Lost Nation: A Novel

by Jeffrey Lent

  Fletcher looked directly now at his father, his eyes hardened. He didn’t get that from his mother, thought Blood. Fletcher said, “It’s peculiar strange. The last few years, as I’ve learned the truth about you, how and what you did, I determined never to be anything like that. To be careful, thoughtful. Gentle with whoever I love or come to love.” He paused, looked off toward the woods. Then turned back, fiercely went on. “But now, sitting here listening to myself tell you of my mother, it occurs to me I already failed. I see I’ve got that same ability in me: to turn away cold from someone dear. It’s a sad thing. And I can go on, knowing it’s there. And try to live my life different. I came thinking I wanted you to know I was in the world. It seemed real important to me. Now I don’t know. There’s no pride in meeting you.”

  Grimly, swiftly he stood, teetered for balance and said, “I’m filled with tea myself. Excuse me.” And walked off, steps hard and certain, taking a route toward the woods somewhat different than his brother had. To be alone.

  Blood did not watch until he was gone from sight but dropped his eyes to the fire and then, feeling Sally watching him, he raised his head and gazed off into some unknown distance. Hoping she would not speak, hoping she would have the grace to leave him alone.

  Eventually she said, “How you doing, Blood?” Her tone not the harsh scald he expected—not altogether kindhearted but even: a tone he could respond to or ignore. He was grateful for that.

  After a bit, he turned and said, “Mostly strange. I come expecting anger. They’ve much to be angry over. But it feels all turned around.”

  She said, “Well. They idn’t you, Blood.”

  “Don’t you be so certain,” Blood said. “It’s likely there’s much they don’t know, is what I’m thinking.”

  She said, “But that’s why you’re here, after all. You can set em right.”

  Blood gazed upon her, near envious of her understanding of his sons. And then over her shoulder and out past the horses, he saw both boys together. They spoke a short time and came forward. Toward him. There was something in the way they walked—perhaps it was only seeing them together and comprehending the bond and force of the two—but Blood was chilled. He reached down to check his leg but it was cool. He knew he should rise and walk around, that the leg was stiffening. But he only sat and waited. Drew his jacket together. Sally observed him through this and finally glanced over her shoulder.

  She said, “Here they come.”

  And just like that, Blood was ready for them. Of most importance was the growing certainty that whatever they did know of him was arranged, somewhat cleansed, diminished to the role of Man Who Simply Disappeared. Blood felt the hand of his grandfather in this, seeing old Eben from that first morning, keeping the family tight, the story controlled. As the boys grew other questions would certainly have come up but Eben and Proctor and Peg were certainly able to expand the original versions meant for small boys so they seemed reasonable for young men. Of his own father, there was no question—Matthew Bolles had always been in thrall to Eben. Blood in swift clarity determined There are only four things that matter now. To have the full story out, for the boys to make sense of as they would. To learn what he could of Sarah Alice. To receive from Cooper old Eben’s message, surely the condemnation Blood had deprived his grandfather of all those years ago by slipping away. And finally, regardless of what it took, whatever anger must be stirred, whatever ruse employed, to compel the boys to leave, the sooner the better, this very day if possible. Even if it meant driving them to a final and unbreakable loathing of him. Whatever that took, even fresh lies, wounds imposed. He would see them leave. He had some tricks left, old dog. Guessing Sally would go with them, at least some-ways. He couldn’t picture her in New Bedford and doubted, when it came down to it that either Cooper or Fletcher would either. But no matter. Let him save her as well.

  The country was teeming with gathering madness and it would be senseless to have these three caught in it. As for himself, if he could drive off the children, he still held hope he might slip off as well.

  The boys were before the fire now, come to a halt and for the moment drifting. Blood saw this and knew Fletcher had confessed his breaking down. Blood took a breath to launch himself but as he did saw the drift flee Cooper as the boy stepped forward, squatting on his haunches so he was just inches from his father, his face even with the beard something frightening. His mother’s eyes. Betsey there furious before Blood. And so it was Blood drifting instead, his thinking broken, fragmented for a frightening moment.

