Meet Me at the River

by de Gramont, Nina

  I slam my book shut and leave school through the library door. As a senior (second-year senior, no less) I am allowed to leave campus during the day. I have two more classes this afternoon, and I have never cut a class in my entire life. Probably I will be back, in an hour or so, in time for AP French. But right now I feel restless. Hungry. The skipped meals and the late-night exploring have been working, and today I’m wearing a pair of my old jeans. So I walk down Main Street and turn in at the Rabbitbrush Café, which serves breakfast all day. I remember Mr. Tynan’s meal, the one I coveted back when I first embarked on my project, and how good that one salty piece of bacon tasted.

  I don’t do a survey of the place, just find myself a table in the corner and settle down with my books. With its huge glass windows the room is unnaturally bright. When the waitress comes by, I order eggs over easy, whole wheat toast, hash browns, and bacon.

  “I’ll have the same,” a deep voice says, sliding into the chair across from me. I have to shield my eyes to see H. J., clean-shaven. He wears jeans and a thick cotton sweater—it’s warm enough that he hasn’t bothered with a jacket—and his hair is combed, looking neat enough that he may just have come from having it cut.

  I close my book. “Hi,” I say. Except to occasionally wave to him when he’s on his front porch or in his yard when I’m on the way to my grandparents’, we haven’t interacted since that night after skiing with Evie. He doesn’t make any reference to the time that has passed since we last spoke; he just pulls one of my books toward him and closes it to inspect the title: Birthday Letters by Ted Hughes.

  “Ah,” he says. “You’ve inherited Evie’s obsession.”

  “Obsession?”

  “Well. ‘Interest’ would definitely be understating. Maybe ‘preoccupation’ would be more fair.”

  “Can you blame her?” I say.

  “No. I really can’t.” He pulls the next book toward him, a biography of Sylvia Plath. He taps the cover the same way Evie did. It’s a picture of Plath and her two children—a boy and a girl. Before sticking her head into the oven, Plath left them a tray with their breakfast. She also sealed off the cracks in their bedroom door so they’d be safe from the gas.

  “He committed suicide, you know,” H. J. says. “Sylvia Plath’s son. Not too long ago.”

  I hate this information. I hate that her careful sealing of the door has gone to waste. “How did he do it?” I ask.

  “Hanging.”

  “Oh,” I say, remembering that boy’s advice at the hospital. Then I say, “Not a naive method.”

  “What?”

  “Nothing.” I can tell by H. J.’s steady, knowing gaze, the bemused rise and fall of his brow, he has already made the connection.

  The waitress slides our plates in front of us. She’s a new girl, not from around here, so we are spared the usual chitchat. H. J. picks up his fork and breaks into his eggs. The yolk runs slowly across the plate, and he grabs a piece of toast and dips it in. This is exactly what I had planned to do, but I don’t want to look like I’m mimicking him. I realize the idiocy of that as I think it, but just the same I take a bite of my hash browns instead. They taste crunchy, greasy. Perfect diner food. My stomach, long-deprived, does an unaccustomed little churn of happiness.

  “It runs in families, you know,” H. J. says. “Suicide.”

  “Really?” I say. For the first time I wish that he could occasionally find his way to talking about the weather, or reality TV, instead of always going immediately to the most loaded topic possible.

  “Would you like to know how I feel about suicide?” he asks.

  I sigh, and break open my egg. They’ve cooked a little longer than H. J.’s, so it doesn’t ooze quite as perfectly, but I don’t have the heart to send it back. I dip my toast in and must look disappointed, because H. J. says, “Here. Take mine. I’ve only had one bite.”

  Because I think it may lead to a change in conversation, and because I really want those runny eggs, I agree. We trade plates, then sit for a long time, H. J. letting his question go, the two of us eating in silence. It feels natural and companionable, not unlike lunch with Evie. When the check comes, H. J. pays, to my protests.

  “I want to,” he says. “What about you? What do you want? A little walk in the high-altitude sunshine, perhaps?”

