by Jeffrey Lent
“No,” Fletcher said again. “Not so long as you talk to me as well.”
“It was a hard job getting up here. I’m in no hurry to leave. It doesn’t appear I chose the best of times but that’s no reason to be testy.”
Cooper said, “It was your money bought the horses.” He shrugged. “I’ll give you a note for it—we didn’t bring that kind of amount with us. You know I’m good for it.”
“Ah yes,” said Blood. “I’m sure you are. But let them be my gift. A note’d be useless to me I expect.”
Before any could question this he went on. “It was as well you avoided the tavern last evening. I had some troubles. It weren’t a great thing but nothing you needed to see.”
Cooper nodded, understanding his father would have the confession. “My nerve failed me.”
“Is that so?” Blood cocked his head, his tone flat.
“Yes sir.” Cooper was angry at being pushed.
Blood sat silent looking off. Then looked at Fletcher and Cooper both, his eyes traveling between them as he spoke. “Time to time, nerves fail a man. That can be a good thing, you recognize it’s a gift, to trust that instinct. I’m not talking about lack of courage, but something more rare, almost elegant. You learn to trust your mind, something doesn’t feel right, you believe that.” Now he looked only at Cooper. “Like I said, I had my own little spot of trouble last evening. Somehow, some part of you knew that. And you did the right thing.” And then could not help himself. “Then again, times you’re in one place when you ought to be in another.”
Fletcher spoke up. “That’s clever. I’ll keep it in mind. But sometimes, a man runs. And that’s all he’s doing. It don’t even have to be a case of nerves. Just plain failure to face hisself, what he’s done. A coward. Those times, running is just running. Although I expect a man of that sort, he’d find a way to dress it up in his mind. He’d have to, to live with hisself. There idn’t nobody can run that far.”
Blood had been sitting with a hand on each knee, his bad leg stretched flat before the fading fire. The day was warming, the last of the mist lifting from the trees. He’d be happy anyone added wood to the fire but would not ask. Now he let go his grip of his knees and turned his hands over, so they lay open, palms up.
He nodded and still mild-voiced said, “Yes. This is why we’re here.” He was quiet a moment, aware all three were watching him. He had a bad moment when he wanted to look at Sally. Then he said, “And it may be as far as we go. I’d not blame you, either of you, if you were to be done with me after. Because it’s my account you want, isn’t it? It’s what you came for.”
It was quiet. Blood sat in that mute verification. Then said, “There’s one question I’d like to ask first. Because I might not get the chance after.” He looked from boy to boy.
It was Cooper, as Blood guessed it would be, who answered. He said, “You can ask whatever you want. Just recall that asking doesn’t mean you get an answer. There’s too many years free of your curiosity to guarantee you courtesy. It depends on the question.” And looked at his brother.
Fletcher studied his father. Then nodded. As much as he would give.
Blood thought We’ll see how long that lasts. He spoke to Cooper. “We’ll address those years you seem to know so much of in a moment. But right now, what I’d like to know is, what’s your story?” And was looking at Fletcher. Who opened his mouth but no sound came forth. Then his face closed to clear menace.
Sally came off the blankets then, sudden, moving out to the fire, hands working at her stained clothes. “Wait,” she said. “All of you wait just one minute.”
All looked at her. A little stunned. Not one had forgotten her, each for his own reason but still she came upon them unexpected. A tension was broken—a pattern of communication barely established abruptly lost and Blood knew she had done this with purpose and was angry. Until that moment he’d felt to be in control of the situation. He was confident he could steer the boys, right down to the very end which he expected to be rightfully hostile, bitter, a finality of all night-dreams and the broken wheel of his soul. He was a man expecting to die within days, although he had not, and would not, simply give over to it. These were his boys and they had come with a purpose and he intended to see that extracted and fulfilled. Intent on maintaining that he was Blood not Bolles because they were his sons and must know what they came from. To cleanse forever what altered version they might have carried north. Not to destroy—he was done with destruction, had in fact made the choice that dreadful summer morning seventeen years before when he quit New Bedford. So to ensure they lived with the full light of knowledge and had that to fashion the rest of their days. Since they sought him, whatever papered or varnished past they believed in would be the cost of truth. Let them become men. Perhaps, he thought, better men.
