Daniel shook the thanks away, a negligent flick of his hand. “We shouldn’t have been out there at all. She shouldn’t have been. The oysters would have waited until you came back. They would have waited for the next schooner.”
“I didn’t mind going,” I said quickly. “I never mind it. There was no way of knowing—”
“How many usually take the oysters in?” Daniel asked, ignoring that. “Three? He had to know how difficult it would be for just the two of us to do so—and one with little experience and none for sailing.”
“What are you accusing me of, boy?” Junius asked. His hand tightened on my waist.
“He’s not accusing you of anything.” I glared at Daniel, pleading with him. “Are you?”
Daniel’s mouth tightened. He glared back at me, and I thought he would say something more; I braced for it. But he only shook his head. “No.”
Junius was still tense, but his fingers eased. “I didn’t think so.”
I pulled away from my husband, rising from his lap, forcing cheerfulness. “Well, I suppose I should start supper. The two of you must be starving.”
I felt Junius watch me as I went—I was too sensitive, too guilty; I had the notion that my guilt showed in my every movement. I went to the stairs, meaning to go into the storage room for something—just a chance to disappear for a few moments, to compose myself—and there was Daniel, leaning against the wall, blocking access. He backed away, almost too quickly, and clumsily I went past him, up the stairs, stumbling when I reached the top and saw his bedroom door open and where we’d been only minutes before, what we’d been doing, rushed into my head. I went quietly to the door and closed it before I went into the storage room, and then I stood there, staring at strings of onions and dried salmon hanging from the rafters, barrels of flour and cornmeal, brined pork and salmon, a keg of salt, a covered basket of dried berries, and a wrapped cone of sugar. This room was mine alone, the only place in the house where everything put into it had been of my doing, and I stood there in the dimness lit by a slanted window and closed my eyes, breathing deep the scents of onion and salmon and dust, the fullness of my own intentions and deliberations, the future I’d put into this room.
I heard the low voices downstairs, deep and steady, men’s voices, but not angry ones, and I imagined what they discussed. The weather and the trip, the coffee and who would have milk. Junius’s resentment of the son he’d abandoned in his every word, Daniel’s anger over being abandoned. They would never come right, I knew. It had been naive to think they might, and now whatever chance there might have been was gone.
Your fault again, I thought. My fault that Junius had never gone back. My fault that my own lack of self-control had put one more thing between them.
It was a moment before I realized I was fingering the bracelet, twisting a charm that was already only fragilely held. I let it go, staring down at it, remembering my suspicions and Bibi’s words. But whatever spell she’d woven into the charms, whatever she’d meant, hadn’t protected me from my own desire. And now everything was as much at risk as she’d predicted. My whole world teetering, tilting, and the promises in this room settled heavily around me, suffocating, my own will manifest in food preserved for a future I no longer wanted, a woman I no longer was.
Junius was a good storyteller. After dinner we lingered at the table, and he told of the trip, how he and Lord Tom had been halfway across the Bear River portage when the storm hit, and how they’d taken refuge in the woods, thinking it would be only an hour or so before they could start off again. The tarp they’d taken with them had blown away, and in the end they’d turned the canoe over and taken shelter beneath it while puddles formed under their feet and the cold settled into their bones. After a day and a half of this, they decided to press on, mud up to their knees, little streams turning into great currents, and then the ocean proper—“well, it was a whaling canoe, wasn’t it?” Junius said with a laugh—but the two of them could barely control the thing, and had nearly capsized twice, losing all their supplies the second time.
To hear Junius tell it the struggle had been epic, man against the sea, huge and melodramatic; his hands gestured, his eyes were bright. Even Daniel was captivated by the story, I saw, and Lord Tom laughed once or twice and didn’t try to correct my husband. Junius’s charm on full display, and the habit of warming to him returned; I was laughing too, and asking questions, falling back into who I was and my place in this household so easily it was as if the last weeks had never been.
