“Fine. Give a hoot if you get into trouble.”
“Okay.”
“I can tell the theatre to get the understudy ready.”
“Won’t do any good,” said Nick, smiling. “They’ll carry me on in a basket. The show must go on and all that. Anyway, there’s no show tonight. My bones have till tomorrow night to mend.”
“See you in a few minutes, then.”
She watched them a moment as they started up the cliff, two well-trained athletes, and reflected that an actor would have to keep in very good shape to perform the strenuous three-hour role of Cyrano. Then she moved on up the trail, running from time to time for the pleasure of it, but not working too hard out of regard for the food in her backpack. The freshness of the day and the friendly solitude of the woods almost made her forget her own worthlessness. It was a good day—Iiq, the day of Wind.
Tomorrow was the bad one.
Nearing the top, she slowed a little; the trail, she saw, would double back once more and then reach the top of the ridge. She caught a glimpse of them through the trees above her and paused, surprised. They had shed their backpacks and were sitting together on a big sunny rock, Maggie bent over, face in her hands, weeping. Mary Beth was astonished. She had never seen her proud, determined friend cry. Well, Maggie, not as tough as you pretend to be. Nick, quiet and sympathetic beside her, was patting her on the shoulder. Mary Beth suddenly felt jealous, but then she didn’t know why. Jealous of Nick for being in Maggie’s confidence? Jealous of Maggie for being able to tell? No, of course not. She went on around the turn in the trail, kicking stones noisily, and decided that in any case it had nothing to do with her. She was on her own, a worthless and used-up creature who had no right to expect any interest from anyone. But then why did Maggie stand by her? And claim to be grateful?
Ros had said women need to be strong, it is difficult to endure. The hardest lesson is to learn to bear things.
By the time she reached the top of the trail she’d mastered her unhappiness again, and she was ready to look at the amazing view from the ridge. On one side Litchfield Gorge dropped abruptly, the small river at the bottom shining thin amid the foliage. The slope of the other side, the one they had just finished climbing, was not so steep, but it still fell a long way before merging into the surrounding hills. The sky, paled by thin streaky clouds, bent cheerfully over all.
Maggie had spread a big plaid blanket on the grass, and as Mary Beth came up to her she smiled, sunny and serene as the day itself, no trace of tears. Refreshed even. “You must have run,” she said, reaching for Mary Beth’s backpack.
“It’s that kind of day,” said Mary Beth, handing it to her. “Makes you want to do things. Like run or climb up cliffs.”
“Right. It’s wonderful.” Maggie was setting up the camp stove and putting the pot of beef daube on it to warm. There was salad and crusty French bread. Nick had brought a good Beaujolais and even some wineglasses, wrapped carefully for the hike. Mary Beth left Maggie to arrange things and walked over to the point of the ridge. Nick was sitting there, back against a tree, looking out at the incredible landscape. The rounded hills, cut by gorges, were leafy in the first maturity of summer. The benevolent sky was reflected from the thread of water far below. On the other side she could see the edge of the parking lot below, the Land Rover and Nick’s car recognizable on it, and even farther away the tiny shapes of cars on the superhighway. There were parking lots and a few buildings, small and white, near the highway exit, but everything else was nature.
“It’s lovely,” she said to Nick as she settled under a tree a few yards from his.
“Mm-hmm.” He welcomed her with a friendly smile.
They sat for a few minutes in comfortable silence, and then he began to sing quietly, contentedly, “Summer is Icumen In.” His voice was pleasant, trained. In a moment, a second, lighter voice joined his; they turned their heads to see that Maggie too had found a tree nearby to lean against. She and Nick looked at each other seriously as they sang the ancient canon, their voices meshing well. Mary Beth couldn’t remember the words but came in on the “cuccu’s.” When they had finished Maggie smiled and looked out over the landscape again, and all three sat quietly for a moment, feeling at one with the breeze and the sunshine. The insects droned and the hawks soared, and far below a little blue car pulled off the highway ramp and parked in the shade of the trees. Maggie stood up and stretched.
“Should be ready by now,” she said. “Anyone else hungry?”