  Then Cooper said, “Just so you know, you wasn’t ever hidden. Not so much as you might’ve thought. Every few months, at most a year some feller would come in asking for Great-grandfather. I was probably about twelve when he began to tell me of these reports.” In astonishing imitation that seemed to contain portents of what else was to come, Cooper said, “He’d say ‘It appears your father has taken to driving swine. Doubtless believing he has found kindred fellowship. Not a thing you should bother your schoolmates with. But one you should know. These bastards, they take delight in delivering such news. And more delight in that I buy their silence. They think it needles me. But your father is intent upon his own mission—a thing I care not to attempt to understand. Take heart, boy. Madness does not run in the family.’ That sort of thing. But I got to ask, you were so resolute to forsake us all, why stay where such word was bound to trickle in. Why did you not go off to the western prairies or such? It’s a puzzle to me. What thinking was behind it? Was it not enough to forsake us?”

  Blood tipped a little. Such misunderstanding. His son, his wife’s eyes; did not move; no hand reached to steady him. Just waiting.

  Blood said, “Could I trouble one of you for a cup of water? This leg flashes me hot and cold.” Immediately regretting mention of the leg, as if for sympathy.

  Wordless Fletcher dipped a cup from the bucket and brought it. While Blood drank Fletcher took Cooper’s old seat on the log. Cooper had not moved.

  Blood said, “There is so much. You boys know a fair bit. But there are pieces more than you’ve been told. And perhaps others that you know but haven’t thought all the way through. I mean no disrespect to either of you but you’re young men—the way of things may yet appear clear to you. It seems you’re beginning to learn all those shades between simple and complicated on this adventure you set yourselves upon. And there is more to come.”

  “Father,” said Cooper. “Obvious, there’s more sides to a story. We came after yours. What we make of it is our business. But you obfuscate. Can you not speak plain? Why did you stay so close?”

  Blood said, “Now it seems mean-spirited. The way you phrase it. But I meant no harm. Only to myself.”

  “How could that be?”

  “Think upon it. As you said, I could have gone west. Or south. I could have taken ship to Europe, South America. I had access to such funds. As far as I know that money still lies in my accounts. But I remained in New England. I would not allow myself the luxury of any life but one that reminded me. No. That word lacks sufficient strength for what I was about. Each day I was determined to face myself as I was, as I am. A man capable of the most heinous of actions. Who expected no forgiveness. Not from you or any of the others or even that incredible old silent Lord. But forgiveness from myself. For what is unforgivable, all of it. And there was plenty. Have you considered it from that position, that possibility?”

  Cooper was no longer angry but the eyes were still Betsey’s. When she was confused and perturbed. Cooper took time, mulling this, then said, “I suppose a man might feel he had no choice but for such self-abuse, and consider it not choice but duty. A man of terrible crimes he somehow escaped but who nevertheless was stricken by them. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  Cooper nodded, still troubled by this vision. As if a comprehension was opening ever wider to him but could not fit it to the man before him. Finally Cooper went on, “And after you left word came o
ut bit by bit of the other business you were up to. And surely you felt a terrible guilt when Mother and Hazen died. And there’s not the least triteness intended when I say you idn’t the first man to find himself in such a mess. But few choose to flog themselves naked in the wilderness over it. And there was the other thing, you so easy leaving the children that remained. As if your guilt was more important than Sarah Alice and me. I was just a baby missing my mother. Who my sister did her best to substitute for. But Sarah Alice. She was a young girl, only what—twelve, thirteen. Such a horrible thing to do to her.”

  Here it is, thought Blood.

  Cooper went on. “To leave her at such a time. I can still barely comprehend it. What possessed you to care so little for her? I’ll make you angry but I don’t care. It was selfishness, pure and simple. From all I heard, all I learned, the most I can figure is flat-out selfish. Nothing grand or noble about it. That’s what I see.”

