The Sweetness of Water

by Nathan Harris

  “After everything,” he said. “To leave my side.”

  “You don’t have to tell me! I know. If I could take it back…” Caleb sighed in frustration. He could not coax forgiveness from others like August could; he was no charmer. “Would it be so hard? To just say the words? To let it go?”

  “Let it go?”

  August drew his hand back again, but before he could bring it forward, Caleb tackled him. It was not an act of defense but rather the eruption of everything he’d carried on those long days spent returning home, the bottled-up ponderings and the haunting torment of his regret. As he mounted August and held him down, his friend bucked against him to no avail. Caleb kept repeating the words, forgive me, forgive me, which became so pathetic that after a time August’s body unclenched and went limp, his anger replaced with what could only be pity. But when Caleb let up, August slipped out from under him, reversed their positions, and, with a vacant stare, pinned him to the grass, his weight heavy and final.

  He put a hand against Caleb’s throat.

  “Are you done?” he said.

  The grip grew firmer, and Caleb held out for only a moment before nodding. August released him, collapsing to the grass beside his friend, both of them too spent to do anything but breathe, their chests falling and rising, the mosquitoes hovering in the wake of their commotion. It was the same way they had dealt with such matters as children, and it felt right to begin patching up their differences by turning back to their past selves, to fists and slaps and grunts—base punishment, the most ancient of remedies.

  “You told your father, didn’t you?” Caleb said, still gathering his breath. “About what I did.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “I wish you hadn’t.” Caleb raised himself on his elbows. “And my father?”

  “Just that you went down. Honorably.”

  August, lying on his back, stared into the sky, his blond locks just long enough to conceal his eyes.

  With this confirmed, to his relief, Caleb scanned the catalog of thoughts he wished to speak on, but his brain was too scattered to put them in order. Nothing new in that. Even in school, years ago, there had scarcely been a night during which he hadn’t shored up an endless string of topics to share with August, the long hours made restless by not only the distance separating them but also the anxiety over what he might forget. The following morning they would meet in class and Caleb would be forced to play calm, to conceal the irresistible stream of conversation that awaited his friend’s approval or condemnation, excitement or uninterest. Yet the greatest pleasure came whenever August turned to him first. I was thinking of something last night, he would say, with such aplomb that Caleb, knowing the torment he’d put himself through in wanting to say the same words, grew jealous—an emotion which nevertheless failed to match his happiness that they’d both been thinking of each other, and that each was the other’s first outlet for all that came to mind. Lying there next to the pond, Caleb thought it best, now as then, not to appear overzealous; he would discuss the simple things and build slowly, casually.

  But it was August who spoke first.

  “I don’t imagine my father told you. When he was dressing you down.”

  In the pause that followed, Caleb felt something coming that he did not wish to hear.

  “Why he held the gala, I mean. Why he was so happy.”

  “He raised money,” Caleb said. “That usually seems to bring him happiness.”

  “Well, yes, but only partially,” August said. It was true his father had been given the contracts for the rebuilding work, and the money raised would go toward that cause, but that wasn’t why he was celebrating.

  “I’m listening,” Caleb said.

  “It was an announcement. He wanted to share the news with the whole town so I couldn’t squirm out of it. A rather mean ploy, really.”

  “August.”

  “They chose for me that Natasha girl. The Beddenfelds’ daughter.”

  August was smirking with some detached amusement, like a joke was being played.

  “And what?” Caleb said, incredulous. “You…?”

  “She’s fine. A bit dull, but it will make life easier. It had to be someone, I suppose. I’ve come around on it.”

  Caleb’s back arched, his body tensing against his will. He had no right, of course: to consider this a betrayal; to think that his friend was somehow getting revenge upon him for his transgression. He raised his hand as if he were holding a champagne glass and feigned a smile.

  “To you and the new Mrs. Webler.”

  August had not stopped smirking. “You’re mad.”

  “Please. I’ve just given you my blessing.”

  “You don’t have to pretend.”

  But that was what he had done for the entirety of their relationship, whenever it was asked of him. At every juncture that August had gifted him a gesture of love, it served only as the precursor for the detachment, the chilliness, that was bound to follow, and Caleb would be left to pretend the kiss, the touch, had never taken place at all. Each erasure was like a bruise, and each pained him equally. It was why when they had finally consummated their feelings, at this very pond, only weeks before August enlisted, Caleb had decided to join up with his friend. He thought, in the foolish part of his brain which had made him love August in the first place, that it would bring them closer. Perhaps more importantly—and even more foolishly—he feared what would happen if August was left in the presence of other soldiers without him. To imagine him building bonds that might very well discount their own was an impossibility. No, he had to go. He had to follow his love. It was hardly a surprise when August cozied up to the other boys, building friendships and ignoring Caleb like he was his little brother, best left in the tent while the others went out for a smoke, or to talk of the girls back home. Nor was it a surprise now to hear he was to wed Natasha Beddenfeld. The only thing he could do was play nice. Pretend, as he always had when it came to August’s cruelty, that his world wasn’t coming apart at the seams. That his heart wasn’t broken.