And now this girl. Knowing enough to guess something of what was being constructed. And not willing to let that happen. Blood knew she had someway already succeeded—the angle was tilted. Sally, thought Blood—angry yes but admiring as well. For this was her advantage: All three held her dear, regardless of the wounds imposed by the simple fact of her existence.
She was out now, a little breathless, still trying to smooth her mostly ruined clothes. Blood spoke up as she was coming but without hope of averting her. He said,
“Sally, join us. You’ve heard something I imagine of both sides. Now watch them converge and see if truth is born.”
She peered at him, pursed and angry. As if she knew his intent. Even if not fully her own, he thought. She said, “You’re in fine fettle, Blood. That leg must be healing pretty. But I’m not of a mind to chatter with you.” She turned to face the boys, both still holding their original positions. She said, “I got two things to say. The first is this: You two stop fretting over who did what to who or why or none of that. Just stop. You got the rest of time for that but right now you’re being more boys than men. Set down. You come all this way to talk to this man here. Your father. Who came now to talk to you. So just goddamn stop. Set down where you’re close, all three. Where you can talk. Stop jabbing at each other.” She shot her eyes to Blood and back to the brothers. “You got to recall all three of you been suffering and I don’t mean just this past week. So set yourselves like decent men. I’m going to get a bucket from the stream and make a pot of fresh tea. Then I’ll stay or go as I please. But I ain’t going to leave you to murder one another. So set down.” And stopped, a halt. As if she’d overstepped. But the brothers had already turned their heads from her and were looking across at each other.
Blood cocked his head a little—he’d heard the chime of doubt layered within her seriousness.
“Come set,” she said. “Alongside him. So you can all not only see and hear me, but when I’m done all three can stop peering around one to the other. It drives me crazy. What I got to say next is simple but not easy for me. Fletcher.”
He looked at her. Cooper had already sat on the fireside log next to where Blood was on his rock. Fletcher was halfway across to join him but stopped. Sally just saying his name tightened his mouth to a firm clamp. He waited, as if he might change his mind about anything or everything when he heard whatever she was to tell.
“Fletcher,” she said. She was struggling, reaching for gentleness without sympathy. “Fletcher. Early on, right after both you and Blood got hurt, I was down there. To the tavern to collect my things. Blood,” she paused, started again. “Your father wanted to know who you was—”
Blood interrupted. He said, “Go get the water girl. We all could enjoy some tea.” Without pause he turned to Fletcher and said, “All she told me was your mother’s name. It explained things a little but wasn’t the huge betrayal she thinks it is. Come set. I recall your mother well. And am curious about her certainly. But most curious about you.”
Fletcher came and sat, not next to his brother though there was room on the log. But on a fire-ring stone beyond the log. So the three made a crescent with Blood at one end.
“Damn you Blood,” Sally said but didn’t wait or want response. She made for the brook out of sight in the hemlocks.
The three sat silent and watched her go.
Blood said, “Now, could one of you toss some sticks on the fire. I find myself chilled easy these days. I got overheated tramping up here.” Without pausing he went right on. “Yes I recall your mother well. Molly. Now one thing, before we go further, I’ve things to say will surely hurt one or the other of you, sometimes maybe both. There’s plenty of pain to go around. But I’ll stick as close as I can to simple truth. Remember that.”
Fletcher said, “So you recall her.”
Blood said, “I been silent with it all so many years. It’s a deep hole I’ve held close and now we get the stories pulled out of it. The last time for me. Which is one more time than I ever expected. Her name was Molly. I’m shamed to admit I never knew her last name but such was the nature of those relations.” He paused, his eyes briefly on Cooper, back to Fletcher. “Although she was unlike other girls. My attachment to her itself was unconventional. And that became part of the entire affair for me, a part of my despair, a part of why I removed myself from my family. From all of you. There was of course the greater, final reason, but it was only one of many.”
