by Donna Milner
Somehow she knew, and she had sent him away!
I rushed up the path and stood at the bottom of the porch steps. ‘Where is he?’ I demanded, the panic in my voice leaking out, accusing, begging.
‘He’s gone,’ she answered, her voice flat.
‘Why?’ I yelled. ‘Why?’ I felt my foot stamp with each ‘why.’ I was outside myself, watching myself having a childish temper tantrum. And I could not stop.
‘It’s for the best,’ my mother said, her eyes focused beyond me, beyond that time and place. Then, for the first time in my life, my mother turned her back on my tears.
Chapter Thirty-Two
I PULL MYSELF out of my private thoughts as the Edsel slows down. We have reached the outskirts of Atwood. Here and there a solitary light from a hillside home appears and disappears as we pass.
‘I once heard Jodie Foster say during a television interview that a moment comes in every young girl’s life when she hates her mother so much she can feel it in her toes.’
‘Did you ever hate me like that?’ I ask Jenny as she drives. ‘I mean a hate so deep it penetrates your bones?’
‘No,’ she answers without hesitation. ‘Not really. Oh, I remember as a teenager, whining along with my girlfriends about our mothers. Sometimes those conversations seemed like competitions over whose mom was the biggest bitch.’
‘Was I in the running?’
‘Only when you wouldn’t let me triple pierce my ears,’ she laughs. ‘No, I didn’t really feel any of the animosity some of my friends seemed to feel for their parents. But then we didn’t really have that type of relationship, did we?’
It was true. Except for the summers, Jenny and I spent most of her teenage years alone. Just the two of us against the world. Like the old Helen Reddy song. We experienced very little conflict, were more like friends than mother and daughter. But then Jenny, like her Uncle Boyer, had always been mature for her age – an old soul.
‘What about you?’ she asks. ‘Did you ever feel that way about your mother?’
‘Briefly,’ I tell her. ‘Only briefly.’
And I see myself standing at the bottom of our porch steps on a warm summer night.
I watched my mother’s back disappear into the house. And in my foot-stomping fit of frustration, I felt the searing heat of rage seep through every part of my body. She sent River away! Somehow she knew, and she sent him away!
I spun around and ran out of the yard. Boyer! I need to tell Boyer!
I fled up the dirt road, past the silent machine shop, past the alfalfa field behind our house. Sparrows scattered off fence rails in a confusion of wings as I ran by. Clicking grasshoppers leapt from the tall grass on both sides of the road. I swatted blindly as they hit my body. I ran on, stumbling on sun-dried hard dirt ridges and wiping the tears and mucus from my face with the back of my sleeve.
Boyer will fix it! Boyer will fix it! I kept telling myself. Exactly how he would do that was not part of my hysterical mantra.
Shadows darkened the edge of the woods beyond the field. A canopy of branches and leaves covered the narrow road that led to the lake. The only sound I heard was the pounding of blood in my ears and the echo of my laboured breathing as I raced under them and into the meadow.
In the grey light, Boyer’s cabin looked empty, abandoned. From the outside the only hint that anyone lived there at all was the new shiplap siding on the addition. And Boyer’s Edsel parked at the side.
Oh, how I wished I had sensed the danger, the harsh unwanted knowledge that lay behind that heavy wooden door, before I rushed up and, without knocking, pushed it open.
I stood in the doorway, catching my breath and squinting into the dim interior. I heard a muffled sound and turned towards the bedroom. There was a sudden blur of movement on Boyer’s bed. As my eyes adjusted, my mind could not keep up with what I was seeing, could not comprehend what was happening in the murky light of that small room. A flash of bare buttocks, a muscled back, naked arms and legs tangled. At first I thought I had caught Boyer sleeping. I was about to turn away from his nakedness when I saw the surprised face staring back at me was River’s. And beneath him, raising his head off the pillow, was Boyer.
I stood frozen. The scene in front of me, the rumpled bed, the clothes strewn on the floor, River’s canvas duffel bag in the corner, his guitar case leaning against the wall, I took it all in. But it made no sense. The relief of finding River there conflicted with the truth of what I was seeing. I heard Boyer’s voice groan, ‘Oh, God, Natalie.’