  Blood was quiet some time. Clearly the truth had been kept from them. How now to proceed, to reveal that monstrosity of himself. He realized at this point they had found him, revealed themselves, and remained mostly untouched. Fletcher had learned an unpleasant aspect of himself but the years would reduce the pain of it, be it a part of him or overcome. But they had won, was what he was thinking. Young men intent on facing the dragon and returning home. And perhaps he should allow that. Rid himself of his perverse pride and let them vanquish him. If nothing else it might serve to get them moving, although again he expected he would need anger for that. And like that the anger was there.

  He was on his feet then, hitching himself back a couple of paces to face easily them both. Already with some satisfaction because his coming up near toppled Cooper who caught himself with one hand, remained crouched but guarded now. Good, thought Blood.

  Blood said, “Listen now. I’ll tell you some truths. Hear me and consider carefully and you’ll see there are gaps in what you know—some only I can fill. I will be simple and plain, as you asked. I have no expectation for any form of forgiving. It will be years and families of your own before you may understand. And even then, pray to God, your grasp will only be partial. For some actions can only be fully comprehended by the man who commits them. To know truly their aftermath. Meditate upon that a moment.”

  His eyes away from both boys he went round to the bucket, filled his cup and drank it down. As he drank he looked at Sally. Her face was composed and she nodded. As if she understood all he was about to undertake. He filled the cup and carried it back, thinking she knew more of him than his sons did.

  The short walk was good for his leg. He felt strong.

  Cooper had moved to the log so he and Fletcher were side by side. A reflexive defensive reorganization. It suited Blood. He stopped before them. Everything was tactical at this time. Blood had the swift understanding that this was the day of his life. Nudged behind that was the lesser understanding that he might die soon, perhaps this very day. This did nothing but enforce him.

  He said, “We begin with the day Cooper’s mother and your elder brother died. It was an accident. So I appear free of blame. Except for this—Betsey Marsh was a superb sailor, the storm was standing well off the horizon. So what happened? Something unsettled her, was troubling her, something of sufficient torment to divert her from her usual keen engagement. There was only one thing sufficient to cause that distress. She had lost the affection and attentions of her husband. Of myself. How she learned this was simple—she was a woman of great inner strength and as you pointed out I was hardly the first man with a happy wife and family to take the occasional tumble with a tavern girl. So it was more than that. It was this, a terrible thing: I had grown cold to her. My affection was withheld, at most perfunctory. The simple kindness within a marriage had gone out of me. I believed myself in great crisis of the soul—I could not order things in perspective, attach moral value to my actions—but in fact I was merely selfish. I continued my ways and rebuffed my wife. She never reproached me in even the most cunning of ways. All she did in response was to continue her affection—on the rare occasion requested she always undertook gladly her wifely obligation. She placed my needs and concerns above her own. Which I not only disregarded but became short and ill-tempered with. To the point of shrewd abuse. So ask yourselves, what so distracted her the day she died? It was an accident but I might as well have stove the boat.

  “So where was I that afternoon my wife died? You believe it’s simple. I was with this boy’s mother. With Molly. But I was intoxicated with her. I could not get enough of her and had ceased the usual precautions—let us give them their true name—I no longer skulked as most men do. She overwhelmed my mind, my thinking, as if I had been a boy, one closer to her own age. She was young, younger I believe than either of you be. Consider that. What did she make of this man, old I’m sure in her eyes and married as well? I do not know. For smitten as I was I would know nothing of her, I cared nothing for her thoughts, her hopes, what she wanted in life. In short I treated her as a puppet, a toy for my own use and pleasure. Take that behavior and add it to the damage I was inflicting upon my wife, join the results of my absolute selfishness and you begin to see the monstrosity of myself emerging. One woman to satisfy my lust, the other to keep home and table, but of both I would have nothing beyond. For only thus could I stand apart and not be bothered by the cares and hearts of others.

  “Now we come to the final part I suspect you know nothing of. That has been withheld, perhaps not only from you but all others as well. For there is only one other that I can be certain knows and she was not mere sole witness but victim.