  Caleb sat up. The trees, only a short while ago still burnished with gold from the sun, had dulled, their sheen stamped out by the onrushing night sky.

  “Perhaps we should go,” he said. “I told my father I’d have supper with him.”

  They stood together. The scenery was motionless, the pond before them a dark pool of ink. They brushed the grass off themselves, the specks of mud.

  “You needn’t worry,” August said. “This won’t change anything.”

  He once again put his hand on Caleb’s jawline, his thumb on his bottom lip. This time he did not squeeze his face. There was a tenderness. He said nothing more, simply let go and started back home.

  CHAPTER 9

  She was on her own. That was what it was. The conclusion came slowly to Isabelle, cropped up as a fear, the trailing vapors of an idea that lingered after Caleb’s death. Her first thought, upon her son’s return, was that these inclinations would vanish. Instead they had strengthened over time, and now she was privy to a perspective on life that might once have overwhelmed her: an existence of uncompromised freedom.

  The understanding stole into her consciousness as a kind of awakening, a spiritual outpouring, then assumed a physical manifestation, in the parts of herself she discarded. The widow’s blacks had been the first to go—even before she knew Caleb had in fact survived—relegated to the back of her closet without a second thought. Next came her projects, those obligations of little significance: a purple merino cap she’d been knitting suddenly felt like a waste of fabric and time, and her workbox went missing under the bed, not to be seen since; she left her roses untended mid-bloom, forgetting some weeks even to water them, until their petals wilted and drooped, corpses in plain sight of all who came down the lane.

  Early on, this inactivity was a pulsing shame. She sensed her old self, the dutiful and productive self, knocking at her conscience, begging to be let back into her life. But this
feeling passed, and what took its place was something akin to bliss. Sitting on the porch with Mildred was not a respite from another task but a way to spend the day. Cleaning the kitchen could wait until tomorrow; dusting George’s study could wait a lifetime. There were stretches where she did not even bathe. A life without motion, without expectations—it was the secret she kept from the outside world, for no one else comprehended the great joy in abandonment, in giving up and starting over with a blank page, a page that might never be filled.

  Truthfully, she had George to thank. He’d ventured off first, altering the order of their home, and shored up his grief in the two boys who lived now in their barn, the land they worked together. After that she’d had to face life by herself, to brave it anew each morning upon waking, and to continue without knowing where the journey might lead her, if anywhere at all.

  There were still moments of doubt. When Silas had returned, galloping up on horseback in a veil of dust, the disturbance in his countenance on beholding her disheveled appearance and the unkempt environs around the cabin was matched only by his confusion an instant later at the sight of Caleb.

  “I suppose you got the telegram,” she said. “Fortunately, Caleb is alive and well.”

  “That much is clear.” He was huffing. “A second telegram proclaiming as much would have been appreciated.”

  Aside from his complexion, transformed by the Florida sun to a muddied bronze, he was all but a duplicate of the brother Isabelle had known all her life—the boy with yellow hair and loose pants who used to keep her company on those long days growing up. He’d kept their father’s land after his passing, worked it, and started off on new projects in more recent years, with little time to pay her any mind.

  He dismounted and joined her on the porch, declining her offer of tea and giving a stern once-over to Caleb, who stood awkwardly before the door, his hands in his pockets.

  “You’re well, then?”

  “As well as can be,” Caleb said.

  “Your nose?”

  “Just a scrape.”

  “From what little I saw, there were plenty of those to go around.”

  Caleb left her alone with Silas at the first opportunity, and there was so much to cover that it was difficult to begin. Robbed as they were of Caleb’s death to discuss, it seemed that no one trivial matter was more worthy of inspiring conversation than another. The silence grew into something tangible and was alleviated only when she asked after his wife, Lillian.

  “Oh. She is perfectly fine.”

  “The boys?”

  “Quite well. I believe they’ll make something of themselves one day. Both fond of school. Quincy likes steamboats. I can picture him as an engineer.”

  Although Silas had never cared for George, a rift that had only grown deeper over the years, with Isabelle he had always exhibited a jubilant nature that allowed for lively chatter. Yet it had been more than a year since she’d seen him, and he seemed in that time to have lost this bearing, so much so that her brother, her closest relative, now appeared to be a total stranger.

  She asked him if he wished to stay for supper, but he stood and demurred, telling her that he shouldn’t. If all was well he would be on his way. He spun the brim of his hat in his hand, flicking it and catching it, just as their father had done in times of nervousness. The action gave her pause: here was the boy who had inherited another man’s entire constitution—all while she was attempting to reinvent herself with no guidepost or assistance. How easy Silas had it. Yet she was proud of her brother, even comforted by his surety.

  She reached out before he left and put a hand on his shoulder.

  “Silas. I might call on you one day.”

  His face pinched together in concern.

  It hadn’t been her intent to worry him. She confessed that she wasn’t sure what she meant.

  “It’s just—well, you never know these days.”

  “I’m only a day’s ride away,” he said. “If you need anything, you come find me.”