“Ravenous,” said Nick.
They went back to the spread blanket. Maggie was right; as far as Mary Beth could tell, the daube was better this time around, and the wine good. She wished she had more appetite, Maggie and Nick were enjoying it so much. They were undisturbed except for one family with two young boys that came puffing up the trail, exclaimed at the view for a few minutes, and then departed immediately down the trail again.
Nick took another helping of daube and said, “I haven’t enjoyed anything this much for ages, Maggie. A very good idea to come here.”
“Yeah, I was ready for it too.” She looked at him thoughtfully and added, “It must have been a bad year.”
“Yeah.” He looked down at his plate. “You remember how crazy I was at the beginning. You helped me out of that. Blaming her for dying, for going away. Or blaming myself. If only I had been there, if only I had done this or that ... You helped me then, Maggie.”
Maggie shrugged silently.
“And your heart plays tricks on you,” he continued. “You start seeing yourself as the victim.”
“Well, sure, you’re hurt too.”
“Yes, but you get the illusion it was all aimed at you. I mean, the center of the universe is Nick O’Connor, that’s obvious, isn’t it? So I was sure there was some bigger cosmic plan, somehow aimed at me. It was all for a purpose. There must be justice somewhere. Fate is fair after all, and for a while I expected every role I got, every woman I met, to be a wonderful surprise. And of course I was always disappointed.”
“Yeah, that’s not very realistic,” said Maggie.
He smiled at her. “It was just so unfair to have Lisette taken away, there must be something to balance it, I thought. It was too frightening to imagine an unjust universe where I could be a victim without cause.”
Mary Beth sat almost without breathing. He was speaking directly to her, it seemed.
“But eventually it became clear that there wasn’t going to be any cosmic balancing act. No compensation for me. And that’s when the depression really set in, the feeling that I wasn’t worth anything after all. And guilt too.”
That’s how it is, thought Mary Beth, he’s right. And she saw that Maggie too was intent on his words, the blue eyes shadowed with her own pain and with his.
“How did you get through?” asked Maggie. “Work?”
“Yes.” He nodded. “George helped. Bullied me through. Just the way you did earlier.” He smiled at her and went on. “George was wonderful. You see, I could hardly think of the future at all—it was so terrible to think of so many days still to come. But he kept prodding me—do this, do that—and it was easier to do it than fight him. He kept my minutes filled. And finally, a few weeks ago, I came out of it.”
“You came out of it?” asked Mary Beth. Her voice was husky.
“The worst of it. I can enjoy things again. Look forward to things. Sleep for whole nights. I’ll always miss her. It will always seem terribly unfair. But it isn’t crippling anymore.”
“You’re free again,” said Mary Beth.
“Free. Not really,” he said, echoing Maggie’s words, and then quoted, “I cannot but remember such things were, that were most precious to me.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know if I’d want to be free, if that means I wouldn’t care anymore. But Lisette’s death doesn’t control my life anymore. And, yes, I’m free to enjoy a sunny day and a splendid view and friends.”
Maggie reached over a
nd patted his big hand. “I’m glad,” she said.
Mary Beth blinked down at her plate, not seeing it. She was amazed, because he—he, that glorious Cyrano, that jovial uncle—had felt worthless too, and he hadn’t been able to understand such an unjust world.
Now he could. Now he could even tell her about it.
She was not the only one.
She looked up to find the dark clear eyes on her. “I hope all this confession didn’t upset you,” said Nick uneasily. He didn’t know her very well, she remembered with surprise.
“No,” she said.
But Maggie, who did know her, said, “She means yes. Yes, but in a good way.”
“Thank you,” said Mary Beth to him gratefully.
He was pleased. “Thank you for listening.”
Maggie shoved a bowl of fresh strawberries in front of them. “Okay. Enough profundity,” she said briskly.
“Right!” Nick beamed at her. “Report time. Uncle wants to know. What was the diagnosis? Was your project a success?”
“In every way,” said Maggie. “It was just a short in the jack.” Between strawberries, she told him of Birgit Nilsson’s shrill and stirring victory. Mary Beth chimed in with details, and Nick enjoyed it all hugely.
