by Ann Warner
He cracked eggs into a bowl and discarded the shells. Clare waited for the rest of the story, but he began to whisk the eggs into a froth without speaking.
“I don’t get it. What does it have to do with Tyrese?”
“Kindness confusing him. He mugged you, now you’re helping him. May take him awhile to sort that out.”
After learning Beck was dyslexic, Clare stopped by a nearby grade school and asked to speak to a reading teacher.
Sally Prentice, a bouncy redhead with freckles sprinkled across her nose, didn’t appear to be much older than her students, although she laughed when Clare said so. “I’ve been teaching fifteen years.”
“I need suggestions about how to help someone with dyslexia.”
“There are some studies suggesting dyslexia may be linked to difficulties in differentiating the sound of similar letters, like D and B.” Sally picked up a folder and handed Clare several sheets of paper from it. “Here are some exercises that may help.”
“The men I’m tutoring also struggle with writing.”
“I read recently about a program in a prison,” Sally said. “The prisoners were writing their memoirs and they said it was the only thing that made them feel human.” Sally paused and gave Clare a serious look that momentarily erased her gamin quality. “What you’re doing, Clare, it’s so important. Reading and writing can change lives.”
Clare wished it were that simple.
But then she did know how simply and quickly a life could change for the worse.
Chapter Fifteen
Tournant
Turning
Vinnie looked up with a smile as Clare hung her jacket on the coat hook in Vinnie’s office. “My, you’re getting bad as Appleseed, beautiful. You’re here all the time. Like you ain’t got any other life.”
Too true, although it wasn’t something Clare was comfortable admitting, despite her fondness for Vinnie, who brightened the dullest day with a mile-wide smile and her standard greeting of hey there, beautiful. Clare watched men, both fierce and mild, shuffle in embarrassed pleasure at Vinnie’s enthusiasm—an enthusiasm that was slowly easing Clare’s heart.
“Beck and I thank the Father every day for sending you and Appleseed to us. Good thing you two used to living on air, though.”
Clare shook her head. “I don’t know what you mean.”
“If you needed money, we’d lose you both.”
“All I’m good for is an entry-level job. As for John, I imagine it’s difficult for an ex-con to find work. I think you’re stuck with us.”
“Appleseed an ex-con? What makes you say that?”
“Ex-con, ex-addict. He’s too educated to be working as a janitor otherwise.”
Vinnie shook her head. “You think that, you don’t know nothing, beautiful. Appleseed’s the real deal. Not saying more, he wouldn’t like it, but he’s no ex-con.”
“I’m worried about Appleseed,” Beck said.
“Why is that?” It seemed to be Clare’s day for conversations about John Apple.
“He’s gone quiet on me. Like when he first come. Ain’t good.” Beck added a scoop of flour to the bowl.
“Hold it. How much did you just add?” She’d offered to write out Beck’s recipes and was watching him cook while she took notes.
“‘Bout a quarter cup, I reckon.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being quiet,” she said, noting the amount.
“Man a mess when he come. Thought he was through all that.”
“Do you know why?” She waited, but when Beck didn’t respond, she knew it would be hypocritical to push, given her reaction when John commented on her personal life.
Still, she couldn’t help being curious. The discomfort from her last conversation with John faded awhile ago. She just didn’t know how to let him know he was forgiven, especially since lately she’d seen him only in passing. So was he avoiding her? But she’d been avoiding him, after all.
“There,” Beck said. “When it gets like this, it’s time to jump in with both hands and squeeze it good.”
Maybe Appleseed was another of Beck’s projects. And did Beck realize she needed Hope House as much or more than Hope House needed her? Possibly. He and Vinnie seemed to have a talent for reading troubled hearts. With a start, she realized she’d lost track of Beck and his dough. She bent her head once again over her notes.
Beck set the bowl aside in a patch of sun with a damp cloth covering it. “Now, it rests and rises.”
Clare found John working on an electrical outlet in one of the classrooms. Standing in the doorway, gathering her courage, she stared at his back—narrow compared to Beck’s—and at his hair—pulled into a ponytail. Usually, she didn’t care for long hair on a man, but it suited John. It was his only oddity. With a haircut and dressed in a suit, he could be...what? Professor? Doctor? Lawyer? What real deal had Vinnie been referring to?
Not wanting to startle him while he worked with bare electrical wires, she knocked softly against the door frame. “Could I speak to you, John Apple?”
He twisted from his stooped position and lifted his eyebrows. “Why so formal?”
She walked into the room and perched on the end of a table near him. “It is your name, like Clare Eliason Chapin is my name.”
He stood, holding a screwdriver in one hand, and a new outlet in the other.
“I wanted to apologize,” Clare said. “The last time we spoke, I was rude. I’m sorry.”
