, his arms crossed over his tan plaid shirt.
She shrugged, retreating. “Well, I don’t want to go. Don’t tell me about it.”
She went to Annie’s room. She might as well start. She took Annie’s blue cosmetic case from the closet shelf and began to fill it with the clutter of tubes, jars, flat plastic boxes. Her eyes fell on a box of tampons and she remembered: Annie was having her period. Nobody should die in the middle of her period! She sat down on the edge of the bed and opened her mouth and screamed, a long, harsh cry. It was an astonishing sound. In the mirror, her face looked grotesque, her eyes too big, pouches of flesh wrinkling under them, everything swollen and shapeless from crying. Horrified, she heard steps in the next room and Philip’s anxious voice, “Mom?”
Standing up, steadying herself, she said, “I’m here, Philip. Did you want something?”
“No.” He stood at the door, his fingers pushing through his hair. He stared at her, his eyes guarded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know anybody was here.”
“It’s okay. You scared me, that’s all.”
She went to him. “Philip.” She hugged him. He was so slender—a tall, slender boy. He’d not yet achieved Bart’s bulky manhood.
A sob shook his chest. “I came up to read some stuff,” he said. He went back to his room.
She continued to sort through the things. Only this time, packing the tampons, she remembered Annie telling her about the birth control and having sex with Gordon.
Well, they had adjusted to that. And she was glad for it, too—now that Annie had had so little time.
Damn! She closed the case with a quick thud. Damn such considerations. Damn that they were ever fitting and proper, ever in the world. At the thought of putting the words fitting and proper next to Annie having sex at sixteen, she began to laugh, only her laugh cracked in the middle and she dropped down onto the broad white bed. The cremation was today—that was part of it. Annie had already left her body; they’d seen that with their own eyes. But… Oh God! She drew her legs to her chest and pressed her teeth against the hard bones of her knees.
On the mountain road, Bart slowed the car to a stop. “Over there, Dad. That’s where she came out, that pathway just past the pine trees.”
Trace followed his son’s pointing finger. “Where? I don’t see a trail.”
“It’s not a trail. It’s a narrow pathway. The trail joins the road a hundred feet down the highway.”
It was impossible. “How could a horse and rider fit along that path, the way the tree limbs hang down.”
Bart sighed. “They think the horse must have turned onto the wrong path, then got frightened and started to run.”
Trace’s anger flared. He leaned forward in the car, his face almost against the windshield. “They shouldn’t have skittish horses at a public stable. They don’t know how much experience people’ve had. Annie had ridden before, but she’d be no match for a temperamental horse.”
Bart was looking at him strangely. “Dad,” he said. “Do you want to get out?”
“Of course.” What was he trying to do, prove it couldn’t have happened? He stepped out of the car and for a moment leaned against the curve of the roof, then straightened.
Bart was walking along the edge of the dirt road to the spot he’d been pointing to. When he reached the path, he turned in a few feet. Trace followed him. Sunlight filtered in through the overhanging branches onto the forest floor, onto the narrow path covered with pine needles. Wildflowers grew low along the sides, clambered up to cover the rocks that protruded here and there through the earth. The rocks. Once again the vise grabbed at his gut. Had her head hit one of these rocks? If she’d fallen on the pine needles, would it have made the difference? A little softer maybe? Enough to cushion a head. Some people wore helmets to ride. Why weren’t they wearing helmets? “Can you show me the exact place where you found her?” he asked Bart.
Bart moved a few feet. He was wearing those chinos again, the same tan sweater he’d worn the day Annie died. Yesterday.
“Right about here,” Bart said. The hand he gestured with trembled and he shoved his hands back in his pants pockets.
“I see.” Trace looked down at the mountain pathway—dirt, gravel, stones, a few pine needles. Nothing to tell a passerby a mortal wound had taken place here. “Where was her head?”
Bart stooped, flattened one hand against the ground. “Here.”
“Her body lay from there toward me?”
“Yes.” Bart stood. “Can we go now?”
Now Trace stooped down, ran his hand over the ground. Panic jumped at him, closed on his throat. He stood up again. “And where was the horse when you found her?”