“With thy grim looks and the thunderlike percussion of your sounds,” he intoned, “thou mad’st thine enemies shake.”
Maggie grinned. “I didn’t look grim at all. But the rest is accurate enough.”
As they cleared up the picnic, Nick said, “You mentioned that you were taking some self-defense lessons.”
“Only a few. But listen!” Maggie looked at him, sparkling. “Why don’t you play the villain a few minutes, Unk? So far I’ve only practiced with other women. Okay?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “Nick the Ripper at your service.” They moved to the widest spot of the ridge. Mary Beth, kneeling to fold the blanket, watched, amused.
“Okay,” Maggie said. “Grab me a few times.”
He reached for her wrist; she karate-chopped his arm away before he touched her. He started to kick her; she deflected his leg, shifting the force to the side. He lunged for her throat; she smashed his hands away.
“What do you think?” she asked eagerly.
“Not bad. You’re quick and strong.” He picked up her wrist and examined her hand. “Good grip. And you don’t pull punches. Most women do. You’re all set when you know someone is about to attack you. But before you replace Bruce Lee, show me what you do when you don’t know.”
“What do you mean?”
He grinned, lifted the wrist that he was still holding. “Suppose someone cons you and you don’t know his intentions until you’ve already been grabbed?”
Her eyes narrowed. She stared an instant at his hand clamped on her arm, and then chopped down on his forearm with her other hand, and whipped up her knee to hit it too.
“Ouch,” said Nick calmly, his grip unrelenting.
She struggled back. “Damnit, you sneak!” She kicked at his groin but he turned his hip into the kick, grabbed her ankle with his free hand, and lifted. Off balance, she could not stay upright.
He lowered her to the ground and let go. “That’s the way it’ll be, Maggie,” he said seriously. “You may not see it coming.”
“So what the hell do I do?”
“You’re halfway there already. Fit and willing to go for blood. That’s good.”
“Yeah, tell me that sometime when I’m not flat on my back.”
“I’m not kidding. I’m stronger than you are, but strength isn’t as important as knowing where to apply it. Here, hold my wrist.” She scrambled up and grasped it with determination. He said, “Okay. I try to get away like this ... ” He jerked down. “No good. You’ve still got me. Like this ... ” His arm jerked up and out of her grip. “I escape.”
“But that’s just because my thumb slipped ... Oh, I see.”
“Right. The power all goes against the weakest point. If my thumb is on top and four fingers under, jerk up. If my fingers are on top, jerk down against my lonely thumb. Divided we fall. That’s lesson one.”
“Okay.”
“And use every muscle you’ve got against the weak spot.”
She offered him her arm again, and he took it, thumb on top. Her knees flexed a little and then jerked straight as she uncoiled and snapped her arm up and back, breaking his grip. She beamed—but only for an instant, because he had stepped forward at the height of her move and pushed her unbalanced body back. She landed on her back and he lunged after her, pinning her arms. Mary Beth averted her eyes, fearful that the screaming in her mind would start.
“Don’t tell me,” said Maggie’s voice a little shakily. “Lesson two?”
“Right.”
“But I really did break your grip.”
“Yes, Mademoiselle. You really did.”
“And then you smashed me anyway.”
“Gosh, I’m such a cad.”
“Because I thought that breaking the grip was the end of the episode. But in real life it won’t be.” Mary Beth peeked back at them; they were both sitting quietly on the grass, Maggie frowning as she continued. “In real life he’ll keep coming at me, so I’ll have to keep going at him.”
“Yeah. Lesson two is that a fight isn’t a set of isolated punches. They flow together.”
“Like a gymnastics routine.”
“Right. Plan your moves so you aren’t off balance, you’re ready to follow up your success with a surprise counterattack against his vulnerable areas. His eyes, the underside of his nose, the hollow of his throat.”
“His balls.”
“Only if he’s distracted. Because most of us fellas, even the cads, know we’re vulnerable there, and protecting ourselves is second nature. We’ve been practicing all our lives. You can try a feint to the eyes or the throat first to distract him, then grab. But don’t stand back and kick. You can be flipped back off balance.”