On the floor, at the end of the bed, two pairs of jeans lay crumpled, accordioned down as if they had just been melted out of. Both Boyer and River scrambled for them. They hurried to pull them up over their bare legs. Still, I did not turn away. Even in my shock, some place deep in the back of my consciousness noticed how beautiful they both were. Then, as suddenly as light snapping into a room, it hit me what I had just witnessed.
I watched Boyer and River in the other room and felt my stomach sour and rise to the back of my throat. I cupped my hands to my mouth to stifle the moans that rose with the bile.
‘Oh, no! No!’ I could not stop the rush of confused words that spilled through my fingers and out into the room. ‘Shit! What … why … you can’t … what are you doing?’
River slumped on to the edge of the bed, his shoulders rounded, his elbows on his knees, his head down, as if he were faint.
Boyer came through the bedroom doorway. He lifted his arm and reached out to me. His eyes did not avoid mine. They were weary, sad, but I saw no shame hidden there, just hope, hope that I would understand, that I would accept this unimaginable truth.
I twisted away from his touch. ‘No, this is wrong, wrong. You can’t do this,’ I cried. I looked past him. ‘River . River . I thought … you said you loved me!’
River raised his head. In his eyes was the same plea for understanding. ‘I do love you, Natalie,’ he said. ‘But not that way.’ His face softened. He looked up at my brother. ‘I love Boyer that way,’ he said.
‘But . but . what about us .’ I stammered as if I could argue this all away, as if it were an argument I could win. ‘We . we made love.’
At my words, they both seemed to stop breathing. Boyer turned to River. ‘What? You what?’ His voice was a hoarse whisper. Suddenly it was as if I was not in the room. The looks that passed between them needed no words. Boyer waited for the denial he knew was not coming; while River’s eyes confirmed the horror of the truth.
‘It was a mistake.’ His voice was barely a whisper. ‘A terrible, terrible, mistake. I’m so . so sorry.’
‘A mistake!’ I cried. ‘I’m a mistake!’ But no one was listening to me.
Boyer leaned down and grabbed River’s boots and socks. He flung them through the bedroom doorway where they landed at River’s feet. ‘Get out,’ he said, his voice barely audible. ‘Take your things and leave.’
‘Please, Boyer,’ River pleaded, ‘I was going to tell you. Should have told you.’ He looked to me, ‘Natalie?’
I knew what he wanted, what he was asking of me. Even in the half-light of the bedroom I could see the panic in his eyes, the silent plea for me to explain, to say the words that would make Boyer understand. I would not give them to him. ‘Yes, go … go …’ I spat, ‘both of you go. I hate you! I hate you both!’
I backed out of the cabin, tripped on the doorsill and stumbled. I reached up and grabbed the doorframe to straighten myself. ‘Oh, God,’ I moaned. ‘I wish I was dead.’ I turned and ran out, leaving them both hurrying to retrieve their clothes as I screamed back ugly words of hate. Words that came out of a frightened hysterical place, a cruel place that I did not even know existed inside me.
I heard Boyer call, ‘Wait, Natalie. Don’t go.’ Concern for me filled his voice, as if he hadn’t heard my condemnations.
I fled across the meadow grass in the fading light. I hurried, not down the dirt road that led home, but up. Up to the ragged edge of the woods. I looked
over my shoulder and saw my brother rushing out of the cabin, hopping on one foot, while trying to pull on his other boot.
Shadows wrapped around me as I entered the trees. The forest was giving itself up to the night. Dried pine needles and twigs crunched under my feet as I scrambled up the slope. Branches scratched at my bare legs. I wished I wasn’t wearing a mini-skirt – a new outfit that I had put on earlier that day hoping to impress River. Below, I heard arguing as they struggled to get dressed.
‘Leave! Just leave,’ Boyer shouted, as he ran out the door. ‘I’ll go find her.’
I glanced back over my shoulder. Through the trees I saw River rush out of the cabin after Boyer. ‘I’m coming with you,’ he shouted back as he followed Boyer up the hillside. The fury of their frustration rose with their voices in the night air and carried up the mountain.