“You were right. I had no business commenting on your personal life.”
“Friends try to help each other. Sometimes they make mistakes. Besides, it’s time I started facing up to who I am.” She walked to the window and looked at the backyard, bare now that autumn was well advanced. “I decided the psychologist Beck invited in was right. ‘You can’t change the past, but you do have to accept it.’ Wasn’t that what he said? And there I was, feeling superior to everyone in the room, when they at least had the courage to admit they needed help.” And what about the other thing the psychologist said? Face your past. Look for the lessons in it. If there are amends to be made, make them. The worst thing that’s happened to you can have blessings attached. Look for them.
“You think it takes courage to ask for help?” John’s voice sounded strained.
“I know it has for me.”
“Are you asking me for help, Clare?”
“I know I have to do the hard part myself, but I’d like you to be my friend.”
She turned from the window and found John staring at the floor. He shook himself and gave her a crooked smile. “I could use a friend, too.”
“It’s a deal, then.”
He set the screwdriver down and took her hand in his. “Deal.”
Thinking about the conversation later, Clare realized what she’d said about having to work through the hard part herself wasn’t just words strung together. It was the truth. Progress. But she still hadn’t faced everything in her past. She still hadn’t examined why, after marrying Rob, she’d treated him so badly.
Once they were settled in the Machiguenga village, their scientific activities got under way, with the local payé, Soraida, leading the expeditions into the jungle. Since Rob became disoriented as soon as he stepped far enough into the trees that the village was out of sight, he was relieved as well as intrigued by how easily and confidently Soraida navigated the forest.
As he led them from place to place, the payé pointed out plants with medicinal properties, then he demonstrated how to collect the active part—leaves, roots, stems, or fruits. Back in the village, Rob watched Soraida prepare the plant materials for use, boiling some to make teas or infusions, drying others and grinding them into powders. Some powders the payé mixed into pastes with ashes collected from the burning of specific leaves. Others he placed together in complex mixtures, the exact composition of which varied depending upon the ailment to be treated.
At Soraida’s urging, Rob tasted one infusion. It was bitter but not unpleasa
nt. The payé pushed on his stomach as if it hurt then mimed drinking more. Since Rob wasn’t currently having any stomach troubles, he took another careful sip before handing the gourd containing the tea back to Soraida, who finished it off with a smacking of his lips and a contented pat on his abdomen.
When Rob carried out preliminary chemical testing of Soraida’s preparation, he discovered the tea tested positive for an alkaloid—no surprise given its bitter taste. The simple color tests Rob was using reminded him of how his fascination with science began—with a chemistry set when he was twelve. On good days, he felt as if he’d been given a chance to start over on a fresh, blank slate after thoroughly messing up the first one.
“Love you, too. Talk to you soon.” Jolley ended the call to his wife then handed the satellite phone to Rob. “I expect you want to give Clare a call.”
Rob took the phone but he didn’t call Clare. Instead, he called his post-doc, Hatsume, and his sister. When he handed the phone back, Jolley accepted it with a frown. Although he’d moved away while Rob made his calls, as Rob had while Jolley talked to Jane, it wasn’t possible to conceal the fact he never called Clare.
He thought about her, though. Many nights, he lay awake long after the others were asleep, thinking about her. Tracing through it all, trying to find the place where they’d begun to lose their way. Trying to convince himself that divorcing her was the right thing to do. Although neither of them said the word, they’d both known it was where they were headed. Other times he fell asleep immediately, only to awaken in the deepest part of the night—to the sudden snap and rustle of disturbed underbrush, the crackly sound of rain on the thatch roof, or the cacophony of insect life punctuated now and then by a screech in a different key as some wild thing located its dinner. As he lay awake, images of Clare flickered through his memory. Clare, brighter than a vision, lighting up the stage and his life; Clare, on the deck of the sailboat, her dark hair, a banner in the sunlight.
He’d loved her hair. Loved running his fingers through the long silken length of it. Now when he thought of Clare’s hair, short and white, he felt a helpless grief. He missed her hair. But more, he missed the woman she’d been with that long hair. Audacious, excited to see what each day would bring.
He’d understood immediately her cropped head was a sign of her despair, and he’d waited, hoping she’d heal and let her hair grow.
But she hadn’t.
Living in the jungle, what Rob missed most were hot showers and a variety of foods. They ate what the Machiguenga did, although they had brought rice, beans, and several live chickens to add to the communal pot. In addition to the eggs, protein was supplied by fish caught using plant poisons and by beans. Carbohydrates they obtained from the rice they’d brought and the manioc cultivated by the women in a cleared area near the village.
“Their manioc growing has only a minimal impact on the rainforest,” Jolley said, in response to a question from Sam. “When they move on, these small plots will fill back in within seventy-five to a hundred years. It’s the areas being cleared for ranching and farming that will never recover.”
