Chris Bohjalian

by The Buffalo Soldier

  Yet sometimes Laura felt they’d moved also so they wouldn’t have to run into either Terry or her at the supermarket in Durham. Those encounters grew unpleasant after the flood: Alicia’s mother, Colleen, was convinced that Laura and Terry blamed her—or, in some way, perhaps even Alicia—for the deaths of their little girls. One day five weeks after the river had raged over its banks, Laura’s friend Karen actually got Laura dressed and out the door to do some Christmas shopping for Terry. They only went as far as Durham, but still this struck both women as enormous progress. There, however, at the small bookstore in the village, they ran into Alicia’s mother, and it was clear to Laura that something had happened since Colleen Montgomery was at her house after the funeral. She wasn’t cold, but she was formal. Not curt, but reticent. They talked for less than five minutes, and even Colleen’s parting embrace struck Laura as more obligatory than genuine: It seemed to Laura as if the other woman was actually careful to preserve a narrow alley of air between their two bodies when they hugged—no small feat since both women were wearing heavy parkas.

  On their way back to Cornish in Karen’s car, Laura asked her friend if she’d noticed it, too, and Karen admitted she had.

  Survivor guilt, she offered Laura as an explanation, because Alicia had gotten off the bridge in time.

  But that night in December Terry had suggested another motivation, a rationale for Colleen’s desire to get away from Laura that he said didn’t mean Colleen wasn’t experiencing survivor guilt—he, too, believed she probably was—but that may not have been the only reason she’d been distant.

  When I was in Fran’s office last week, he’d said, referring to the woman who was the county’s state’s attorney, there was a deposition going on. It involved that fellow who was drunk when he plowed into the minivan full of kids.

  Laura remembered the event well, though she hadn’t thought about it since her own daughters had died. A drunken driver had tried passing a slow-moving pickup and slammed head-on into a minivan with four Cub Scouts aboard. One of the boys had died, and another had spent three weeks in the hospital. This had occurred in September, before the flood washed her daughters from her life, and Laura recalled thinking at the time that she couldn’t imagine how she would have coped if she had been the mother of the little boy who died.

  The man’s been charged with manslaughter, Terry had continued. And after the trial, there will be a civil suit—or at least talk of one to get to a settlement. You can bet on it.

  Instantly Laura understood what Terry was suggesting, and what he concluded Colleen Montgomery had been thinking—or fearing.

  We’re not going to sue them! she had said.

  No, Terry agreed, of course we’re not. But I’ve heard through the courthouse grapevine that the Montgomerys have spoken to David Tenney, just in case. She knew that Tenney was considered one of the very best lawyers in the county.

  A few months later the Montgomery family moved, and though it may have taken yet more time after that for their fears of a civil suit to dissipate, at least they didn’t have to worry about running into Terry or Laura in either Cornish or Durham.

  She and Terry had talked about leaving Cornish after the flood, too, but for completely different reasons and never realistically. In the months after her children died, it had demanded a monumental effort for Laura to simply get out of bed, and there were a good many days when she didn’t achieve even that. Drained by the loss of her daughters, she had lacked the energy to seriously contemplate the notion of leaving, much less finding a new house and packing a decade and a half of their lives into supermarket cartons and moving.

  Besides, the lieutenant in Terry’s barracks would be retiring in a few years, and Terry was a strong candidate for the promotion if they stayed in the county.

  And as that first winter gave way to spring, she realized that both she and Terry were probably as happy in Cornish as they would be anywhere else. She liked her house. She realized she liked the solitude it offered. And she liked her proximity to the cemetery where her girls’ bodies were buried: She took small comfort in the idea that she was near them.

  You’re at the shelter tomorrow, right? she heard Terry asking her now as they continued home from his mother’s. His voice sounded strangely faraway, and she found herself turning toward him, her ear pressing against the headrest, as they motored up through the heavily wooded notch.

  I am, she murmured.

  Alfred, anything special you feel like doing tomorrow? You want to hang out with me? Terry asked. No basement insulation, I promise.

  When there was no noise from the backseat, Laura turned. Perhaps he’d fallen asleep at some point, after all. Instead she saw he’d hardly moved in forty-five minutes. He was still sitting upright, now gazing ahead at the two of them.

  Alfred? she said, wondering if he had heard Terry with his headset on.

  Almost imperceptibly he shrugged his shoulders and said, Sure. Whatever.

  Yup, you and I will do something tomorrow, Terry said. We’ll do something interesting.

  She realized she didn’t know quite what that shrug had meant, or for whose benefit it was intended. Terry’s? Hers? She couldn’t tell what he really thought of a day with her husband, and, as she did often, she found herself wishing that the boy would just talk more.

  BY ELEVEN O’CLOCK she was sure that Alfred was asleep, and so she put the book she was reading on her nightstand and said to Terry, Are you awake?

  Without turning toward her or even moving, he answered he was.

  I want to talk to you, she said.

  I expected as much.

  I want to know what Russell was talking about.

  When my brother drinks too much, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.

  Are you going to look at me?

  She heard a deep inhalation and then a long sigh, and the quilt on his side rose up like a small boat on a wave. Finally he rolled over and sat up. Yes, he said, I am going to look at you.

