Beneath the Night Tree

by Nicole Baart

  But whether or not I hit it off with her daughter-in-law, I knew that Mrs. Walker would always be proud of her great discovery: my talent for photography. It was after I snapped a few photos of her grandkids at a Thanksgiving get-together that my gift, as Mrs. Walker perceived it, was officially revealed. A week after the holiday, I brought her a handful of snapshots that made her already-perky eyebrows curl into unbelievable arcs.

  “You took these?”

  I nodded, chastened, though I didn’t know why. “With my dad’s old camera.”

  “Julia, honey, they’re beautiful.”

  Mrs. Walker declared my work better than any local studio’s, and she enlisted my services once a year—every summer—to document her granddaughters’ growth and development. I couldn’t complain about the hundred-dollar paycheck, but interacting with Francesca only got harder as time went on.

  One look at Thomas’s wife told me that today would be no exception.

  “So,” Francesca drew out the word, studying me with her head at a condescending tilt. “You’ll get the photos to us in a week?”

  “Same as always,” I said, trying to be patient. “I’ll send the rolls to my developer, and you’ll get the proofs and the negatives in five working days. I’ve already signed the waiver. You’re free to do whatever you want with the photos.”

  “Seems to me it would be easier if you had a digital camera.”

  I shrugged. “I’m sure it would be. But I think that 35mm film adds a certain vintage quality you just can’t mimic with modern technology.”

  Francesca grunted, and I almost heaved a disappointed sigh. She had always been condescending, but why did she still hate me so much when there was nothing at all to fear? She had Thomas, and she had his children. I didn’t want any part of it.

  As if to prove my level of detachment, I directed my attention to the furniture and knickknacks I always hauled along on photo shoots. There was a jumble of low benches and dried grasses, felt hats and lengths of fabric. Maybe if I acted busy, Francesca would grab Carlye and leave—and avoid the uncomfortable moment when her youngest daughter insisted on a good-bye hug and kiss.

  For reasons that I probably would never understand, Carlye had attached herself to me with the sort of childish abandon that accompanies blind devotion. She adored me without rhyme or reason, and I believed that her willingness to grin at me no matter the situation deserved more credit for my reputation as a good photographer than any so-called talent I possessed. Every picture I took with Carlye in it boasted the same infectious, gap-toothed smile that made people sigh. She really was a sight to behold. And I would have expended much love on her still-pudgy toddler frame if it hadn’t galled Francesca so that her daughter thought I hung the moon. As it was, I demurred, tried to redirect the little girl’s attention.

  Which was what I was trying to do as I stacked antique fruit crates and folded lengths of burlap into neat, portable squares. But Francesca lingered. Masochist, I thought when I caught a glimpse of Carlye squirming out of her arms.

  “Carlye!” Francesca warned. “Stay here!”

  But it was too late. With her mother’s admonition still ringing around us, I felt Carlye’s chubby arms go tight around my neck.

  “Hey, sweet pea,” I breathed so that only she could hear. “I think it’s time for you to go. Your sister is already in the car.”

  “No!” Carlye half shouted, pouting.

  “Yup.” I stood, bracing her against me for a short piggyback ride. She squealed in delight, and I tried to hide my own enchanted smile. “Here you go,” I told Francesca, angling so she could pluck Carlye off my back.

  But the lovely woman across from me didn’t reach for her daughter. Instead, she regarded me with a cool, assessing stare, her lips parted slightly as if she had something to say.

  “What?” I asked because I didn’t feel like playing games.

  Francesca raised one shoulder in affected nonchalance. “I just heard a rumor about you. I was wondering if it was true.”

  A rumor? I went cold. “I don’t hold much stock in rumors,” I said tersely.

  “Normally I don’t either, but it came from a reliable source.”

  I rotated Carlye to my hip and didn’t try to stop her when she nuzzled her cheek against my neck. Francesca looked angry for a split second, but joy at the juicy tidbit of gossip she possessed overruled her jealousy.