  “I should get back to school.”

  “Come on,” he says. “It’s all a rerun for you anyway, right? Play hooky. I’ll carry your books.”

  “I have a backpack,” I point out.

  “I’ll carry your backpack.”

  * * *

  We walk down the street together, my pack slung over H. J.’s left shoulder. Before handing it to him, I’d stuffed my jacket inside so I can feel a nice cold breeze through my long-sleeved T-shirt. We stop by the construction site where Paul is having the field torn up for his drive-in movie theater. Trees have already been cut down, and carpenters work on a snack shack. In front of it all stands a sign that reads COMING SOON! A THEATER NEAR YOU. When Mom and I got back from Durango, Grandpa told me that Paul was going to win. The property belonged to him by way of marriage, and the zoning was legitimate. Grandpa said he was tired of fighting with him, but for the past few days he’s been scowling and muttering as if each lost blade of grass is a personal affront to him.

  “The truth is,” H. J. says, though I haven’t said anything about the battle, “it’ll probably be a lot of fun, having this theater.” I think of warm summer nights, buttered popcorn, and first-run movies, the last of which we now have to drive to Cortez or Telluride to see.

  “It might be,” I admit. “But don’t say that to my grandfather.”

  “I won’t,” H. J. promises. We start walking again, past town, and in a minute we find ourselves on one of the flatter, more winding nature trails. We’ve barely walked a hundred feet before H. J. says, “Here’s what I think about suicide.”

  I sigh. “I was wondering when you’d get back to that.”

  “Don’t you want to know what I think?”

  I stop walking and look at him. I can hear the Sustantivo River, its slow and meandering winter pace, not far ahead. I’m surprised it doesn’t bother me, walking in this direction without Luke, maybe because this spot is so far away from the accident. I decide that if H. J. insists on broaching loaded, personal topics, I will no longer respond with tentative politeness.

  “Don’t you worry about it?” I say. “After what happened with your dad. If it really runs in families, don’t you worry about yourself, or Evie?”

  He doesn’t react facially. Instead he gives the back of my shoulder a little push, propelling me onward, and we continue walking toward the water. Our sneakers squish over melting snow and slush.

  “Evie is a survivor,” he says. “I never worry about her committing suicide. And I don’t worry about it myself particularly. The way I feel about suicide is, I like knowing it’s there. I like having it as an option. Because if I’m going to kill myself, then nothing really matters, so I might as well stick around for one more day. Just to see what happens. Out of curiosity. If I’m going die anyway, then nothing is of particular consequence, so why not see what happens next? That way all I have to do is live until tomorrow. I know I can always handle one more day.”

  “I couldn’t handle one more day.” We step through a small stand of pine trees, and the river comes into view. “I couldn’t even handle one more hour.”

  “Ah, but you have. Just look at you. All those days and hours since last spring.”

  I pick up my pace, toward an outcropping of large gray rocks. I climb up and perch on the very top, staring out at the river, which looks and sounds gentle, companionable—as if it’s trying to make peace. H. J. takes a seat next to me.

  “I’m sorry about your dad,” I say after a little while.

  “Thanks,” he says. “I’m sorry too.” I wonder why I’m able to talk about these things to H. J. when I haven’t succeeded with Evie.

  “Do you ever wish yo
u’d done something differently?” I ask him. “With your dad, I mean. Some key thing, something that might have changed everything?”

  “Of course I do,” he says. “That’s what grief is, right? Wishing things were different? Wishing it so hard, you think you might break open. Or die.”

  I nod, I guess a little too vehemently, because H. J. says, “What could you possibly have done differently? It was an accident, what happened to Luke Kingsbury. You didn’t do anything to cause it.”

  Actually I did a million things to cause it, from being born to getting drunk to keeping him all to myself, but for the sake of this conversation I stick to that day. “He was at the river because of me. I dropped my dog’s leash, and he fell into the river. Luke was trying to save my dog. If it hadn’t been for me, he would still be alive.”