But it was only an interlude, and when Junius finished with a flourish, I glanced up to see Daniel watching me, a thoughtful glance, as if he were noting something he’d never before seen, and I was suddenly who I’d been with him, my longing a sharp and bitter taste in my mouth.
I stood—too quickly—claiming exhaustion. I saw the way Lord Tom looked at me, that knowing expression that made me uncomfortable, and I avoided both his glance and Daniel’s, though I felt how tense Daniel went, how much he hated this, and I felt so tightly wound it was hard to breathe. I hoped Junius would not follow me right away, and he didn’t. He waved me away and said he would be up shortly.
Once I was upstairs, I undressed quickly, pulling my nightgown over my head and trying not to think of how I’d unbuttoned it for Daniel, how it had fallen, pooling at my feet. Had Junius not returned, I would be in Daniel’s bed now, arching beneath him—Has he ever heard you cry out in pleasure?—my skin tingling and my blood coursing, and I was a fool to not tell Junius the truth this moment. But my mouth went dry at the thought. Not yet. He’d been back barely an evening. I could not hurt him yet.
I climbed between sheets that were damp with disuse—days spent not in this bed but in another—and closed my eyes, trying to relax when I was so tense listening for footsteps on the stairs that I could not even pretend to be asleep.
It was not long before I heard murmured voices, good nights vibrating through the floorboards, the thudding close of the back door. And then the footsteps I dreaded: Junius’s. Heavy and labored, and that was a relief. He would be tired. The journey had been a long one. He would collapse into bed beside me and be asleep within moments. There would be no excuse to make him believe when I had never before made one. I tried to think: had there been a time in twenty years that I had said no? Had I ever refused him when I’d always wanted so much, when I’d leaped at a touch, when I hadn’t even realized what I’d been striving for?
I never had.
The door opened; he came inside and whispered, “Are you still awake, sweetheart?” and I stayed silent, though that silence felt too still, false, and I could not calm my breathing enough to effect the lie.
He said nothing; perhaps he didn’t notice. He didn’t light the lamp again, but rummaged around in the dark. I heard the shush of his clothing as he removed it, the way he let out his breath at the cold. He stumbled a little going around the bed, as if he’d suddenly forgotten the layout of the room, as if nearly three weeks away had blurred twenty years of habit. The bedstead shook a little as he grabbed the post, and then the blankets came away, a rush of cold air, the dip of the mattress, the creak of ropes. He pulled the blankets over and settled in, his cold leg against mine, and I couldn’t help myself; I eased it away, a mistake, because it told him I was awake.
He rolled onto his side. His hand came unerringly to my breast, molding to it through my nightgown. I reached up to push his hand away. “June, I’m tired.”
He laughed a little. “You’re not the one who paddled all day.”
“I thought you took the stage.”
“Well yes, but that’s just as bad. Tom and I had to pack luggage over the dunes when the wheels got stuck.” His thumb swept my nipple, then his fingers crept up to the buttons, loosening one, then another.
I grabbed his fingers. “I’m half-asleep.”
He ignored me and disentangled himself from my grip, stroking my jaw, then sweeping down my throat, skipping across the leather thong, pausing. “Wh
at’s this?” He pulled at it, bringing up the beads and the tooth from where they’d been nestled between my breasts.
“My father’s necklace,” I said.
“Is this a tooth?”
“It belonged to a cave bear.” I closed my eyes, refusing to think of the way Daniel had taken it between his lips, how hot and heavy and wet it had felt falling back to my skin.
I felt the tug on the thong as Junius explored it, as he turned the tooth between his fingers.
“A cave bear?”
“It was one of his first finds. He’d worn this necklace since I could remember.”
“But you’ve never worn it before. I’ve never even seen it.”
“I just found it,” I explained. “It fell from the mummy’s dress.”
Junius went still. “What? What are you talking about?”
“The necklace had been caught in her dress.”