  “Do tell,” I muttered since she seemed determined to make me beg.

  “Well . . . a little birdie told me that you’re moving on to greener pastures.”

  “Excuse me?” I had to stop myself from rolling my eyes. Francesca’s “little birdies” existed all over town, and she made it her business to stick her nose everywhere it didn’t belong.

  “You don’t have to pretend with me, Julia. We’re . . . friends, right?”

  She seemed to stumble a little over her own characterization of our relationship, and I was gripped by a sudden, childish urge to call her Franny. But I held my tongue and merely nodded.

  “I know you’re moving to Iowa City with Michael,” she said lightly.

  “What?”

  “Oh, I know he didn’t propose—” Francesca’s eyes glinted—“but there’s a certain romance in his offer, don’t you think?”

  I was too stunned to speak.

  “Well,” Francesca continued, “I hope you’re not agonizing over this decision. The way I see it, there is no decision to make. You have to go.”

  “Why?” The word slipped out unexpectedly before I could censor or stop it.

  Francesca looked exultant. “Because this is it, honey. If you don’t take this chance at a family, I doubt you’ll get another.”

  She couldn’t have hurt me more if she slapped me. “I have a family,” I whispered. Then, because I rarely allowed myself the luxury, I cradled Carlye tight for a moment and kissed her baby-soft cheeks.

  Francesca pulled her from my arms. “Think about what I said,” she advised over Carlye’s animated protests. “I think this is just what you and Daniel need.”

  I watched her walk away, Carlye reaching over her mother’s shoulders to extend open hands toward me. I should have turned away, but I felt rooted to the ground. Stuck in the exact spot where she left me with a load that bent my shoulders beneath its implications. In the five days since Michael and I had stood in the grove, his question had tormented me. I loved him—I had for years—but when I dreamed about our life together, it never took this perplexing shape. And what about Grandma? I couldn’t leave her. Then there was Simon. . . . I had no real claim to him. He was my brother, not my son. What would he want?

  Simon.

  With a gasp, I spun and searched the clearing where we had set up our little photo shoot. There he was, only part of his face visible as he made a halfhearted attempt to hide behind a paper birch. One dark eye regarded me with a clear, stark pain that made me moan.

  “Simon . . . ,” I said, taking a step toward him. “What did you hear?”

  He didn’t have to say a word for me to know that he had heard everything. Sensitive, perceptive Simon would fill in every blank, every subtle, unanswered question with conjectures I couldn’t begin to imagine.

  “She doesn’t know what she’s talking about,” I rushed to reassure him. “She’s just trying to hurt me.”

  “Did Michael ask you to move to Iowa City?” Simon asked so quietly I had to strain to catch the words.

  I couldn’t lie to him. “Yes,” I said, narrowing the distance between us to one long stride. I didn’t dare to go any closer, but I was quite sure that if he bolted, I could catch him before he got too far. “Yes, Michael did ask me to move to Iowa City with him. And he wants you and Daniel to come too.”

  “I don’t want to go.”

  “I know.”

  “Why didn’t you tell us?”

  “I guess I wasn’t ready to talk about it,” I confessed.

  “Do you want to go?”

  I shook my head sadl
y. “I don’t know.”

  Simon nodded at that, took a deep breath. Squeezing his eyes closed as if to summon his courage, he stepped away from the tree. Fists balled at his sides, he said, “You should go. You and Daniel. Grandma and me will be just fine here.”

  It was hard to tell if he meant what he said or if he was putting up a strong front. I hoped it was the latter. He didn’t give me a chance to find out.

  “We’ve got a lot to pick up,” he mumbled, rolling the words together like they were too big for his mouth.

  I considered my brother for a minute, watching the sure way he stacked and carried, arranging my collection of junk in a couple of easy-to-carry piles. Although I had studied Simon’s every feature, memorized each expression and what it meant, with his words like a prophecy in the air between us, I felt like the boy before me was a stranger.

