I Bring Sorrow_And Other Stories of Transgression

by Patricia Abbott

  “Do I really look like my mother?” she said, stepping inside before he’d even moved out of her way. “No one’s told me that till now.”

  She still wore the same scent. Something spicy. He’d thought women gave up perfume long ago, but Carmen always was one for candles, flowers, and brewing herbal tea. The only person he’d ever known to remove perfume samples from magazines and stick them in drawers.

  “She’s dead. About six years now.” When he said nothing, she added, “Heart.”

  He’d forgotten Carmen’s sparse speech.

  He shook his head. He’d always liked Sally—the only gringa in Carmen’s Ecuadorian family. But he was in shock. Did things like this just happen? Carmen was standing two feet away from him like it was nothing unusual. He pulled himself together. “And Hector?”

  Carmen looked at him quizzically. “He died before…before I left. Remember?”

  He didn’t remember. Or maybe he did. It must’ve been in the days of wine and doses—when he was lit most of the time.

  “Car accident,” she said. “Or truck, in his case.” She looked around. “It’s been twenty years.”

  “Deb call you?” he asked. And then suddenly, he added, voice rising, “She been keeping track of you all this time?” If she had, he’d have to strangle her, knowing as she did how hard he’d tried to find his wife.

  “I got in touch a few months back. Thought I should know what was going on. Hear Nat’s in the Middle East.”

  Nat was Ron’s son from his first marriage, a union lasting a much shorter time than his second. Nat had lived with his mother in Traverse City growing up, visiting Ron and Carmen only occasionally.

  “He’ll be done with his tour soon.”

  “Right,” she said, looking around. “Well, this place looks like it belongs to an old man, Ron.” She sniffed. “Smells like it too.”

  “About right,” he said. “I am an old man, ’case you didn’t notice.”

  The amazing thing—he realized this on some level—was they were talking to each other like normal people. Despite their history, despite not seeing each other in twenty years, they sounded civil. He didn’t even feel particularly angry about her telling him he smelled. It was exactly what he’d expect Carmen to say. And she said it easily—without rancor.

  She went into the kitchen, Ron following her at his snail’s pace. He wished he were wearing shoes instead of slippers. The shuffling put him at a disadvantage. Carmen, as if to highlight his inadequacy, looked great. She wore rust-colored boots with four-inch heels, her jeans tucked in; a flowing blouse in a vibrant green; dangling, amber earrings. He wondered if those loose threads still concealed a perfect body. Thirty years ago, you could look all day for a single imperfection. And look he did. Then and now.

  God, if only he still could. Could he? Not that she would.

  “Place is a mess, Ronnie. Someone needed to blow taps for your refrigerator years ago. I bet it doesn’t keep things cold enough.”

  She turned to look at him, stared for a few seconds, and then shut her mouth. First time he’d ever seen her do that, and it was unutterably depressing. What she saw took all the fight out of her. She turned around and began to clean, shaking her head at the smelly sponge, the empty bottle of cleanser.

  “Got any baking soda? Vinegar?” she asked.

  “What do you think?” he said, deciding to be feisty. Maybe she’d be too. “Hey, nobody said you had to do this. I’m going to get someone to come in. Just haven’t gotten around to it.” He slid a chair out from under the table and sat down. “So what are you here for? In Detroit, I mean.” Before he could stop himself, he added, “To gloat?”

  Shaking her head, she looked at her watch. “I only have a few hours. Let’s see if I can get things into shape.”

  “A few hours to what?”

  “Before my plane. It’s at eight-thirty.”

  He looked at the kitchen clock. It was three p.m. “You flew in just to do this? To clean my kitchen.” Flew in from where, he wondered? Where had she been for the last twenty years?

  “It’s just a layover. When Deb told me what was going on, I changed my flight so I could change planes in Detroit. See how things were going here.” The sponge fell completely apart, and in desperation she grabbed a dishtowel.

  “Not as bad as you think,” he said, looking around for an explanation. “Even before I got sick, the place looked pretty much the same. Never was a great housekeeper.”