  “That afternoon when I left Molly the final time I returned to the house in a passing shower, the timid end of a summer storm. And learned that the dinghy was lost, that Betsey and Hazen were missing. By nightfall it was clear they were drowned. Then we had to wait, to see if the tides would deliver them or not. It was three days I believe—it could have been four. I sat mute and motionless throughout that time, not sleeping, nor taking food. I was allowed this because it was believed to be grief. And it was but of a sort peculiar and without honor. I sat in great silent self-pity, that I had brought this to pass, that I had brought this upon myself. I could barely conjure their faces for fear of a wild raving, which I could not allow. For that would have revealed what it was I mourned. Not the death of my wife, the mother of my children, my helpmate and partner in life. And not the boy, his laughter and pleasure and future all lost. But only myself, my life a ruin of my own making.

  “And then they were found. A morning tide left them on the stones. I shall be brief to come to the final part. Urged by your sister, I viewed their horrible remains and then deserted the house, unable to assume the duty and responsibility that might have restored me in the eyes of others, perhaps even allowed me a measure toward restoring my own life. Instead I quit. I deliberately took myself into the mean streets of the town and indulged in a gruesome drunkenness, a gin-haze of some days that I descended until all was lost—I was in a blackness that to this day I have no recall of. Except for how and where I returned.

  Blood paused. Fletcher was very still, for the moment at least overwhelmed by this version. Cooper was somewhat otherwise, as Blood expected. There was an agitation growing in his eyes, an awareness slowly peaking toward outburst, anger. Blood thought You wait boy—not yet.

  So he went on, his tone unchanged, strident, demanding. “Somehow through that blackness of the lost I made my way back to the house. Where I woke to a bright morning. But even as I woke bits of my entrance into the house the night before came back to me, fragments of a wretched lucidity, fragments confirmed by my location. I looked about the room and all was destruction, a final verification. It was then I left.

  “When I entered the house that night I discovered your sister. Sarah Alice, who no doubt, on top of all the other duties thrust upon her tender years, had been worrying over my absence, perhaps fearful that I had taken my life in grief or been set upon by the gangs of b
oys that reigned over most of the port streets at night. But who heard me come in, fumbling, staggering, falling. And crept down in her nightgown to assist me, to offer me help, perhaps even to weep that I was home and safe. And I looked up and saw her on the stairs. At first I thought she was her mother—the resemblance of the two was strong. But by the time I fell upon her, I knew who it was. And still I proceeded. I carried her as she began to fight me, as she realized my intent. Her fists against me as effective as butterflies. I carried her not to my own bed but to hers. She fought me, then, there, hard but briefly. I tore the gown from her and while she whimpered and pleaded, trying to cover herself with a sheet, I destroyed the room. Chairs, her writing desk, chests of drawers, all of it I smashed to kindling. So she would know my capacity for devastation before I visited it upon her. Which I then did. What greater violation can take place between man and woman than it be between father and daughter? There is none. To have outright murdered her would have been less.”

  Blood said, “That’s my account.” He was done. All in. But for their response. He drank the last of the water and tossed the cup down.

  He took his eyes from the boys, lifted his head. It was late morning, gaining noon. The day had warmed. He was hungry—a thing almost barbarous. The body urges onward, he thought.

  Cooper and Fletcher glanced at each other, a silent consultation. Then Cooper spoke, his tone strange, mild. He said, “It’s passing strange. I suspect you’re right—it will be years before I understand all you just told. However much is truth or not, it’s truth to you. I feel a pity. But still, it’s passing strange. In the spring, a man came through, one of those I mentioned earlier, to inform you was headed far north, up to the Connecticut Lakes country, the wild country, with a cartload of trade goods. Fletcher and I talked about it. Not only did we know where you was bound, but the sound of it suggested you’d be here some time, most likely long enough to catch up with you. As you can imagine, and it doesn’t dispute your account, everyone in the family counseled against it. Some quite strong. There was tears shed in the attempt to dissuade us, even threat of losing positions in the House, being disinherited. But those were from Uncle Proctor and while he meant it in his anger he also knew he didn’t have that power. The paperwork’s secure and you know who engineered that. So there was considerable opposition to the plan. But for two. Do you care to guess who those two might be?”