  “If that’s how life works,” H. J. says, “then maybe you saved him a hundred times before that without even knowing it. Maybe one day you two were heading somewhere and you realized you forgot your keys and had to turn back, when if you’d kept going, you would have been hit by a truck. Maybe one day you twisted your ankle on the Ethel White trail, so you and Luke never ran into the mountain lion up around the bend. Maybe one day when you wanted to stop skiing early and get some hot cocoa, he would have skied into a tree. You could have saved his life over and over, right up until that day last spring. There’s just no way of knowing.”

  I think about this awhile, staring out at the river. I have to admit, I love the idea that in some alternate universe of other decisions, other actions, without me Luke might never have survived as long as he did.

  Then I say, “Luke and I saw somebody die once, after hitting a tree. We were in the infirmary at Mountain Village. I had hurt my knee. This guy came in. He was completely blue, and his wife kept yelling at him for going too fast and ruining their vacation. Then he lay down on the table next to me, and within, like, five minutes he was dead.”

  “Think how his wife must have felt afterward,” H. J. says. “Think how she must still feel.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t know how many times she saved his life before that.”

  H. J. smiles without showing his teeth or looking at me, glad this possibility has sunk in. For the first time in a long time, I think about taking someone’s picture. I would like to photograph H. J., the exact expression on his face in this moment. Maybe instead I’ll draw a map, these woods, this rock—a picture of H. J. to mark this rock.

  We sit quietly again, listening to the river. After a minute H. J. says, “You know the main thing I wish? I wish he hadn’t taken Evie’s dog. It seems weird to wish that most, when my father died, when he killed himself, which was bad enough—abandoning us like that. But taking Evie’s dog just felt so mean. Like he didn’t care at all, about anything. It makes me angry enough to hate him, and I hate hating him. He’s my dad. The poor guy lost his wife, and now he’s dead.”

  I think of Assia Wevill and that little girl. “You don’t have to hate him,” I say. “He couldn’t help it. He was just in so much pain.”

  “He could help it,” H. J. disagrees quickly. “And pain is no excuse. Not for suicide, and certainly not for murder.”

  I feel my face go red. I don’t like to hear those two words in the same breath, as if they’re comparable. “The thing is,” I say, “it’s hard to explain. But when you’re in it? You don’t think it’s going to hurt anybody else. You think just the opposite, that everyone else will be better off once you’re gone.”

  H. J. thumps my back with the flat of his palm, and I wonder when he got so comfortable touching me. “Hey,” he says. “I don’t mean to make you feel bad. But I’m guessing you’ve figured out that nobody would be better off with you gone. Which is why I mean to keep you alive.”

  This last statement feels alarmingly personal, so I say, “That’s really not your responsibility.”

  “I know it’s not. It’s my want-ability. I want to do it. I want you alive.”

  “Just till tomorrow?”

  “Just till tomorrow. Every day all you have to do is stay alive till tomorrow.”

  We don’t say anything else, just sit there for the longest time letting the sunlight widen and narrow through the trees, listening to the rustle of squirrels and birds and marmots. Watching and hearing the river, incongruously cheerful—meaning no harm whatsoever, just making its way through the world, the day, these next few hours.

  * * *

  Since school’s back in session, I’ve been staying with Mom and Paul again. H. J. drops me off after dark at the end of the driveway. He doesn’t pull in front of the house, perhaps sensing that my family would get the wrong idea if they saw him. He leaves the car running and keeps his hands on the wheel. His face looks flushed and suddenly young—much more like Evie’s brother than her dad—and this moment before good-bye feels awkwardly like a date. I shift sideways in my seat, away from him, my fingers on the door handle.

  H. J. doesn’t seem to notice my slight retreat. “It was nice running into you, Tressa Earnshaw,” he says.

  “Likewise, H. J. Burdick. Thank you.”

  I grab my backpack and open the car door in one fluid movement, then stand for a second and wave, waiting for him to pull away. He leans forward and rolls down the window.

  “I’ll wait till you’re inside,” he says.

