I made a couple phone calls today, Paul was saying as he started offering the apple slices to the horse. Laura knows. I got our lessons scheduled. Group hour, every Monday afternoon, a place called the Equestrian. We begin next week.
He hadn’t expected a group and he grew nervous at the idea. He envisioned a lot of rich white kids who’d know all about horses. How big’s this group?
Just two. You and me, we’re the group.
Okay, he said, relieved, and he watched Mesa’s mouth gnash the apple slices to sauce. She snorted, something she seemed to do when she particularly enjoyed whatever it was she was eating. Another question crossed his mind, and he decided this, too, was a safe one to ask.
Will Mesa smell the other horse on me?
You mean the one at the riding stable?
Uh-huh.
Perhaps if Laura chooses to stop washing your clothes, and you decide to stop bathing. Then, yes, she might. What’s your concern?
He shrugged. I don’t know. I guess I don’t want to hurt her feelings.
The man opened the gate and draped the blanket over the horse. Alfred, my boy, if only grown-ups worried as much as you do about…
About what?
About everything. Don’t you worry about Mesa’s feelings. She won’t take offense, I promise.
He followed Paul into the paddock, and suddenly a realization hit him with such force that he stopped for a moment and smiled. If Paul was going ahead and scheduling riding lessons—and Laura knew all about them—that must mean they didn’t plan on shipping him out anytime soon.
“I know of three occasions when a white laundress married a colored. And I know of one time when an Indian laundress did.”
LIEUTENANT T. R. MCKEEVER,
TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,
WPA INTERVIEW,
AUGUST 1937
Laura
She thought the phone was ringing, and she fought through the sheets and the pillows in the dark to reach it, rolling through the wide desert that once had been Terry’s half of the bed. When she picked up the receiver she heard only the dial tone, and she realized she’d been dreaming. Something had been ringing in her mind, but not in reality. At least that’s what she guessed had just occurred. But maybe somebody was trying to reach her and the phone would ring again in a moment. Maybe it had been ringing for a long while before it pulled her from some preternaturally deep sleep, and the person had hung up only a split second before she finally answered it. Maybe. But not likely, she finally decided.
She fell back into the warmth in the half of the bed in which she’d been sleeping, and wondered at how bright the room was. The moon was not full tonight, but it was large, and a waterfall of light was streaming through the window that faced west. It must be early, perhaps five or five-thirty in the morning. Her alarm would have gone off in another half an hour in any case.
She guessed that if anyone had tried to call her just now, it would have been Terry. Maybe he’d been unable to sleep. Maybe he wanted to talk.
She doubted it was her mother or father, and that something tragic had happened. That was possible, but certainly not probable. If they weren’t going to call her at three A.M., she figured, it was doubtful they’d have tried to ring her at five. At that point, they simply would have waited until seven, when they could be sure she was awake.
She remembered vaguely when Terry had phoned her parents with the news that the girls had died. He’d called them the night of the flood, around nine-thirty, from the phone in this bedroom. The phone she’d just touched. She hadn’t been in the room with him, she’d been downstairs in the den, surrounded by people. Not a lot of people, but enough. Reverend Cook, though always David or—verbalized in her mind with as much irony as reverence because he was such a down-to-earth man—Pastor. His wife, Barbara. The Heberts, Paul and Emily. Her friend Karen, and Karen’s husband, Greg. It wasn’t exactly a house call, but her doctor, Marion, was there, too—more as a neighbor than as a physician, though she had given her something strong to calm her.
There were a variety of reasons why Terry had phoned her parents instead of her, not the least of which was the simple fact that she had been incapable. She couldn’t have made the call. But she had feared also that in some small, unpleasant crevice in her parents’ brains—a kind of lobe the two shared after so many years of marriage—they would have been so desperate to find someone to blame that they would have forced her to share with them more details than she could possibly have beared to repeat. Their way through the forest of grief that loomed before them all would be to find culpability—not a reason, because the deaths of nine-year-old girls are always beyond reason—and they would ask and listen and ask and listen until they had a path that would get them through it.
And would they then, in the end, blame her? They’d never say so, even to themselves. Even when the two of them were alone in their house in Dedham, they wouldn’t give words to such a thought. She knew that. But she knew also that they would each believe separately that a tragedy such as this would never have befallen their granddaughters had they not lived in Vermont. After all, girls don’t get washed over bridges near Boston. Their fathers aren’t away at deer camp when it’s raining like hell, leaving their poor, fatigued wives alone with the children.
She considered how she should tell her parents that she and Terry had separated for the moment, and whether they would ask her if she wanted to return to Massachusetts to live for a while—come home, they might say, regain your bearings a bit. But then she remembered Alfred and doubted they would suggest that as long as she had the child. And while she did not believe the news of the separation would make them happy, they did not particularly like Terry and they would not be devastated.