“I told you. The horse had already started back. We met the horse as we were running to find her.”
“I’m sorry. I forgot. And which direction had they come from? Does the path branch back there in the woods?”
“Dad! Yes, the path branches, but not close to here. They’re sure she fell after the path turned. What difference does it make?”
“I don’t suppose it does.” He heard the stiffness in his voice. “What I was wondering…how close were the trees? Did she try to jump? I mean, to save herself?”
Bart raised his hands in a gesture of despair. “God, how do I know? It all happened so fast. I tried to reach her. If I’d stayed behind her instead of riding on ahead, or if I’d…” Bart’s voice caught. He turned and stalked away, then wheeled around and came back. “We’re just torturing ourselves, coming out here.”
Trace nodded and moved toward the car. At the car, he took from his pocket the card the lodge manager had given him. He held it out for Bart to read: Arthur Long, Attorney at Law. “I talked with the manager earlier this afternoon. I raised the question of negligence. Since the horse had tried to turn from the path once before, shouldn’t the wrangler have stayed with her? The manager was very sorry. He gave me this card.” He put the card back in his pocket. “We’ll talk with our own lawyer after we get home.”
Bart opened the car door, and for a moment they stood facing each other. Then they got in and drove away down the mountain.
Trace put his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes. He tried to visualize Annie in these woods. Was she terrified, falling? In his shoulders, he felt the pull of arm muscles wanting to move forward, to wrap themselves around her, keep her safe. She would have let him, wouldn’t she, if her life depended on it? Because what kept emerging out of the gray mist in front of his closed eyes were images from that week Laura was away and Annie stood in the kitchen berating him. “This whole week you’ve hardly said ten words to me!” He had tried, repeatedly, and she always had something else to do. And earlier, when he couldn’t go to the sculpture exhibit. “You’ve never been here for me. You never have been, not since I was a little girl. Not even then!” For a while, he had made extra effort, sharing his books with her, his interest in genealogy, trying to tell her about his work, what his life was like. At first, it seemed to go better; he was hopeful.
Then she’d withdrawn. “Don’t hug me,” she said. “You know you don’t feel like it—you’re trying to be a good father. You don’t have to. It’s better if we keep our distance.”
“If that’s what you want,” he said, his arms hanging stiff at his sides.
His own family hadn’t been very affectionate. He knew the hug of greeting and farewell from his mother. A handshake from his father—that was all. He knew the embrace of passion. But he wasn’t so easy with the in-between stuff. The affection revolution. He liked it, the feel o
f other bodies, the charge of energy. Hug everybody. But not your own daughter. “Okay, if that’s what you want,” he’d said, trying to pass it off with a smile, covering the clench of pain at his heart.
He had told himself that surely in time she wouldn’t be so standoffish, telling him self-righteously, “You don’t have to.” Anger in her eyes. And now… Annie had been distant even with Laura sometimes. It wasn’t all his fault. Was it? Was it!
That was the question that buzzed in his head, that lurked behind his need to come out here to see just how it was, his need to tell—he knew he was sometimes tedious and compulsive—just how everything had happened, one detail after another, exactly, exorcising his demons.
Because what if she could have stayed on the horse? What if she was so angry with him that at the moment of testing she had chosen to leave, or just not had the will? What if she was so angered that the fraction of energy that might have saved her wasn’t available when she began to slip, or tried to pull her feet loose from the stirrups?
That was why he’d wanted Bart to show him the place, tell him everything. Everything. How fast was she going? Was she leaning forward when you saw her? Could anyone tell if she had tried to leap free?
He looked toward Bart. But Bart was intent on the road ahead, tears falling from his chin.
Trace stood at the main desk at the lodge, Laura beside him. “I’m Mr. Randall,” he said to the clerk, who appeared to be new, or at least one they hadn’t seen before—bright makeup, hair very short, a red silk tie at the neck of her crisp white shirt. “Our reservation goes through Saturday, but we’ll be leaving tomorrow. Cabin number four.”
She looked perturbed. “I’m not sure that with a late cancellation we can deduct that from your bill, sir. It’s too bad you didn’t let us know earlier.”
Such Good People Page 11
