Above The Thunder

by Renee Manfredi

  Anna heard the rattle of dog tags, then Violet and her dogs appeared. She paused at the trash cans lining the sidewalk. Anna was shocked to see that Violet was wearing only one skirt, and a beautiful one at that. Cotton lawn, printed with delicate blue flowers. Redwing boots peeked from beneath the lacy hem. “Hello, dear,” she said as she drew closer.

  “You look nice, Violet,” Anna said.

  “Thank you. Just had a hankering to say hello. Can I help you with anything else?”

  “I think everything’s done. Thank you again for all your help,” Anna said.

  “Is this a bad time?” Violet asked.

  “Not at all,” Anna said. “I’m actually glad you’re here, I was just about to start hog-wallowing in dread.”

  “Ah, I thought as much, which is why,” she said, pulling out a silver flask, “I brought this. I myself don’t often truck with these kinds of spirits, but I have found that a snout full of whiskey can do wonders for dread.”

  Anna laughed. “Well, hell. Why not?” She took a sip, passed it back to Violet who herself took a pull, then handed it back to Anna. She felt better almost immediately, the edge of anxiety dulling a bit.

  Anna invited Violet in, made a pot of tea. “Actually, Violet, there is something I might ask you to do if you’re willing. If you have time, would you mind taking those boxes of Flynn’s to the women’s shelter? They’re always short on children’s things.”

  “Certainly,” Violet said, and carried her teacup to the sink. She reached for Anna’s cup when Anna was finished. Violet stared into it, then looked up at Anna and smiled.

  Anna shook her head. “No predictions, but thanks.” Anna rinsed the tea things, and put them in a shoebox for Violet. “I want you to have this teapot and cups. And there are still two cans of jasmine here.”

  “Are you sure?” Violet said.

  Anna said that she was. “Also, now that I’m thinking about it, why don’t you walk through the house and take some things. Everything you see, I’m leaving. You’re welcome to any or all of it.”

  “I don’t need anything, Anna, but thank you just the same.”

  “The end tables? They’re Chippendale.”

  Violet declined, and ran her fingers through the fringe of a cashmere throw.

  “You can take that with you,” