River Boy

by Tim Bowler

  It was some minutes before she stopped and tread water. To her surprise, she had swum, almost without noticing it, around the first bend in the river. She turned to look back the way she had come.

  There, only a few feet from her and also treading water, was the river boy, clearly not the slightest bit out of breath. He shook the hair from his eyes and spoke to her again.

  “If your grandpa died fulfilled, would you bear his loss better? ”

  “Yes, ” she said, somewhat reluctant to answer him.

  “And would he feel better, too? ”

  “Of course he would. ”

  “Then help him. ”

  She frowned, at a loss to know what to say. He swam up to within a yard from her and looked her hard in the face. “And will you help me, too? ”

  “You? ” She stared at him. “What do you mean? ”

  He looked down, his eyes close to the surface of the water. “There’s something I’ve got to do. Something really important to me. I don’t want to talk about it now, but it’s the biggest challenge of my life, and . . . I’m a bit scared about it. ” He looked up again. “Will you help me? ”

  She looked away, trying to absorb this strange request. He sounded as though he genuinely wanted her help, and there was an urgency in his voice which hadn’t been there before; but she knew she couldn’t make plans of any kind with Grandpa as he was. The boy, though, seemed to understand her worries completely. “If your grandfather finishes his picture, will you help me then? ”

  “I don’t know, ” she said, starting to feel trapped. “It depends on how he is. I mean, I want to help you, but . . . look, I can’t promise anything —OK? —but if I can get away, where do you want to meet? ”

  “Up at the source, the day after tomorrow, at dawn. ”

  “The source? ”

  “You’ll have to climb the rock face by the waterfall. But it’s not difficult if you’re careful. ”

  “But why dawn? ”

  “It’s going to take time —what I’ve got to do. ”

  This was getting too mysterious for comfort.

  “Listen, I’ve got to get back, ” she said.

  “But will you come? ”

  “I don’t know. ”

  “Promise me you’ll think about it at least. ”

  “But — ”

  “Just say you’ll think about it. ”

  “OK, I’ll think about it. But I’m not saying I’ll come, OK? It all depends on Grandpa. And Mom and Dad. ”

  But he seemed satisfied with this. “I’ll wait for you, ” he said.

  She stared at him, still feeling trapped. “Look, I’ve really got to get back. ”

  Without waiting for him to answer, she struck out upstream. Once again, she didn’t look behind her but she assumed he was following just as he had done before. When she finally stopped, she was a few yards down from the tree-cover where they had met. She put a foot on the bottom, turned, and looked for him.

  But this time he was gone.

  The words of the river boy haunted her through the evening, like snatches of a song that would not let her go. She went through the motions of helping Mom with the cooking, peeled the potatoes, cut up the vegetables, drained the rice; yet noticed little of what she was doing. Dad went in and fed Grandpa, then came back, his face dark and grave, and the three of them sat down to eat.

  After a long silence, Dad’s voice broke in upon her thoughts. “Jess? ”

  She looked up and saw him watching her.

  “Jess, I’m sorry. ”

  She forced herself back from the world of her mind to the world of those she loved. “There’s nothing to be sorry about, ” she said.

  He reached across the table and took her hand. “I expect you know that Dad wants to be taken into the hospital tomorrow. Even he’s had to admit it’s time. I just wish it hadn’t turned out like this. I’d have liked him to have finished that painting before he . . . ” He paused, frowning, and his hand tightened around hers. “I’m still praying he’ll pull through. I just can’t bear the thought that . . . ” He paused again, breathing hard. “But, Jess, listen, I’m sorry I’ve been so bound up with him. I’ve hardly taken any notice of you, and I know you’re feeling things as badly as anybody, if not worse. ”

  “There’s nothing to say sorry for. ” She thought of the river boy again and looked down. “Dad, do we have to take him to the hospital tomorrow? ”

  “It’s what he wants. What else do you suggest? He shouldn’t have come out of the hospital in the first place, but now that he’s actually asked us to take him in, I’m not going to hold him back. God knows, I don’t want to see him go in any more than you do, but I can’t bear to see him suffering like he is here. It’s for the best. ”

  Mom spoke. “Jess, what is it you were thinking of? ”

  “I don’t know. I just — ” Yet again, the river boy’s words came back to her. “Can I . . . can I spend some time with Grandpa tomorrow morning? First thing? Before you send for the ambulance? ”

  “What is it you want to do? ” said Dad.

  She turned and gazed out of the window at the light fading over the river. “I want to be his hands, ” she said.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  In the morning she steeled herself and went to him, alone. He was awake, but his eyes were weary as they locked into hers.

  “I don’t want any breakfast, ” he muttered as she put down the tray. “I’ll eat at the hospital. If I can stand the food. ”

  “You’re not going to the hospital today. ”

  “I am. ”

  “No, you’re not. You’re painting today. So you’d better get some breakfast inside you. ”

  He scowled at her. “I’m not painting. I can’t paint anymore. And if I can’t paint, I don’t want to live. And I’m not hungry either, so you’re wasting your time. ”

  “Stop arguing and open your mouth. ” She cut the toast into small pieces, picked one up, and steered it toward his face.