  She was throwing half of the food in his fridge away. “Hey, some of that stuff is fine,” he said. “I’m not a millionaire, you know.”

  She held a container of something up to his nose, and he blanched.

  “Where you been all this time?” he asked. Couldn’t help himself.

  “Lots of places,” she said. “I ran until the money gave out. Then I got a job and settled in. Out in Oregon for the last ten years.” She set a cup of coffee she’d made for him on the table. “Drink up. I still make good coffee.”

  It wasn’t his regular mug, but he picked it up. She looked like a hippie. Always had. “If I had had to guess, it would’ve been Oregon.”

  She smiled.

  “Did it help? All the running?”

  “Nope. But somewhere along the way, the anger sort of wore off.”

  “Smoking weed a lot?” he asked. “That’ll do it.”

  “Why do you think I picked Oregon? It’s a forgiving part of the country. But it’s an occasional thing nowadays. Something about gray hair and grass doesn’t mix.”

  “Oh, I don’t know,” he said. “There’s plenty of stoned gray-heads hanging ’round the VA.”

  “Still on John R?” She was tensing up, and he regretted bringing it up, reminding her.

  “Yeah, but they built a spankin’ new hospital. Looks like a hotel for toddlers.”

  He looked at her for a long minute as she swabbed out the bottom bins. Her arms were still strong—her skin smooth. She was—what—fifty-eight? He was over seventy. Before he could stop himself, it was out of his mouth. “So, along with getting rid of the anger, did you forgive me?”

  She didn’t say anything for a minute. Then, pursing her mouth, she answered, “Think you deserve forgiveness? I’m going upstairs to clean the bathroom. Why don’t you wait here?”

  Damn, why had he gone and brought it up? Not a day passed he didn’t go back over the day of his daughter’s death, his part in it. Surely it was the same for Carmen—not that she shared any of the blame. But they’d just gotten off on the right foot today and he’d gone and messed it up. As her feet climbed the steps, it began to run like a tape in his head.

  Julia didn’t know any of the other kids yet, and they’d talked her into going to a homecoming float party. She’d been a student at St. John of the Apostles parochial school through eighth grade and was shy and insecure in her new public high school. But eventually she agreed. She was excited when she learned the freshman float would be based on the movie The Goonies, one of her favorites. Carmen dropped her off on her way to the coffee hour for new parents, with Ron scheduled to pick her up at nine-thirty. Kids didn’t routinely have cell phones then, but he had the address and telephone number of the host.

  He’d gone over to the Vet’s Hall around seven like he did most Friday nights, had a beer or two, then lost track of the time amidst the inundation of war stories passed around as readily as cigarettes and beer. By the time he arrived at the party, it was after ten-fifteen and the number of kids had thinned out. No one knew where Julia was—or even who she was. He turned out of the driveway and drove about a half mile before he saw the flashing lights, the smashed car, the sobbing driver. Julia, or her body as it turned out, had already been loaded into an ambulance and was on the way to the hospital. Carmen had already been called and was waiting at St. Joseph’s when he arrived.

  In a few terse sentenc
es, Carmen told him what happened—something she’d just learned from a paramedic minutes before and hadn’t yet absorbed. Julia, tired of waiting for Ron, had attempted to walk home down a dark road with no sidewalks, barely even a shoulder, and was hit by an elderly woman. Her car skidded on the wet autumn leaves and hit Julia, a tree, and a mailbox. Julia was probably killed on impact.

  The recitation of these facts was Carmen’s last words to him for days. But she told no one he’d been late to pick Julia up, allowing everyone to believe Julia decided to walk home for some reason. For a long time, he believed this deception was a good sign—protecting him had to mean Carmen would eventually forgive him.

  But it didn’t work out that way. Instead, Carmen’s anger increased as the days passed. Her initial instinct to protect him faded, and she came to blame him for not stepping forward and acknowledging his culpability. She waited; he was silent. Would telling everyone he was responsible for his daughter’s death bring her back? Would they feel any better about it? Would hating him alleviate anyone’s pain? This is what he told himself in his more self-pitying moments. When he was cold stone sober, he told himself he was a coward since his silence made Julia look irresponsible.