  The sob that rose in my throat was so unexpected that I choked on the breadth of my grief. Simon whirled to look at me, and I longed to cross the space between us and fold him in my arms. We’re not going anywhere, I wanted to say. But my mouth wouldn’t form the words, and in the end I pounded my chest with the heel of my hand and shook my head to indicate that it was nothing. A body malfunction instead of my heart breaking. A moment of insignificance instead of the dissolution of my dreams.

  He nodded and turned away.

  Wanderer

  “You seem out of sorts,” Grandma said after Simon and Daniel were settled in their rooms for the night.

  I could hardly argue with her. When Simon and I returned from the photo shoot, it was pretty obvious that something had gone wrong. He was moody and even quieter than normal, and I couldn’t seem to force myself to muster the subtle cheer that I wore like an accessory these days. Never leave home without it.

  “It’s hard to photograph Francesca’s kids,” I told her. It was the truth, but I didn’t know if it would be enough to pacify her.

  “I thought you loved Carlye.”

  A smile danced across my lips because she hadn’t bothered to mention Angelica. Grandma knew me too well. “I do,” I said, “but that doesn’t make the job easy.”

  “A cup of tea,” Grandma declared, pressing herself up from the table and going to put the kettle on. “You need a hot cup of tea and a few minutes to yourself.”

  I didn’t want to be alone. I wanted her with me and I almost said so. But she seemed frail as she lifted the kettle, the palsy in her hands making the water slosh around like waves on a restless sea. I had to sign her checks for her these days. And separate her tiny pills from the army of bottles that stood guard on the windowsill above the sink. I snuck a peek at the clock on the wall and realized that at nine, Grandma was ready for bed.

  “Let me get that,” I said, reaching around to steady her hand with my own. Her skin was warm and soft, as insubstantial and flimsy as a knotted tangle of old lace.

  “Sorry,” she murmured. “These hands . . .”

  “Are beautiful,” I finished. I squeezed her fingers gently so as not to leave a bruise.

  “Are old,” Grandma laughed.

  “You’re not old. You’re immortal.”

  She looked at me for a long moment, her warm eyes like melted caramel, and smiled at what she saw. “No,” she told me, “I’m not immortal. But I am eternal. I just have to face my mortality first.”

  I didn’t mean to tremble at her words, but soon Grandma’s hands were gripping mine in a hold that was part steadying, part palliative. “You have to be immortal,” I whispered. “I can’t imagine life without you.”

  “I’m an old woman,” Grandma said. “I have lived a life of abundance. My cup overflows.”

  “It’s not your cup I’m worried about.”

  Grandma clasped my hands for a second more; then she took a step back and studied me as if to cement my every feature in her mind. “I’m very proud of you,” she said finally.

  It was something she said often, but I had never felt so undeserving. If you only knew, I thought. In the depths of my heart, where I could still pretend that the unfolding map of my life was charted by different choices, I wanted to pack for Iowa City. To be with the man I loved, unhindered, unburdened. There was nothing to be proud of in that. Especially when I was so needed here.

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I asked.

  “It has everything to do with everything. Julia, I’m not worried about you anymore. I don’t fear for your future or wonder if you’ll wander forever. Lots of people do that, you know. Wander.”

  “I’m a wanderer.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  It was hard not to roll my eyes, even though I knew she was only trying to shore me up, encourage me so that one day I could stand alone. The thought made my heart whimper.

  “All I’m saying is you’re going to be just fine. Even when this old body proves its fragile humanity.”

  Fragile humanity . . . Weren’t we all breakable? And yet, all at once it wasn’t hard for me to imagine her gone. This woman who had been my constant, the mighty wind that kept me upright through every storm of my life, had somehow faded before my very eyes. Grandma was a whisper, a quiet breeze, a soft sigh that would someday weaken and disappear. I didn’t even realize that I was blinking back tears until she chuckled and cupped my face in her hands.

  “No tears.”

  “You cry all the time.”

  “That’s different. I’m allowed.”

  “And I’m not?” I cried, incredulous.