  “I told you, ” he spluttered. “I don’t want — ”

  He saw the toast coming closer, closed his mouth tight, and glared at her. She tutted.

  “I’m going to hold this toast here until you open up and eat it like a good boy. ”

  He eyed it with contempt for a while, then grunted. “It hasn’t got any marmalade on it. ”

  Keeping her eyes on his and the toast poised before his mouth, she reached for the knife, dipped it in the marmalade, and spread it for him. He watched her, with grudging respect, then opened his mouth just enough to let her slide the toast in.

  “Stubborn as hell you are, ” he said, chewing slowly.

  She reached down and took another piece of toast. “Wonder who I get that from. ”

  He ate the rest of the toast in silence, his eyes still on her, as though wondering what she would do next. She reached for the coffee pot.

  “I don’t want any coffee, ” he said. He looked hard at her. “And I mean it. ”

  “OK. ”

  He leaned back in the bed, breathing jerkily. “What time is it? ”

  “Eight o’clock. ”

  “Where’s your mom and dad? ”

  “Still asleep. ” She thought of them sitting upstairs as agreed, worrying and no doubt wondering what she was up to. Fortunately, they hadn’t pressed her to explain what she intended to do. It was good that they trusted her; and just as well they couldn’t see what she as about to do next.

  “OK, Grandpa. Get ready. ”

  He looked up at her. “What are you doing? ”

  “Helping you to sit up. ”

  “But I can’t move. ”

  “Yes, you can. ”

  “I can’t. And I don’t want to move. Not till the ambulance gets here. ”

  “There’s not going to be any ambulance today. I told you, you’re not going into the hospital. Not yet. ”

  “I am. ”

  “You’re not. You’re going to paint today. You’re going to s
it up properly in bed and you’re going to finish that picture. And I’m going to help you. ”

  “Don’t be ridiculous! ”

  “I’m not being ridiculous. And there’s no point in arguing about it. I’m not giving in. ”

  He was fuming now, and she could see he chafed to be rid of her. Desperately she clung to her faith in his will, his anger, his courage, and, above all, his love for her, the only thing —as she well knew —that allowed her to get away with this.

  “You’re going to paint, ” she said firmly.

  “I told you, I can’t move my hands properly. How do you expect me to paint when I haven’t got the strength? ”

  She leaned close and looked him hard in the face. “But I’ve got the strength. You can use my hands. And we’ll finish the picture together. ”

  He turned his head away, as though anxious to avoid her gaze, and was silent for a long time; then suddenly he looked back. “Well, I’m not painting in bed. I never paint in bed. ”

  “Then I’ll put you in the wheelchair. ”

  He glowered at her. “God, I’ve never known anyone so pigheaded. ”

  “I have. ”

  “Heaven help the man who marries you. ”

  “I’ll get the wheelchair. ”

  She hurried out before he could change his mind, fetched the wheelchair from the sitting room, and pushed it through to him.

  And the first big problem arose.

  Dad would have to come down to dress Grandpa, and that was the last thing she wanted: she didn’t want anyone, not even Mom or Dad, to break Grandpa’s mood. Fortunately, Grandpa’s natural obstreperousness sidestepped the problem.

  “And I’m not having anyone dress me. You can put a blanket over me, and that’s it. And if I want to stop and come back to bed, then I’m going to, whatever you say. ” He drew back from her as she leaned forward to help him. “And I can get in the wheelchair on my own, thank you very much. ”

  “Who are you kidding? ”

  She threw back the sheet, put her arms around him, ignoring his mutterings in her ear, and pulled him gently forward.

  “Come on, Grandpa, use your stomach muscles. I’m not doing all the work for you. ”

  “Bully, ” he said, struggling toward her.

  It was good that he was abusing her. If he had fight in him for her, then he might have enough for life, too; or at least, for the painting.

  Which perhaps was the same thing.

  “You’ll kill me before my time, ” he said, “if you keep shoving me about like this. ”

  “You’ve been killing yourself anyway lately, so what’s the difference? ”

  She eased his upper body toward the edge of the bed, then swung his legs around into the wheelchair.

  “Hold on to me, Grandpa. ”

  She felt his arms flop over her shoulders and try to hold her. There was not much strength there, but some. She prayed he would have enough for what lay before them, and that she would, too; not just to lift his body but, more importantly, his mind —at least enough to get him through this ordeal.

  And somehow to overcome her own doubts and hold fast to what she believed to be right for him.

  The risk was obvious: the strain of this effort to paint could, quite simply, kill him —here, now, any moment. Yet the more she had pondered the words of the river boy, the more the logic of this course of action had justified itself to her.

  Death was already so close; and she felt she knew Grandpa well enough to hazard that he would be willing to risk losing a day or two of a now unbearable life for the chance to die fulfilled.

  She sat him at last in the wheelchair and turned it around to face the door.

  “Blanket, ” he snapped.

  She fetched it and draped it around his shoulders.

  “No, ” he said. “Over my legs. ”

  “Your legs? ”

  “The spindly things at the bottom. ”

  “No need to be sarcastic. ”

  She spread the blanket over his legs and pushed him through to the front door. There was no sound from upstairs but she knew Mom and Dad must have heard them. She prayed they would not come down; if they saw what she was doing, they would surely stop things.