It’s impossible to get lost in the forests and hills that surround our farm Boyer once told me. ‘If you ever get lost,’ he said, ‘ever lose your way, just climb higher until you can look down and see the fields and the barn.’ He taught me how to use the North Star at night as a guide to lead me home.
But I wasn’t heading home. Halfway up the slope, I turned north and began traversing the mountainside, stopping only a moment to catch my breath and get my bearings. A full moon rose in the starlit sky, casting lacy shadows through the trees. I heard the scurry of small feet in the undergrowth.
Our mother instilled in us a healthy respect for the wildlife of the forest. The more noise I made, the safer I would be. Below, Boyer and River’s voices created enough noise to keep any nocturnal animals far away. Their hollers carried through the woods. I heard Boyer once again yell at River to leave, then both of them calling my name repeatedly in the darkness.
As they came closer, I pulled myself up into the crotch of a giant cedar tree. Bark scratched my bare thighs; mosquitoes attacked exposed skin. I concentrated on being still as their shouts came closer. Just before they reached the tree where I sat crouched, they veered in the opposite direction.
I waited and listened as their voices receded. Then I climbed out of the tree. In the glow of the rising moon I fought my way through the thick underbrush. I continued along the slope until I came to the edge of the gravel pit. I lost my footing in the loose gravel and slid down to the bottom, where I picked myself up and scurried across to the dirt road leading to the highway. To Atwood.
Chapter Thirty-Three
ALL MY LIFE I have wrestled with the question of why I did what I did. What ridiculous, needy part of me led to such a foolish decision? There’s no explanation that makes sense.
Even as I ran through the streets of Atwood, I knew I could have – should have – gone home. I should have climbed into my bed, pulled the covers over my head, and sobbed out the confusion, hurt, and anger, until I had come to my senses, to the truth, to acceptance.
Instead, I ended up standing, panting and out of breath, on the porch of the only friend I could think to run to. Elizabeth-Ann opened the door to my pounding.
‘Natalie! What is it?’ she cried. I opened my mouth, but no words came. And in that instant, that millisecond of time, and forever after, I asked myself why I was there. Although Elizabeth-Ann had become my closest friend I had not been on this porch since her pyjama party years ago. I started to back away as my eyes frantically searched for signs of Mr Ryan. But when Elizabeth-Ann reached out and pulled me into the entry foyer and up the stairs to her room, I let her.
She closed her bedroom door behind us and led me to the canopied bed. Pink light from a ruffled-skirted lamp reflected the worry on Elizabeth-Ann’s face as she sat down beside me. Concern shone in her eyes. My friend, my best friend, held both my hands in hers and asked in a hushed voice, ‘What is it Natalie?’
‘Boyer,’ I sobbed, gasping to catch my breath, ‘Boyer and River!’
‘Boyer?’ Panic flooded her face. ‘Did something happen to Boyer? Is he all right?’
And without a thought I choked out the story. With the serious faces of the Beatles looking down from the posters on her wall, I told Elizabeth-Ann how I had found Boyer and River together, in each other’s arms. Lovers! God! They were lovers.
Elizabeth-Ann remained silent, her full-lipped mouth half open, as my stream of words, barely connected, but forever betraying, told all. I hardly noticed the change of expression on her face as I went on spilling my confusion in a verbal barrage of bitterness. Then I saw it, the slight lift of the corners of her mouth as she fought to control a smile. A smile! She looked beyond me, through me.
‘Ohhh,’ she said, the word stretching out as understanding took hold. ‘Oh! So that’s it. That’s why.’
‘What? Why what?’ I stammered, already realizing that I had released something that could never be retrieved.
‘No wonder he wasn’t interested in me. He’s a queer!’ She spat the word out – the word I had not even allowed myself to think – as if it burned her tongue.
Her eyes narrowed and once again focused on me, the smirk on her face complete now. I knew that look.
‘Oh, poor Natalie,’ she said, her voice a little too sweet. She pulled her hands from mine and wiped them on her skirt.
And just like that I was once again ‘poor Natalie’, farmer’s daughter, ‘Nat the Fat’, waiting like the unwanted pick for baseball in front of the school’s most popular girl.