“How did it get there?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “It disappeared one day. Papa said he’d lost it out by the river.”
“It must have got in the basket somehow.”
“That’s what Daniel said. But I don’t think it could have. The lid was so tight, June, remember?”
He was quiet, still rubbing the tooth between his fingers. “Some other way, then.”
“I think he found her before,” I said.
“He found her before?” Junius was surprised. “Then why didn’t we know about it?”
“Because he saw something was wrong with her,” I explained. “It’s the only thing I can think of. He dug her up and saw something and reburied her.”
Junius let go of the tooth. It fell to my collarbone with a little thud. “That’s ridiculous. Why would he have done that? There’s nothing wrong with her. He had to know what a find she was.”
“I don’t know why. I’m trying to find out. Daniel and I have been reading Papa’s journals, and—”
“Daniel?” Junius’s voice was sharp.
“He volunteered to help me find the answer. It would help him too. For the newspaper story, remember?”
Junius was quiet, and I went on quickly, rolling over the suspicion I thought I heard in his silence. “He’s very clever, you know. Like you. He’s good at seeing things.”
Junius drew back a little. “You sound as if you’ve taken a liking to him.”
Now was the time to tell him. Tell him now. But I couldn’t. Twenty years, and in the last three weeks, I’d forgotten the who of Junius, I’d forgotten that I loved him, that I’d been happy. To leave him had seemed so easy—how startling to find now that it was not the least bit so. I managed, “Of course I have. I’ve tried to...for your sake.”
“I told you not to get close to him. I told you we couldn’t trust him.”
His words annoyed me suddenly. Sharply, I said, “Then why did you leave me with him for three weeks?”
It was not the kind of thing I usually would have said. Not the kind of thing I would have even thought before. I heard the echo of Daniel in the words, and I felt Junius jerk, as if I’d taken him aback. “Because you needed the help with the oysters.”
“But he was right, wasn’t he, when he said we should have waited for you to get back? It was hard for just the two of us.”
“Are you angry with me?”
I swallowed hard. “No, of course not.”
“I’m sorry it was so difficult. You’ve done it a hundred times before. How was I to know you would fall off the boat?”
“We shouldn’t have gone at all. I saw the storm was coming, and I—”
“You’ve been listening to him.”
“What was I supposed to do, ignore him for three weeks?”
“I told you he would try to come between us.”
“You shouldn’t have left him.” I felt stiff and angry, at odds both with him and myself. Blame was easy to embrace because it alleviated my guilt. Blame for the way Junius had been so desperate to be out from under the yoke of his son that he had left me too. Blame for not understanding my vulnerability. Blame for his selfishness that had led to my culpability. Slowly, as if he didn’t really want to know the answer, he said, “Which do you mean? That I shouldn’t have left him here with you? Or that I shouldn’t have left him before?”
“Both.”
“I wanted to be with you, Lea. I wanted to take care of you. You were so young and...and helpless—”
“And you wanted me in your bed.”
Again, I felt his surprise. “You have been listening to him.”
“Isn’t it true?”
He hesitated. His hand came to my hair, hesitant, cupping my head. “You wanted me, too. You must admit that. The way you looked at me—”
“Don’t blame me for this. You made the decision.”
“We made it together. You knew about Mary.”
I turned my head away, jerking from beneath his hand. “You said you would take care of things with her. And I was seventeen.”
“A woman grown. Do you really mean to blame this all on me? Lea, he’s using you. He sees your kindness and he’s trying to win your sympathy. He knows he can turn you against me. He knows how that would punish me.”
“Would it?”
“Yes. Christ, yes, it would. You know that.” Junius gathered me into his arms, pulling me close, and I let him, unresisting but not helping either, not complicit. I felt like a doll in his arms, pliable and unyielding at the same time. He kissed my jaw, my cheekbone. “I see it already, the way he’s planted doubt in you. Don’t let him do this. Twenty years...we have twenty years together. He doesn’t know anything about me. He hates me. Why would you listen to him?”