  Six months later, at the end of a period of pure misery for both of them, Carmen took off, and he completely fell apart. If Nat hadn’t moved in with him, he’d probably have drunk himself to death. And then came the months, no, years, of looking for his wife. In those early Internet days, looking for someone was not so easy. He quit his job at Dodge to launch a search, and each job he replaced it with paid less money. Finally, he had to give up.

  Carmen was standing in front of him when he woke up. Was it normal to fall asleep at the drop of a hat? He’d have to ask the VA doctor he’d been assigned.

  “Sorry,” he said, starting to rise and then stopping. “Can we talk before you go?” He looked at his wrist, but he hadn’t worn a watch in months.

  She sat down.

  “So what have you been doing all this time?” Obviously, she’d taken care of herself.

  “You mean jobs, hobbies, friends?”

  “All of it.”

  “I’ve had a lot of all three over the years. I have a few friends in Salem. Hobbies—well, gardening is great in Oregon. And right now I’m a vet’s assistant. I took some courses a few years ago. Pay isn’t great, but I like it. It’s enough for me.”

  “Didn’t even know you liked dogs.”

  “It was you who didn’t like dogs,” she said with a sigh. “Can I make you something to eat? There were a few salvageable items in the fridge.”

  “Don’t have much appetite.”

  “So I see.” She looked at him, head cocked. “Do you want to make love?”

  He’d forgotten she’d always called it that. Never “have sex,” or “go to bed.” No four-letter words. It was always “make love.” He was astounded she’d suggested it. Amazed. Reluctantly, he said, “Doubt I can.”

  “Well, we can fool around a little. See what happens.” She put a hand on his thigh.

  “For old time’s sake?” He had trouble remembering the last time this had happened. Not just with Carmen—with anyone. Maybe with a waitress in the vet bar in Corktown. Would’ve been more than a year ago. Perhaps two. “You’ll be able to count my ribs.”

  “Oh, I can think of better things to do than count.”

  He was starting to feel aroused already—it might work out. It’d probably be the last time—would certainly be their last time. The way things were going, he wouldn’t make it until Nat came home. Nat has said to let him know when things got bad, but what was the point? He’d lived alone and now he’d die alone. But at least he’d have this. Or maybe he would.

  In bed, it was almost like old times. He wondered if she’d slipped something into his coffee. Well, that was okay. He didn’t mind having a little help. She took the lead, straddling him in such a way her weight wasn’t on him—spending a lot of time on touching, kissing, whispering. Had she always been this leisurely? There was always Julia in the next room to worry about back then. It inhibited him as much as her. But now, there was no reason not to moan, talk, whatever.

  When they were done, when success was theirs, he tried to talk her into canceling her flight.

  “I can’t, Ronnie. I have to be on the flight.” She was sitting up now—fooling around in her purse like women always seemed to do. What did they keep in there that called to them so often?

  “Disappearing again. Carm? Running somewhere new.” He shut his eyes and threw an arm over them to block the light. Tears were welling up.

  “More or less.”

  “Leave me here to die alone, huh?” He sounded over-emotional, which he certainly was. He had very few ideas on how to keep her here, so he went for the first one that came to mind.

  “Not exactly,” she said.

  “Then what?”

  As he said it, he felt a prick in his leg.

  “It’s pentobarb, Ronnie. It’ll just take ten seconds or so.”

  “You mean ten seconds to die? Now? Here?” He had no idea she was still this angry. “It ends with you murdering me? Because you never forgave me, right?”

  She slipped the case back in her purse and stroked his brow. “No, baby, because I did. I did forgive you.” The last thing he felt was her hair, loosened and soft, draping his face like an angel.

  “Um Peixe Grande”

  Though his eyes were squeezed tight against the morning light, Gas could hear Loretta in their bedroom doorway, his lunch bag crinkling in her hand. He also knew from a variety of signs and smells what the day outside was like: cloudy, damp, cold. He’d no desire to do what his wife had in mind, though he’d been a fisherman all his life— like his father and grandfather before him. The money earned from throwing a line or net in the water no longer put much food on the table, and Loretta was after him to get a job at one of the tilapia farms if he was determined to stay in the fish business.