  Walking down the driveway, I remember all the nights I’ve walked for miles, alone or with Luke, and think how silly it is, H. J.’s careful eyes upon me. When I reach the front door, I push it open and turn and wave in a shaft of light from the front hall. H. J. answers with a little beep, then pulls away.

  * * *

  I had planned on making an excuse to avoid dinner, but instead of the aroma of my mother’s cooking, I’m greeted by Matthew’s wails. I walk into the kitchen to find Paul, pacing and jiggling and trying to calm the baby. At the sound of my footsteps, he whirls around, a hopeful expression on his face. When he sees it’s only me, his expression collapses back into a frown. He immediately thrusts the baby into my arms, and I wonder where my mom is.

  “Tressa,” he says. “Where is your mother?”

  “I don’t know,” I say. I have to yell over Matthew’s crying. “I haven’t seen her since this morning.”

  He sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. We both look at the wall clock: 5:45, certainly not an alarming time of day. But of course, like my grandparents and me, Paul has begun to notice the glaze in Mom’s eyes, the tapping feet, the too-apparent dreaming of elsewhere.

  Despite all the noise Matthew’s making, we hear the sound of tires crunching on gravel. My mother must hear the wails even from the driveway, but there’s no sense of hustle in her approach. She enters the house through the front door instead of the kitchen. We hear her arrange packages in the foyer. Then she saunters in to us, her face flushed and calm. She stops for a moment and stares at me holding Matthew as if she is trying to place each of us, our relationship to each other, our relationship to her. Then she sighs and reaches out her arms.

  “Give him to me,” she says resignedly. She carries him to the seat across the table from Paul and pulls up her shirt. The baby snorts and grunts and sets to nursing. It’s a noisy process, punctuated by sad little shudders from having cried so hard, so long.

  “Where were you?” Paul says in a low voice. I see the anger, but also the fear of letting the anger show through. My mother has become restless, and he knows he shouldn’t act like any kind of captor. He continues tentatively: “I came home, and your mother was here with the baby. She left more than an hour ago. I don’t know when he ate last.”

  “I left formula,” Mom says. She gestures toward the refrigerator with a jerk of her chin.

  “Formula,” Paul says, disgusted, and I think he is an unlikely La Leche League activist. “He wouldn’t take it,” he tells my mother. “He wanted nothing to do with it.”

  My mother shrugs. “Just keep trying,” she says. “He’ll drink it if he’s hungry enough.�
�

  The baby looks plenty hungry to me, but I’ve had enough of this conversation. “Speaking of hungry,” I say, “I had a late lunch, so I don’t need any dinner. I’m just going to go upstairs and study.”

  “Fine,” they both say at the same time. I carry my books up to my room and put on my iPod, not wanting to hear another word of whatever spoils there may be—from Paul’s misguided devotion, and my mother’s inevitable longing to escape from it.

  ( 25 )

  TRESSA

  During the night I wake, thinking I hear something. I get out of bed and go to my window. When I look down, there he is, finally, standing on the ground, staring up at me. Luke! He’s here! I thunder down the stairs, not caring whether I wake up the baby, or my mother, or Paul. Just let them try to stop me. Luke has come back. He’s waiting for me.

  Downstairs the little alarm panel reads READY TO ARM—they’ve forgotten to turn it on. Victory! I still have to crawl through the dog door to avoid that announcing Australian voice. Outside, frigid air envelops me as I step into the driveway and run around to the spot beneath my window. My bare legs tingle with the freezing air that’s too cold even for snow. The weather changes quickly at this altitude, and this afternoon’s balmy sunlight feels worlds and worlds away. I look around wildly. But Luke’s not here.

  “Where are you?” I call. “Luke. Luke!” I reach out my hand to feel the air in front of me, as if maybe things have shifted and now I’ll be able to feel but not see him. But I just did see him; I know I did. He was standing out here, and now he’s gone, and for a second I want to leap out of my skin and run after him, no matter how cold it is and no matter how flimsily I’m dressed.