‘A queer!’ Elizabeth-Ann giggled, then pressed her hand over her mouth. The giggle turned into a laugh, a laugh that I imagined following me as I fled down the stairs, out the front door, and into the street.
What have I done?
I fled through the streets of town. There was nowhere else to run, nowhere else to go. Except home.
I retraced my steps out of Atwood. At the end of Main Street I turned south and hurried down the empty highway. Suddenly the glare of headlights cast long shadows on the road before me. The car approached slowly from behind. I increased my pace as the black Lincoln pulled up beside me and the passenger window whirred down.
‘Let me give you a ride home, Natalie,’ the familiar voice called, the car keeping pace with my steps. I glanced quickly into the window. Mr Ryan leaned over from the driver’s seat to open the passenger door with one arm as he held the steering wheel with the other.
‘It’s okay. I want to walk,’ I said, moving faster and staring straight ahead.
‘Don’t be silly,’ he said. ‘Get in the car, and I’ll have you home in a few minutes.’
I edged closer to the ditch, pretending I had not heard, hoping he would leave, but the car moved with me.
‘I can’t let you walk home in the dark,’ he called out. ‘Especially not while you’re so upset.’ When I didn’t respond, he said, ‘Natalie, I heard what you told Elizabeth-Ann.’ He let his words sink in then called out. ‘Now imagine what will happen if the wrong people find out. Think of Boyer’s job, your father’s business?’
Suddenly it was hard to breathe, as it struck me how much pain my careless words could bring. My lack of discretion.
‘Now if you don’t want the whole town knowing about your brother, I suggest you get into the car,’ Mr Ryan demanded.
I can’t explain why I thought I could undo the damage, somehow protect Boyer, by getting into that car. I can’t say why, when every instinct within me warned me not to. I stopped walking, and let Mr Ryan push open the passenger door for me.
I felt his pink-rimmed eyes watching as I climbed in and pulled the heavy door closed.
‘Thanks,’ I said in a small voice, but I kept my hand on the door handle.
The car interior smelled of leather and new car, the smell of authority, the smell of careless power.
‘Well, that was quite the story you told Elizabeth-Ann,’ Mr Ryan said as the car gathered speed along the highway. ‘No wonder you’re upset.’
I remained silent wondering how much he had heard, how I could fix it.
‘Seeing those two boys – men – like that,’ he sneered, �
��Well, that’s pretty disgusting.’
My betrayal was complete.
‘Please, don’t tell anyone, Mr Ryan,’ I begged. ‘I was lying. I didn’t really see anything. I was mad at my brother … I just wanted to hurt him. None of it’s true,’ I ranted. ‘I was lying to Elizabeth-Ann. It’s not true.’
‘We both know it is true, don’t we?’ he said, ignoring my outburst. ‘We’re going to have to be very careful about who else finds out,’ he said his voice now that of the mayor of our little town, the mayor concerned about the morality of his citizens. The Lincoln slowed and turned off the highway.
‘No, wait, this isn’t my road,’ I said. ‘South Valley is the next one.’
The car continued.
‘We’ll just turn around up here,’ he said and pulled into the gravel pit, the same abandoned pit I had walked through less than an hour before.
The crunch of tires on gravel sounded hollow in the interior of the car as we swung a slow wide arc. But instead of driving back to the road, back to the highway, back to safety, the car rolled to a stop. Mr Ryan leaned down and reached under the seat with one hand.
‘I have to go home,’ I said, clutching at the door handle. The lock snapped down.
‘Oh, what’s your hurry?’ A silver flask appeared in his hand. ‘You shouldn’t go home like this.’ He unscrewed the cap and held the flask up to me. ‘Here, have a sip of this. It’ll calm you down.’
‘No, no thanks.’ Even in my growing panic, the need to be polite to an adult remained. ‘I can walk from here,’ I said, keeping my eyes on him as my fingers searched for the lock on the door.
‘We have to talk,’ he said, ignoring my words. ‘We have to think about how we can keep your brother and his boyfriend’s dirty little secret.’ He put the flask to his lips and took a long drink then held it up to me again. ‘Come on.’