She decided she might as well get up a few minutes early, and so she climbed out of bed and went quietly down the stairs. In the kitchen she fed the cats and started to make Alfred’s lunch for school, and thought about the coming day at the shelter and the animals there in her care. The Saint Bernard who’d been brought in only yesterday by a loathsome breeder, emaciated and limping because as a puppy something had crushed a front paw and the bones hadn’t healed properly. The deaf white cat with a real attitude problem named Josie. The exuberant but wholly undignified stray dog they’d renamed Alexis, in the hope it would give the animal at least the vague aura of a pedigree.
She looked at the line of food she had amassed on the counter—the sandwich she’d made, the bag of potato chips, the pop-top can of fruit cocktail—and started dropping the items into the boy’s lunch bag. One of her own cats jumped onto the counter and rubbed up against her arm. She stroked it, and decided she would call her parents before she left for the shelter that morning with the news that she and Terry were spending a little time apart, and Alfred was about to start formal riding lessons. It was an odd commingling, but these were the occurrences that summarized her life at the moment.
The harder call, and one she was less sure how to handle, would be to Louise. At some point she would have to alert Social Services that her—and therefore Alfred’s—situation had changed. And though she figured that Louise would be an ally, that call still wouldn’t be easy: She felt Terry had let the woman down, and therefore she herself had let the woman down. She reminded herself that her marriage wasn’t over, and a little distance now was not an unreasonable need.
Unless it jeopardized the boy.
But even that was a complex issue in her mind. The main reason she was so unhappy with Terry was exactly because he didn’t seem to care for the child. Despite his assertions to the contrary—halfhearted, truly, he hadn’t even mustered the passion he’d had when she confronted him that night in their bed about what may (May? May? Who was she kidding!) have occurred when he was away at deer camp—more times than not he was either frustrated by the boy or uninterested in him, and so his presence in the house wasn’t necessarily the best course for Alfred, either.
And so she grew anxious. She wonde
red if she had lost her husband and next she would lose the child. Her child. The boy she was beginning to love.
“The newspaper reporter wrote that we rode and marched and fought splendidly, in some cases as well as the white regiments he had visited on his tour. He attributed this to his belief that it is easier to recruit the best of our race than his, because we have fewer options. If I see him again, I may offer my opinion that though he is correct we have fewer options, he is wrong in his belief that this company’s superiority is the result only of the inferior breed of white man that is enlisting. I am confident we could outride, outmarch, and outfight the very best of his race.”
SERGEANT GEORGE ROWE,
TENTH REGIMENT, UNITED STATES CAVALRY,
UNDATED LETTER TO HIS BROTHER IN PHILADELPHIA
Phoebe
The camp—it was a term she used only because he did, but in her mind it was much more of a cottage—belonged to another trooper’s parents, and it was cozy and comfortable and it had a view of Lake Champlain and the Adirondacks that must have been worth a small fortune. The older couple only lived here through Halloween, however, and then they drove south to a place called New Smyrna, Florida, where they spent the winter and spring in an apartment on a golf course. In her opinion there were a tad too many Hummels on the shelves that lined the living-room walls and in the center of the table on which she and Terry ate breakfast and dinner; moreover, all the furniture seemed a little big for the five small, low-ceilinged rooms that comprised the single-story cottage. But there were big picture windows in both the living room and the bedroom that faced the mountains across the lake, and the few times the sun shone when she was there, she had a glorious view of the winter sunset over Marcy, Haystack, and Whiteface—great snow-covered monoliths now, older and infinitely more primeval than the softer mountains she was accustomed to seeing in northeast Vermont.
She’d been here with Terry since Monday, almost four days now, and she was starting to think about the possibility of getting a job in this corner of the state, instead of one in Waterbury or Montpelier. She figured Middlebury College could always use administrative minions, and there seemed to be a great many small businesses—microbreweries, software entrepreneurs, companies that made awnings or gourmet cheese or wooden toys—that on any given day had a want ad for a bean counter in the local newspaper. In theory she was supposed to be back at work at the general store next Monday, and her father expected her home that weekend…but maybe she could give Frank and Jeannine notice (Notice? Notice? she thought. She was leaving the cash register and meat slicer at a general store in the middle of nowhere, for God’s sake!) and explain to her father once and for all that it was time she got on with her life.
She discovered that she liked living with Terry—or, to be precise, she liked hanging out with him for a couple of days in what really amounted to an extended vacation. He’d called her the day after New Year’s to tell her that Laura had asked him to move out for the time being, and they spoke on the phone a couple of times before agreeing in the second week of January that she should come to the cabin for a visit. She’d have dinner with him on Monday, that was the plan, and though they never verbalized the notion, it was clear she would spend Monday night with him, too. What was she supposed to do, drive all the way home at ten or ten-thirty at night? It was a two-and-a-half-hour drive, and the weather seemed to be in one of those deep winter phases where it was cold and snowy and the roads were often as hard and slick as the skin on a bowling ball. The next day, Tuesday, was one of her days off, but she called Frank anyway to tell him she felt poorly—physically and emotionally—and she was going to take her first vacation since she’d started to work for him and his wife. It wasn’t a whole lot of warning, but slicing turkey and ham and selling Slim Jims wasn’t rocket science, and he’d be able to find someone to fill in. Then she told her dad essentially what Laura had told Terry when she asked him to leave: They needed a little distance. She phrased it more nicely than that (at least she hoped that she had), but the fact was, her father had treated her like dirt since Christmas Day. She owed him nothing, at least not right now. And if Frank and Jeannine should call for any reason and get her father, well, he might mention her bouts with morning sickness (now, wouldn’t that get their tongues motoring behind the cash register!), but neither Frank nor Jeannine would be all that upset. They might be surprised and they might worry about her as friends, but they wouldn’t give a damn as her bosses. They were shocked and pleased that she’d stayed around as long as she had, and had both said in one way or another that it was time for her to get a real job again, anyway.