Cooper interrupted, his voice low. “What greater reason?”
“No.” said Blood. “I won’t talk of her yet. You must understand that. Or I’ll never get through the rest of it.”
There was question rising in Cooper’s eyes but Fletcher spoke. “You’re going a little in circles. But you asked who I am and I’ll tell you, you stop sidetracking.”
“Yes,” Blood said. “Circles. But go on.”
Fletcher said, “My mother’s name was Barrett, Molly Barrett. This is who she was and what happened. As you likely guessed, like many girls end up working in taverns, she was in off a farm from far out near Wareham, determined to put as many miles between them sheep and herself. She never was a common whore—”
Blood said, “I never thought she was, then or now. I knew it well.”
Fletcher looked at his father, something between patience and anger. Sally was back, working unobtrusively to set up the tea. Fletcher said, “When you disappeared she heard the story like most all the town. I’ve got no idea what she first thought but it wasn’t long and she realized she wasn’t as done with you as she believed. So she turned it over in her mind and went direct to the warehouse office and asked to speak with old Eben Bolles hisself. Perhaps you recall this of her or perhaps you don’t but despite her appearance there was a peculiar force about her. People believed her. Not just over me, though I was the big issue at that moment, but all her life, from what I recall and what others more recent have told me.”
“Stop,” said Blood. “Is she dead? You speak as if she is.”
Fletcher studied him a little more. Blood was becoming curious about those silences. What was going on in there. Then realized the girl Molly had been the same. The boy’s mother, in the boy. Blood felt a tug, some bit of lost endearment.
Fletcher said, “She spent most of the afternoon alone in his office. It was only recent I learned what took place there, what discussion was had, what agreements made. When she left she was housed with a midwife the next six months until I was born. From there I was taken direct to the home of your brother, Uncle Proctor, who already was caring for Sarah Alice and Cooper along with his own five. It was a household, I can tell you. Cooper and I was the little ones. Sarah Alice babied both of us, without as far as I ever knew, being partial to Cooper or at least not letting us see if she felt that way. She was so much older, we was both barely ready for school when she was gone and married. She tried to keep close but we were boys and like I said, though Uncle Proctor and Aunt Peg were every way kind and loving, Cooper and me, we were our own little tribe in that big group. Although now I think on it, Great-grandfather was part of that tribe too, wouldn’t you say Cooper?”
Cooper had sat through all this watching his father. Without looking at his brother he said, “Yes. He’s never made a secret of spoiling the both of us a little more than the others. I guess he feels some obligation apart from them. Also, I do believe he takes pleasure in it. In the two of us. He’d cuff me he heard that.”
“Wait,” said Blood. “Now wait. This is all too much.”
Sally was pouring tea. The three sat with Blood’s cry left out, mingling down unanswered to reveal the simple bones of anguish beneath. Sally came round, three separate trips with scalding tin cups. Settled herself some way apart, where she could tend the fire and fuss with the tea and hear everything.
Blood put the cup on the stone beside him. Too hot to drink, so many names and faces. He studied both boys a moment and they let him. It was altogether possible they were innocent, had been left purposely uninformed—in fact given their youth, the disparity in ages, it made sense.
So he retreated and began again. “Tell me. Grandfather is still living?”
Cooper said, “Ninety-six this November. Blind as stone and pretends he’s deaf but he idn’t. Employs a free nigger to lead him from the house—he lives with Proctor and Peg now as well—every day to and from the office. His legs are feeble. Although last winter that boy was sick two weeks and Great-grandfather made the trip each day just fine.” Cooper drank tea and set the cup down and said, “He sent you a message but charged me only to deliver it when we was done. Done with you.”