  But no one called down or appeared on the stairs.

  She opened the front door, pushed him outside, and closed it behind them.

  “Nice day for painting, Grandpa. ”

  “As long as Alfred doesn’t turn up. ”

  “He’s not coming today. He’s got to go to Braymouth to see his sister. ”

  “What a pity. ”

  She said nothing and pushed him down to the spot by the river where he had tried to paint before.

  “I can’t paint without my easel, ” he said petulantly.

  She locked the wheelchair brake, leaned over the top of his head, and looked upside down into his eyes. “And exactly how many times over the years have I forgotten your easel? ”

  “Well, I was just reminding you. ”

  She giggled and kissed him on the forehead. “Grumpy old whatsit. ”

  She ran back to the house and started to fetch the things, expecting on each trip to see Mom or Dad waiting there, demanding to know what was going on and insisting she stop at once.

  But, still, there was no sound from upstairs.

  Ten minutes later, the easel was set up, the picture in place, and everything was ready.

  She sat next to him on the folding chair she had brought for herself and tried to think how to begin. He certainly didn’t look ready to paint. His face was so pale, he looked like a ghost, and the more she watched, the more he seemed to be fading from her sight. The only brightness was in his eyes, and even that was dwindling.

  Yet life still lingered, flickering there somehow, and with it she saw traces of the willpower she was counting on, praying for. It would be that, and probably that alone, that would keep him alive long enough to complete this final challenge.

  To her relief, though, he seemed at last to be showing some interest of his own in the picture.

  “I don’t know quite how we’re going to do this, ” he said slowly, staring at the painting. “I can’t hold the brush very well, and I can’t keep my arm up without your help. ”

  “We can do it, Grandpa. Between us. ”

  “You’ll have to be patient with me. ” He thought for a moment, then added wryly: “And I’ll . . . er . . . I’ll try and be patient with you. ”

  She smiled.

  “And how will you manage that, Grandpa? ”

  “I won’t if you don’t stop being so smart, so shut up and pull the easel closer. How do you expect me to reach it like that? ”

  She laughed and did as he asked. “What color do you want first? ” she said.

  “Mix me some black. ”

  “Black? ”

  He raised an eyebrow at her. “Do we have a hearing problem? ”

  “OK, black. ”

  It was good to banter, good for him and good for her, but she knew the time for joking was now past. She had to let him concentrate. She prepared the black as he directed and waited, wondering what to do next. But he moved first.

  His hand struggled forward. She saw what he wanted, reached out, and took the brush, and placed it between his fingers. He caught her eye and nodded toward the picture.

  “I want . . . I want to work down that right side from the top. Can you . . . can you —? ”

  “Lift your arm? ”

  “Yes, and put your hand around mine. I don’t think I can . . . ”

  The brush was slipping from his grasp already.

  “I’ll do it, ” she said.

  She sat on the edge of her chair and placed her hand around his fingers to keep the brush in place.

  “Not too tight, ” he said. “I can’t control it otherwise. That’s right. Now, let me get some paint on the brush — that’s it —and I’ll try and . . . ” He frowned, and she felt him trying to raise his arm. “It’s no good, ”
he said, breathing hard. “I can’t lift the damned thing. ”

  “Let me do it, Grandpa. ”

  Keeping her right hand around his fingers to hold the brush, she slipped her other hand under his elbow and gently raised the arm.

  “Is that hurting? ” she said.

  “A bit, but . . . ” He stared at the picture again. “I might just be able to . . . ”

  But already she felt him stretch forward, his eyes fixed on the picture with all the desperate intent of a drowning man who spots a slender hope of rescue; and with that intent she felt a trickle of energy run through him.

  The brush dabbed at the picture and left its first mark.

  “Down, ” he murmured, “I want to go down. No, not that way. Small movements, downward movements. Pull my hand back. ” He nodded toward the brush and moved it through the air. “Like that, see? Little downward dabbing movements. Not too big or we’ll mess it up. Come on. ”

  She steered his hand back to the picture, and he continued to paint; and, one by one, the little black tints started to appear, darkening the river scene like feathery black snow.Her arms were aching already, and she knew she would have to do something soon, yet she dared not break the flow of his attention.

  She thought for a moment, then cautiously propped her left elbow on her leg to take the weight of his arm. There was little she could do for her right arm, and she knew she would just have to bear it.

  He seemed to notice none of her maneuverings. His face had set in that familiar glaze of concentration she had hoped to see. He did not speak now except to give terse instructions about where to move his hand and what kind of stroke he wanted.

  But it was all the same kind of stroke: the little downward stroke, and always black. This was the most puzzling thing. He clearly knew exactly what he wanted, yet with every movement of the brush, the images she had seen were being distorted. The right side of the painting had splashes of black all down it, and now he was working around the top in the same way.

  It made no sense; the misty river was still there, clearly visible in the middle of the painting, but the strange, dappled effect to the right and at the top changed everything. He finished the top and worked down the left side, still in black, and, after much effort, finished that, apparently to his satisfaction.