On their jungle diet, it wasn’t long before Rob’s clothes fit more loosely, and his attitude also changed as he took more of an interest in the Machiguenga.
The villagers lived quietly, spending their days working, resting, interacting. Although Rob sought evidence of village politics or hierarchical structure, to his eyes they were invisible. Certainly there was none of the pettiness and overt maneuvering, the constant push-pull of egos, he’d faced in the academic world.
He mentioned it one evening to Sam and Jolley.
“They believe a man should live calmly, lest he disturb the balance of the universe.” Jolley picked up a stick, leaned over, and drew two spirals in the dirt. “They represent that balance with this image. It’s their belief that if these lines hold the world in place. If they are distorted by anger or strife, they will no longer have that power and the world will fall into chaos.”
“It looks like a series of orbits,” Sam said. “We consider them primitive, but their cosmology is quite sophisticated.”
“What do you think they’d make of the so-called civilized world?” Rob asked.
Jolley took his pipe out of his mouth and shook his head. “I don’t think we should tell them about it.”
“I agree,” Sam said. “Why take the chance? Their calm may be the only thing keeping the universe from disintegrating.”
Rob limped into camp from a morning expedition.
“Let me take a look,” Sam said. “What happened?”
“Slipped. Stupid of me.”
“Not stupid. Clumsy, maybe.” She made him sit, then took off his boot. She had long narrow hands. Her fingers, slender and strong, probed the ankle. “It’s only a minor sprain. Too bad there’s no ice.” She got out an elastic bandage and wrapped it securely around his ankle and foot. “There, that will stabilize it. Ibuprofen will help if there’s pain or swelling.” She sat back on her heels and smiled at him. “You should be fine. Just take it easy and don’t push for the next few days.”
“Thanks.”
“Lucky for you I was just working on the day’s log. I’ll be sure to give you a prominent position.”
“Not exactly the way I’d choose to be featured.” He stood and took a tentative step, pleased to discover if he moved carefully, he could walk with little pain. It was the first time he’d felt anything other than resigned positive about Sam being part of the group.
“We’ve certainly been getting better books lately,” John said, as he and Clare unpacked the boxes donated by a West Roxbury women’s group that had adopted Hope House as a service project.
“We are.” Clare lifted another two books from the box, glancing at the titles. “You think we’ll ever see any of the men reading Hemingway or Faulkner?”
John picked the two up and added them to one of the piles he was building. “You’re the tutor. What do you teach from?”
“Mostly children’s stories.”
“Here, why not try them on this.” He held up a book by Robert B. Parker. “Good story, snappy dialogue, and it’s set in Boston.”
“What kind of book is it?”
“Detective story.” He handed her the book, then patted the pile he’d added the Hemingway and Faulkner volumes to. “You mind if I borrow these? I’ll see you get them back.”
“No problem. You’re a reader?”
“They help me survive.”
Me, too, she might have said.
Clare tensed at the nasal sound of her mother-in-law’s voice. It was the phone call she’d been dreading as the end of November approached.
“It’s been simply ages since we’ve seen you,” Mrs. Chapin said. “Not since Rob left. We need to do something about that. You must come for Thanksgiving, Clare.” It was more command than invitation.
“I’m sorry. I’m spending Thanksgiving with friends.” Beck and the men in the cooking class were planning a big do.
“Well, family trumps friends any time. You can simply tell them that, dear.”
“I’m afraid I can’t do that.”
“Christmas then. You must come to us for Christmas. Spend the night.”
“I’m planning to go home for Christmas.”
“My goodness. It’s harder to get on your schedule than for me to do the Sugar Plum Fairy’s dance.” Mrs. Chapin’s chuckle was stiff with irritation. “We heard from Rob last week,” she continued before Clare could reply. “He sounds good. Enjoys the work, but I expect you hear from him yourself.”
Clare could think of no response to that.
“Well, you’re certainly a busy young woman.”
Clare steeled herself against guilt. “I hope you have a happy Thanksgiving, and I do appreciate the invitation.” A huge relief, though, to be able to decline it.
Thanksgiving was just another day in the jungle. If it weren’t for the fact he kept track of the date in his laboratory notes, Rob w
ouldn’t have realized that was what day it was. A retired colleague had once joked that his weeks consisted of six Saturdays and a Sunday. Rob’s life had narrowed to an unending string of Tuesdays.
Jolley marked the occasion by calling Jane. Later, at Jolley’s prompting, Sam said a simple grace over their usual meal of rice, fish, manioc, and vegetables. As they ate, Rob pictured his family at the big table in his parents’ formal dining room. His mother reported Clare was having dinner with friends. People from the ballet, or a made-up excuse? Either explanation was possible.