Blood had a pretty good idea of what that would be. He remained silent now, waiting. He felt Sally’s eyes upon him, guessed she knew what he was up to. Fine with him as long as she only listened. He’d been a fool with her. She felt no debt, no gratitude for him.
Fletcher spoke up. “Unless you’ve lost interest, I’d tell you the rest of what happened. Not so much to me as my mother.”
“Why yes,” said Blood. “We got distracted. Please.”
Fletcher sat silent, worked a little at his tea. Not so much preparing anything, just not hurried: Molly again. Blood wondered if he should speak of this, if it would please the boy, and decided to wait. See how it turns out. Fletcher said, “I never knew, couldn’t find a way to ask without sounding rude, if money was paid her. Although I’m inclined to think Great-grandfather made sure she did not want for anything. Not that she required much. After I was born she returned to Wareham, to her people, the Barretts. Now that I consider, she at least had some help; she had a little house, not much more than a cottage but it was all hers. A couple acres that she planted to garden and kept a cow and chickens. Summertimes she was an oddity, a woman working with the men on the common crops, hay and such. Someone told me she was a fine hand to mow. She never did marry, nor have other children. Though she was approached. But she kept to herself. Again, mostly this is just what I been told.”
Blood said, “So he did buy her off. Grandfather Bolles, I mean. Took you in to raise and sent her up back where she’d tried to get away from. That sounds like a clear trade-off to me.”
Fletcher shook his head. “No. I mean maybe there was a little but I think mostly it was what both wanted.”
Blood glanced at Sally, then back to Fletcher. “Most women want to raise their children. Of course she saw advantage for you but still, the rest sounds like what she most likely had to accept, to get better for you.”
Fletcher took time, finished his tea. His tone now dropped a little he said, “No. It wasn’t like that. She had the right, anytime she was to New Bedford to come see me. Now that didn’t happen often, New Bedford was a fair tramp for her to make. Most often when she did come it was in the fall, when her family brought cartloads of apples, springtime too, after shearing. But mostly I think she had her fill of the place. I think she was uncomfortable, coming to the house.”
“Your Aunt Peg could be a formidable woman.”
Fletcher looked at him as if he didn’t know what Blood was talking about. As if he’d been interrupted. He went on, “The other part was summers. Summers she had
me for a month. From after my first birthday until the summer I was nine. When, before I was supposed to go that year I talked to Uncle Proctor. Who talked to Great-grandfather. Who talked to me. It was the only time he ever was angry with me, something terrible. He wanted me to know all my people, not just the Bolleses. But I would not go. I stood there in the little sitting room he had off his bedroom and told him however many times he had me carted out there I’d turn around and walk back. If it was every day all summer long.”
Fletcher stopped, as if the story was over. Looking into the mound of coals, the sun striking his shoulders and the back of his head. His tea, cold and forgotten on the stone beside him. With his free hand he rubbed at the bindings over his right forearm as if trying to get to the skin beneath. Blood knew the feeling.
Finally, his own voice lowered, as if meant for Fletcher alone, the best he could do, he said, “She mistreated you?”
His own voice near the same as Blood’s, Fletcher said, “No. I was shamed of her. It wasn’t a life I wanted any part of. I was too young to understand how strong she was to’ve done what she did. I was just shamed by her. She knew it, which was why she stopped coming to see me in town. I was a little boy and she was the one part of my life I hated. There was times I was envious of Cooper, envious his mother was dead.”
Cooper said, “You never told me that.”
Fletcher said, “I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself. So I stopped going. Time to time she’d send me a sweater or socks she’d made me. But they was either too big or too small. Or I just pretended they was. I don’t know. I just didn’t want em. And then the winter I was twelve she did die. Took to bed sick and only came out to go in the ground. I didn’t even go to the funeral.”
Then was quiet. After a bit Blood said, “I’m awful sorry.”
Cooper stood and said, “Excuse me a minute.” And walked off behind the tent, past the horses and into the woods. Sally looked after him but stayed where she was.