  “Not over me. And not today. I’m not going anywhere today.”

  “You’d better not be going anywhere tomorrow either. Or the next day.”

  Grandma turned back to the kettle and set it on the stove for my solitary tea, switching the burner on high. “I’m off to bed. A little time alone will change your perspective.”

  I wasn’t much in the mood for a shift in perspective—I was more eager to wallow—but I forced a smile and let her go. The kitchen felt empty with her gone, dim and shadowy because dusk had fallen when we weren’t watching and we hadn’t bothered to turn on any lights. I flicked on the lone bulb above the stove and leaned against the counter to survey the whole of my domain.

  It had changed a little in the years since Daniel was born. When I got a bonus check after working at Value Foods during one particularly lucrative season, we put new flooring in the kitchen and living room. It was cheap laminate that was textured and colored to look like real wood, but it ate holes in all our socks and was cold in the wintertime. Though I swore I wouldn’t miss the outdated shag we hauled to the dump, I did. And there were different pictures on the walls now. Grandma had been a sucker for samplers, and while she never got into cross-stitch herself, many of her friends loved nothing more than to painstakingly sew Bible verses and trailing flowers that they framed and gifted. Where the poem “Footprints” once hung, Grandma had mounted one of my better portraits—a photo of Simon and Daniel when they were still little, holding hands as they walked down the gravel road near our house. Their backs were to the camera and their heads were bent together, the sunlight on their hair making them radiate as if from within.

  The other changes were more subtle. I could see a toy peeking out from beneath the buffet. One of Daniel’s Imaginext pirates, if I wasn’t mistaken. And Simon had left a paperback novel on the side table—a Hardy Boys mystery that looked dog-eared and much loved. Grandma’s Bible was still the single decoration on our kitchen table, and it had only become more filled and worn with time. She had given it to me all those years ago, but I still thought of it as Grandma’s Bible. The truth was, it was all of ours now. It belonged to our family. I knew that she was hoping I would pick it up when she went to bed, that I’d scour it for wisdom, comfort, and advice. I didn’t have the heart. Instead, I averted my eyes from the cracked leather cover and the many things I knew I should do.

  By the time Grandma was in her robe, false teeth in a pink melamine cup that had been a part of her bridal set, the kettle was w
histling merrily. I took it off the stove, waving good night as my sweet grandmother closed the door to her bedroom, and realized that the last thing in the world I wanted was a cup of hot tea. Or to be surrounded by the thinly veiled disorder of our threadbare lives. What had been so dear to me only moments before, so quaint, suddenly seemed tarnished and shabby like a piece of elegant furniture that had been repaired with duct tape.

  For all intents and purposes, I was a prisoner in my own home.

  Trapped.

  I had never thought of it like that before, never allowed myself the luxury of examining my situation closely enough to see the truth. Instead of bemoaning the particulars of my life, for five years I had done everything in my power to rise to the occasion, to be an exemplary mother, sister, and granddaughter. After all, the circumstances of my existence were born of my own choosing. My mistakes—and the mistakes of others—had charted a path for me that I never imagined or hoped for.

  In the months and years after Daniel was born, Grandma spoke so earnestly about God’s design for my life that I couldn’t help but soak in every word as if her quiet proclamations were water for my parched soul. A plan for me. A good work that would surely be brought to completion. Hope and a future.

  Right now, those words rang false. Maybe for me, God meant something very different. Like despair and a holding pattern—my life was nothing more than an endless cycle of monotony.

  “I gotta get out of here,” I muttered to myself. Grabbing an ice-cold Coke from the fridge, I tiptoed to the bottom of the steps and listened for signs of life from Daniel’s bedroom. All was quiet. The same was true for Simon’s room, though by the sliver of light that escaped from beneath his door it was obvious that he was reading by the glow of a flashlight. I shrugged. He was ten, after all. It had been my hope to get him in the school routine before a strident schedule was upon us, but a couple of late nights wouldn’t kill him.