  What happened?

  I had a drink with a woman in a bar. I was bored at the camp, and I had a drink with—

  She put her hand on the front of his face and covered his mouth—she felt the stubble on his cheeks—and started to squeeze her fingers and her thumb together. She wasn’t sure what she was trying to do; she couldn’t tell whether this was like a slap and she was trying to hurt him, or whether she was simply trying to stop him from speaking. From confessing. She felt his teeth through his face, through the thick slabs of flesh that were his cheeks, and she knew her eyes were growing wet, but he didn’t stop her or make any effort to remove her hand.

  Finally she took her fingers away. His cheeks had deep red marks where her hand had been.

  Who was this woman?

  Nothing happened, he said. Nothing physical, nothing emotional. Nothing.

  I asked you a question.

  Her name, I believe, is Phoebe. She works at the store near the camp.

  You believe you know her name? I’m supposed to believe you had a drink with some woman you picked up in a bar, and you don’t know her name? Come on!

  It wasn’t like that, I didn’t pick her up.

  Then what was it like? Tell me.

  I went to the store to call you—

  When was this?

  Monday night, I believe.

  A week ago Monday?

  Yes. If you’ll recall, we spoke on the phone a little before eight. Remember? Well, the store was closing when we were talking and the woman was leaving, and we waved at each other. Just being polite, because we knew each other a bit since Russell and me and the boys had been shopping there so much over the weekend. Then you and I said good night, and I hung up. I was planning to go straight back to the camp, but I really had next to no desire to play cards till eleven or twelve at night, and listen to Russell’s dirty jokes. And so I went to a bar in Newport and sat down at the counter and had a beer. It was—it is—completely innocent.

  Innocent?

&
nbsp; Innocent.

  Except for the fact you picked up some woman. God, Terry, what do you take me for?

  I didn’t pick up anyone. That woman—Phoebe—was there, too. I didn’t see her at first, I didn’t even say hi. But she came over to me after I’d been there awhile, and sat down on the stool next to me. And, yes, we talked.

  That’s it?

  Well, no. I did pay for her beer. It seemed like the courteous thing to do.

  Did she try and pick you up?

  Yes, as a matter of fact, she did. Until I told her I was happily married. And then we just talked.

  What did you talk about?

  We talked about Alfred. We talked about you. We talked about the girls.

  With two fingers he wiped away a tear at the edge of her eyes, and then took the cuff of his cotton jersey—he was sleeping tonight in sweatpants and a T-shirt with long sleeves—folded it over his thumb, and gently dabbed at both of her cheeks.

  How long were you there?

  I don’t know.

  An hour?

  Maybe a little longer.

  Two?

  Laura, you’re treating me like I’m a hostile witness. Usually it’s only the public defenders who interrogate me like this.

  How long do you think you were at the bar? Tell me.

  I don’t think I like this tone. I told you: Nothing happened.

  You went to a bar with a—

  No, stop that. I went to a bar alone. I can swear under oath that I drove to that bar alone. Under oath. Understand?

  You had a drink with a woman in a bar. How long?

  I’m guessing. Okay? I’m guessing. Ninety minutes, if you have to have a number.

  So you were back at the camp by nine-thirty.

  No.

  Then when?

  Why are you doing this?

  Why am I doing what? Asking where the fuck my husband—

  Why are you getting like this? Why are you using words like—

  Fuck? Why am I using words like fuck? Well, maybe because my husband is taking other women out for drinks when I think he’s with the boys at deer camp! Maybe because two days before the anniversary of our daughters’—

  Don’t go there, you’re—

  I will go anyplace I please!

  Do you want to wake Alfred? Look, I made a mistake. I shouldn’t have bought her a beer, and I’m sorry. Really: I’m sorry. But I couldn’t face Russell, I couldn’t face my cousins, I couldn’t face one more hand of hearts. Okay? I couldn’t face any of that macho deer camp bullshit. And you know what? It felt good to talk about the girls. It felt good to talk about Alfred. It felt good to talk about you and us and our—

  You told this woman about me? About us? What exactly did you tell her about me? I can’t wait to hear this, she heard herself saying. It was odd, but just when she thought she was calming down, just when she thought this was going to be okay, he would say something and set her off again. Was this what he was trying to do, she wondered, was this by design? Or was he trying to defuse the situation, and the task was just proving beyond him?

  We talked about the girls, yes. Maybe it was exactly because Wednesday was coming. And it really did feel good. Let’s face it, there are some things we can’t talk about anymore. Maybe we never could. My God, look at us. I love you, Laura, I absolutely adore you. You know that. But look at me, look at you. Look—

  Me? Don’t you dare try and say it’s my fault that you went to some bar with some woman.

  I’m not!

  Then what?

  We’re not…we’re not the same as we were before the flood. I love you, I love our marriage. But we don’t talk about the same things, we don’t make love like we used to. We go through these phases. And I’m saying we. I’m not blaming this on you. We. Me, too. And if I was in a court of law, I’d probably have to confess that I enjoyed talking to Phoebe in that bar. But I went there alone, and I left there alone. Okay?