  Satisfied, she let go of his shoulder and watched him off, pondering, once more, how far two siblings might grow apart without ever losing the bond that united them. She thought to call out and thank him for coming but realized, catching herself, that with a brother like hers, such a show of gratitude would never be necessary. He’d simply carry on, ignoring her words altogether.

  * * *

  The days that followed were quiet. True to his word, Caleb was often around the house and would eat or sit with her. Like his uncle, though, he seemed to have molted part of himself, and tended to keep his distance, aloof in the way most men, in her experience, were inclined to be. His mangled face weakened her if she looked at him too long. His skin had been raw and pale from birth—his nose, eyes, and mouth all too delicate for a man—and when he had departed the previous year, she was sure that his body, too soft and fragile for the climate of war, would leave him more prone to hurt than the other boys. His scar traced a line between his cheek and his nose, separating them as if two compartments, and the nose itself hooked right like it was chasing a scent it could not capture.

  Reminders. These constant reminders. Of time lost, relations frayed. She was resigned to it all but refused to let her son dwell in the center of that pain. In those moments he grew distant she nudged him, certain that some activity, any activity, was better than none at all.

  “Your father could use all the help he can get,” she suggested.

  “He’s got help.”

  “I’m sure he’d be happy to have more, is what I mean.”

  Caleb would retrieve eggs from the nest boxes in the coop, or wash down Ridley, lingering with a faraway look at the field down the way. George was not sensitive to his son, any more than he was sensitive to anyone else. His life now was one that excluded his family, which was fine as far as she was concerned, but such treatment could not extend to Caleb. This she would make sure of.

  “He could pay you,” she said. “You could work at your own leisure.”

  They were sitting at the dining room table, alternately talking and, when the mood to converse left them, reading. It was early April, mild weather, patches of mugginess tempered by soothing winds, and yet the length of the days, perhaps owing to the lackadaisical approach her life had taken on, felt laborious.

  “And you suggest I go ask?” Caleb said.

  “Would that be so terrible?”

  “I would consider it if the request came from him. And not until then. I don’t wish to discuss it further.”

  He fanned the newspaper at himself theatrically and disappeared upstairs.

  That night, as George readied for bed, Isabelle told him to ask Caleb for assistance in the fields.

  “I thought he was still convalescing,” George said, removing his boots.

  She said he was not and that it would be good for him to have some structure.

  George inquired with him early the following morning.

  Caleb looked at his father, then at his mother, knowingly, and shrugged his assent.

  “If you need the help.”

  “Well, we are doing fine, but—”

  Isabelle’s glare cut him off.

  “Yes,” he said. “I suppose we do.”

  * * *

  Not once had Isabelle herself visited the land that had been cleared for the farm, mostly out of uninterest, but now that Caleb was reporting there each morning she began to develop a curiosity. It had been another week with no visitors—not so much as a letter from Mildred—when she put on her boots and walked out the back door. The sun touched her right away and she moved briskly, as if to outpace it. Although the expanse, bare land where once there’d been a forest, was visible enough, the sun cast a flowing cape of gold upon the field, and at first she could discern no sign of human life. She shaded her eyes with a hand, to give them a moment to adjust, and the farm appeared in the distance suddenly, with the awe of a miracle. It wasn’t the scope of the operation—Old Ox had many farms that were double
, if not triple, the size—but the fact that this one had been born from nothing. Its mere existence was akin to a wonder of the world materializing in her own backyard.

  Furrows, like the carefully drawn lines of a fountain pen, ran at length toward the edge of the forest. They were fertile, coffee-brown in color, and lush in comparison to the soil at her feet. She could see the four men now. Each of them clutched a hoe, with a furrow to till on his own, and none spoke, the work taking precedence. They were not beneath her, but somehow they seemed to be, as if the land was tucked into a valley under the shade of two parallel hills, safe and at arm’s length from the rest of the world.

  She could make out George, could take in the long strokes of his hoe, the gentle means by which he brought the tool down and lifted it again, taking precautions to upturn every bit of soil, each swing delicate but true. The wind struck her then, and she shivered like a plucked harp string, her toes clenching in her boots against the momentary chill. She could not shake the feeling that she was witnessing something intimate. This was, she realized, no place for an observer; no place for her. She started back to the cabin and decided that she would not return to the field.

  This promise was kept for only a day, though Isabelle was not herself the cause of its undoing. The following afternoon, as she lay in front of the house on a blanket, enjoying a temperate sun, visitors on horseback appeared in the distance. It was Ted Morton and his hand, Gail Cooley, both slowing as they drew near. They did not dismount until the shadows of the horses crept over her and the sun vanished at their backs.

  “Mrs. Walker,” Ted said.

  She pushed herself up to a seated position and greeted the men.

  “I’m looking for your husband,” Ted said. “It’s urgent.”

  Knowing George, and knowing his views on Ted Morton, she found it difficult to imagine that the two men might share a single concern, let alone one of urgency. But she was well aware of the one entanglement that bound them together and could surmise what had brought her neighbor here.