SHE TOOK THE apple pie out of the oven early Thursday evening while Terry climbed out of his uniform and into a pair of blue jeans and a sweatshirt from the police academy. She’d only made the pie because she had the oven going for a meatloaf and baked potatoes, but she liked the way the apples and the cinnamon made the whole cabin smell. She heard Terry humming to himself, and she was pleased he was happy. Certainly she was. She kept reminding herself that they were really only playing house—this wasn’t actually living together, if only because not a soul in this county even knew she was here—but spending time with Terry was proving very easy. During the days she had read and tried out the snowshoes she found in the closet, or driven into Middlebury to go shopping. On Wednesday she’d gone north into Burlington and had lunch with a girl she’d remained friends with since high school, even though they only saw each other once or twice a year.
When Terry emerged from the bedroom, he poured himself a beer and put a mug with water and a tea bag in the microwave oven for her.
So, you really like those snowshoes, don’t you? he asked.
I do. They’re fun. Up where I live, everyone either rides snowmobiles or goes cross-country skiing.
I was never much for either. Russell has a Polaris; he’s probably been living on it the past week. But I never took a liking to the sport. Too loud, maybe.
Oh, I agree. My family are big snowmobilers, all of them, and I just don’t get the attraction. I have a niece and nephew in elementary school—and I mean first and third grade—who got their own machines for Christmas. I’ll tell you, though, I think they would like snowshoeing, too, if they ever gave it a chance.
Where’d you go today? You get far?
Pretty far. I was able to walk all the way down to the lake, and I couldn’t have done that in either boots or skis. Too steep. Too much brush. Then I probably went a mile and a half or two miles south of here. Till I hit that inn.
I hope you didn’t overdo it.
It felt good. I’m careful.
See anything interesting?
Some animal tracks. Actually, a lot of animal tracks. And, across the lake, the smokestacks from that big paper mill. I’m sure the people who own that inn—hell, the whole state tourism department—just love the view we have of that baby.
It’s a monster, isn’t it?
She opened the oven and put a long metal skewer into one of the potatoes to make sure it was done, and then reached for the padded mitt to remove all of them. The bell for the microwave chirped, and Terry handed her the mug with her hot tea.
Cheers, he said, tapping the glass against the porcelain.
Cheers, she said, and then, after she had taken a small sip, he leaned forward and kissed her on her lips. She hadn’t planned to, but she opened her mouth and felt his tongue glance off hers: It was cold from the beer, and she liked the taste of the alcohol. They kissed for a long moment, and then she pulled away from him and put the mug down on the counter.
We don’t want the meatloaf to get too dry, she said, and she realized she was a tiny bit breathless.
No, of course not, he said, and she heard in his voice a slight tremor. He reached around her and turned off the oven, and she realized he was going to help her get their dinner on the table. They hadn’t made love since the night she arrived, as if denying themselves this pleasure once the edge had been taken off their desire al
lowed them to hate themselves—and what they were doing—a tiny bit less.
SHE TRIED TO convince herself that she really didn’t have any serious worries as they went for a short walk later that night after dinner. They bundled up in their parkas and then strolled up the long, thin driveway that led to the road. The driveway was wooded, but the fields around the road were largely cleared and it was like emerging from a forest into the closest thing Vermont had to big sky country. They thought they might see the northern lights, but a thin layer of clouds had moved in and blocked out virtually everything above them but the faint glow of the moon. Still, it was nice to be outside, especially with the knowledge that there was a warm bed and a warm body to come home to. Sometimes he walked with his arm around her shoulder and she wrapped her arm around his waist, and she realized what was gnawing at her was the fact that Terry was going to have lunch tomorrow—Friday—with Laura. She had a sense that Terry was pulling away from his wife of his own volition (she tried hard to believe that she was no more than a catalyst) and she was convinced that she and Terry might even fall in love if they just hung around together long enough. Maybe, in some ways, they already had. Neither of them had said such a thing to each other. But it was clear they liked being together a very great deal, and they were most certainly linked by the little baby inside her.
Nevertheless, there was no way on God’s green earth that Terry was going to ask out of the marriage, no matter how much he enjoyed being with her, and there was no way she was going to ask him to even consider such a thing. If his marriage was over, it was going to have to be his wife who said so.
He pulled her close and pressed his nose against hers. We should get you back inside, he murmured. Your nose is as cold as an ice cube.
Chris Bohjalian Page 30