  She had a sense that they were at a stage in the fight where she had complete control to either end it right now and minimize the damage, or allow it to continue and risk serious escalation. If she wanted to believe him, then his worst crime had been withholding from her the fact that he had a beer with this person named Phoebe—which meant he did feel guilty about something, but that something may have been the simple notion that he had been at a bar with another woman. But he hadn’t slept with her.

  She thought she could forgive him that. Not right that moment. But with the passage of a little time—especially if they used this revelation (she couldn’t call it a confession, because he was only telling her now because of his brother) to shore up their marriage and try to address whatever emptiness had led Terry to open up to another woman in the first place.

  If she doubted him, however, then now was the time to force the issue. Let him know that she hadn’t lost what was for her an important—perhaps the most important—thread in their squabble: If he had only been with this Phoebe at the bar for ninety minutes, then why, by his own admission, was he not back at deer camp by nine-thirty? He still hadn’t answered that question for her.

  She stared at him for what felt like a long time but she guessed in reality was no more than ten or fifteen seconds. He looked to her a bit like a sleepy little boy, despite his mustache and the small flecks of gray in his sideburns: His hair was already mussed by the pillow, and his eyes were small and tired. She half-expected him to rub them with his hands balled into fists.

  Okay? he asked again.

  She opened her mouth, unsure what was going to come out, and then she heard the word, and if she wasn’t completely okay, she thought she would be soon enough. There was much more that they had to discuss—and she resolved that they would—but for now she was…okay.

  Okay, she said one more time, her voice now soft as a whisper, and already he was falling forward and resting his head on her chest.

  “Any white man who believes the colored troops are any good must be living with a dusky companion himself, and expressing her opinion. He must be like a renegade or a colored himself: Doesn’t care what color a woman is, as long as she’s female.”

  ANONYMOUS LETTER SIGNED “11TH INFANTRY,”

  ARMY AND NAVY JOURNAL, MAY 19, 1876

  Alfred

  He’d heard other grown-ups use the word fuck, but never Laura. He wasn’t sure he’d ever heard her use any swear word before. Not even damn.

  He climbed back into his blue jeans and left his pajama bottoms on the edge of his bed. There was a New England Patriots sweatshirt on the floor in the corner of his room, and he slipped that on over his pajama top. He considered filling his knapsack with the food in his closet—and maybe adding something more from the kitchen, just in case—but his plan certainly wasn’t to leave. He hoped he wasn’t going anywhere. He just needed to get out and wander around for a couple of hours. Like he did in Burlington. And so all he took with him was his CD player.

  His boots and his jacket were by the front door, and when there was only silence in Terry and Laura’s room, he tiptoed down the stairs to put them on, too. The house was darker than he would have liked, but he didn’t dare turn on the hall light.

  Outside, the branches on the cat spruce near the edge of the driveway moved like sleepy fingers in the breeze.

  He had expected a direction would occur to him once he was outdoors, but now he was there and he still didn’t have a clue where he might walk. This place wasn’t like Burlington: There weren’t lights on every corner, and rows of apartment houses filled with college students who were still wide awake. There weren’t bars and restaurants open well past midnight some days. He was actually rather scared of the dark, and the only street lamp out here was at the bend in the road near the Cousinos’ dairy farm—and that was at least a quarter of a mile away, on the other side of the patch of woods that bordered the street. The other direction led up the hill toward the cemetery, and although he liked the graveyard a good deal during the day, there was no way he was goi
ng to go there right now.

  He considered listening to some music, but he decided he should be able to hear the strange noises that seemed to mark the night here in the middle of nowhere, and so he kept the headset draped around his neck like a horseshoe.

  The cement steps before the house were stone cold, but he sat down on them anyway and stared across the street at the old people’s place. He saw there were rooms in the house that were lit, despite the fact it was late and most everyone else in Cornish was probably sound asleep. He wondered if they also slept with lights on, or whether one or both of them were awake right now, too.

  He thought of Terry and Laura in their big bed in their room. Once before he had been living in a home when the grown-ups decided to get a divorce. He’d been five and a half, and he hadn’t been there all that long. It had been the Ryans, those two people who lived in the apartment by the bus station. The man left, and soon after that he was shuttled to the north end of the city to live with two older foster kids—a boy and a girl—at the Fletchers’, where he would sleep for close to three years on the pullout bed in the living room and wear the older boy’s clothes when he outgrew them. Mrs. Fletcher was a soap opera fiend. She was also a hard drinker, and she used to whale on Isabel, the oldest child in the house and the only girl. But she never touched the boys, and only rarely did she ever stop any of the kids from roaming around Burlington.

  He feared that if Terry left—if Laura kicked him out—he’d be sent back to the group home until they could find another placement. The group home was the world of the real losers. Bed wetters. Kids who’d do really weird shit, like set things on fire. One girl there had once carried all her foster dad’s pants and shirts and underwear into the backyard, soaked them with the gasoline the family had in the garage for the lawn mower, and burned them up. Made a big bonfire out of them. A neighbor called the fire department, but the girl had the blaze under control and knew exactly what she was doing.