  “Take a good look, Gaspar,” she’d said, stretching her arms out. “This place is fallin’ down ’round us ’case you hadn’t noticed. Fish from a Dish pays a livin’ wage. Nobody makes it sittin’ in a chewed-up boat anymore. Termites own more of it than you. If you’d signed onto one of the big operations—like the Buster Bragg crew—maybe then…” She was at it again, before his feet hit the ground.

  Even the name of the tilapia farm made Gas cringe. He belonged out on real water, not in one of those huge structures where his job would be hauling out fish, or delivering them to a slaughterhouse or treatment facility. That wasn’t about fishing at all. He liked to imagine every fish he caught had enjoyed a full, free life before he landed it in a fair fight. There was mutual dignity in this time-honored contest. Taking part in the butchery of trapped fish—that had never known a minute of liberty in a sea or lake or river—was disgusting.

  “You’re turning into a sentimental old fool,” his wife said. “What do fish know about freedom? You know how big their brain is?”

  About the size of yours, he felt like saying.

  But instead, “The domestication of fish through farming is an environmental disaster.” The pamphlet was in his pocket, and he patted it. “It’s no better than how chickens are kept.”

  “Fancy words for a man with a leaky boat and a leaky house.”

  “You’d better get cracking,” she said now, shaking the paper bag harder. “The ice-out’s nearly over. You might even make a decent haul if you get out there early.”

  Loretta rolled her eyes as she said this—making it clear there was no chance of such a thing. She lost all respect for him years ago when he quit going out on the Atlantic with Buster Bragg. Their noisy camaraderie and rough behavior hadn’t been his style either. What kind of fishermen drink beer all day and lunch on the pier’s fast food, pock-marking the ocean with aluminum and paper trash?

 
“No breakfast?” he said. Eyes open now, he looked out the window glumly. What was that poem about November? ‘No sun’ was one of the lines. ‘No comfortable feel in any member.’ He didn’t know what any of it meant exactly. And anyway, it was May, wasn’t it?

  “It’s in here,” she said, shaking the bag again. His Sam’s Club breakfast bar was probably in pieces by now. “Your thermos is on the table, and there’s a beef pasty for your lunch—if you need one.”

  This was a slap at his early departure from the river yesterday. How long could you sit waiting for what wasn’t going to come? He grimaced at the thought of the coffee—probably from yesterday’s pot if a drop remained. She’d been known to hold the used grounds under the hot water tap in a pinch. He’d give anything for plain instant.

  Tossing the bag on the bed, Loretta left the room, her feet heavy on the bare wood. She’d become stocky in the last few years. Of course, who was he to talk with his face wizened from the years on the water? On the day they married, people sighed at her beauty when she came down the aisle on her Dad’s arm. But forty years had passed, hadn’t it? Loretta never was able to have the children they both wanted, her job at the jeans factory had gone overseas, and all of her brothers left Maine long ago for better opportunities. She held that against him too.

  “If Gil and Jaime had the gumption to move across the country, why can’t we? California has an ocean. You can stick a pole in the Pacific if you have to fish like that.”

  But California was another country. With its movie stars, orange trees, and surfers. He’d sooner take off for the Azores.

  Fifteen minutes later, Gas headed for the St. Croix River and hopefully some salmon. Maybe some bass too. He’d never been much of a saltwater fisherman, always preferring the inland waterways. The Atlantic was too vast—you could get lost in it. Instead, he usually headed for a lake, other times a river. He could fish there in solitude—a condition he preferred.

  Half-drowsing, half-puttering along in one of the little alcoves he favored, Gas was thinking about the Red Sox’s chances when the water suddenly grew choppy. A large motorboat approached. The wake was sizeable because of the boat’s speed, and Gas slowed to a standstill to compensate, pointing his boat toward the wake to save it from overturning. Clearly, the man at the helm hadn’t even noticed the small boat on its port side in the weeds. The name, The Clytemnestra, was painted on the boat in blood red letters. What sort of name was that for a boat? A far cry from the Lady Lucks you usually saw around here.