My guilt was enough that when Junius reached for the buttons on my nightgown again, I let him unbutton it. I let him bare my breasts and press his mouth to them. I let him ease up my nightgown and come between my legs. He panted into my ear and rocked against me, and I went still in habit and distaste, feeling as if I betrayed them both, father and son. I waited patiently until his thrusting became faster and more frenzied and he pulled out to spend himself against my stomach, and I realized for the first time—now that I had something to compare—that he did that often, and I wondered what pleasure he strived for, what I hadn’t the experience to know.
My longing for Daniel rose, and along with it came terrible guilt that only grew when Junius gathered me close in his arms, resting his head against my breast, loving and content as if nothing had changed—and I knew that for him nothing had. I was still the woman he loved, the woman he’d cared twenty years for, staying in a place he hated because I wanted it, keeping the promise he’d made to my father—the promise I was breaking.
Junius was a good man, and in his arms I felt my betrayal as an aching regret I could not get past. I did not know how to tell him the truth. As he’d said, this would punish him, and what had he ever done to deserve such punishment? How could I hurt him this way?
If I said nothing, if I sent Daniel away, Junius would never know what had happened. He would never be hurt, and I would not have thrown away my father’s hopes for me; I could pretend I’d never given in to the Leonie Papa had been afraid I would become, the nature he’d warned me to be wary of.
Or I could tell Junius the truth. I could go with Daniel and leave this place I loved and give up everything and walk into a future uncertain and strange. I knew I loved him. I knew I wanted him. But the Leonie I had been told me the three weeks I’d just spent with him were nothing but a fever dream, and one did not throw an entire life away for something so new, no matter how exciting. Because excitement faded. Passion and lust gave way to affection and common interests—this I knew, because I’d once felt such desire for my husband, hadn’t I? And when those things were gone, what had I to give to Daniel? Whatever his protests, he was young enough to want children someday, to start a new future, and I...I was thirty-seven. Too old to start over again. What I’d had with Daniel was something to put aside and forget, to take out and think
of only now and then, in my most private moments.
Rationality was a bitter thing. I thought of Daniel and his golden hair and the way his body felt against mine. I thought of watching him walk away, and my vision blurred in sudden tears. I did not want to let him go.
But to make such a sacrifice, to hurt everyone I loved, to break every promise I’d made...in Daniel’s arms, with no one else around, the choice had not been difficult. But now that Junius was here, I questioned myself. Now that Lord Tom looked at me with his fathomless eyes, I felt the wrongness of what Daniel and I had done. The truth was that I barely knew him. I had been suspicious of him myself. Junius did not trust him. Bibi had warned me of him. Lord Tom did not like him. I was uncertain and afraid—perhaps I was not seeing clearly. I knew already how dangerous were my yearnings; my father had been relentless in telling me so.
I remembered a time when Papa had come back late from a collecting trip to find me at the fireside with Lord Tom and Bibi’s grandson Willy and his sweetheart Melia, who was teaching me a Chinook fishing song after an evening of storytelling. I remembered how soft was her voice to start, how it had grown louder and the others had begun to pound in rhythm and the whole thing had crept so beautifully into my blood that my own voice had raised as well, my own hands beat time upon a log. I felt wild and free and happy that night, and Papa, emerging from the darkness, had seemed to me at first a strange spirit from one of Lord Tom’s stories, and I’d shrieked in surprise and terror until I realized who it was.
When the others had gone, Papa told Lord Tom to unload the canoe, and when Tom gave him a worried frown, saying, “Sikhs,” in this warning voice that made my father bristle, Papa had snapped roughly, We’ve no need of you just now, Tom. When Lord Tom left, Papa took both my arms hard, forcing me to look at him. You are not a savage, he’d said brutally.
Of course not.
Then why are you acting like one?
Papa, it was only singing.
Bone River Page 28