“Yeah, I know, you just demonstrated.” Maggie looked at him resentfully. “Where did my sweet, pacific Uncle Nick learn all these dirty tricks?”
“Contact sports. Army. Stage combat lessons. Working as bouncer in a bar.”
“All the things women aren’t supposed to do. Because we might get hurt.”
“Yep.”
“All right, then.” Maggie bounced to her feet resolutely. “Private Ryan reporting to Parris Island, sarge. What’s lesson three?”
For thirty minutes Mary Beth watched them. Once Maggie invited her to join in, but she preferred to look on. Nick’s advice was simple: break the attacker’s grip, follow up instantly to hurt him, and escape to a safer place as soon as possible. Putting the advice into practice was harder. He showed her a number of basic countermoves and counterattacks. Maggie was an apt pupil, already quick and athletic. Soon she managed to lever Nick away from her arm or throat, even throw him several times. Finally she plunked herself down on the grass next to Mary Beth, pleased and tired.
“That was better than hours of Ed Hamlin, Unk,” she said. “But you didn’t say anything about weapons.”
“If he’s got one, it’s a problem. Focus on it. Obey him, soothe him, get control of it if you safely can.” He grinned. “On the other hand, if you’ve got a weapon—a baseball bat, a ring of keys, whatever—wham him quick.”
Nick glanced at his watch and suddenly looked alarmed. “God, Maggie, the Ernest in Love people will be starting rehearsals in an hour. We’ve got to get those speakers back!”
They finished packing hastily and hurried down the trail. On the way they decided that they would put the sound system into Nick’s car and he and Maggie would return it. Mary Beth objected at first; she could take it to the theatre and take Maggie home afterward, and save Nick the round trip. But he shook his head. “Look, Mary Beth, it’s my day off. I’m enjoying it, and I’m going to hang around as long as you two let me. So if you take her back to Laconia, you’ll find me driving right behind you.”
“Okay.”
She smiled at him. “Heaven knows I’ve got work to do.” He had said that work had pulled him through too.
The big speakers, however, clearly wouldn’t fit into Nick’s car, and they finally decided to leave the sound system in the Land Rover and trade cars. Mary Beth would drive Nick’s back to Laconia; Nick and Maggie would use the Land Rover to return the speakers and then drive to Laconia, where Nick would eventually retrieve his own car.
In fact, Mary Beth found that she needed the solitude that the drive home provided, to reflect on what Nick had said and what it might mean to her. There was something in Nick’s story that had to do with Tip. But at that point her mind veered away again.
When she got back Jackie still had Maggie’s car out, so she parked carefully to leave room for it. She went in to find clouds of smoke and Sue cursing in several languages. Jackie took over dinner duty today from Maggie and had put in a cake to bake before running off to some appointment. Sue had just been roused from her labors upstairs by the smell of burning, and was trying now to air out the kitchen.
“Irresponsible,” fumed Sue. “This younger generation.”
“Same generation as you,” said Mary Beth. She inspected the chunk of charcoal in the cake pan and decided the kitchen would recover faster if the charred remains were taken outside. She placed it near the back fence and then came in to open all the doors and windows that weren’t open already. The smoke receded slowly, and she and Sue got back to work. Mary Beth was finding that some of the other Mayan languages had verb systems very similar to Ixil’s, but the overall pattern was not yet clear to her. From time to time she paused to think gratefully of what Nick had said. She thought, I’ll tell Maggie, maybe; and for the first time did not dismiss the thought instantly in fear.
Frank called for Jackie. Sue told him she was at the library, and hung up grumbling. “First Peter, now Frank. Wish Jackie would take care of her own boyfriends.”
At six-thirty Sue was no longer angry, just weary and abused. She stuck her head in Mary Beth’s door to say she’d given up waiting for dinner and was off to Misha’s early to cadge some food. “To each according to her need,” she declaimed, and left carrying enough books to show that she wouldn’t be back for a while. Mary Beth, surprised at how late it was, went downstairs and dutifully ate some cheese and a banana, and made some coffee, Ixil style. That at least she could still taste.
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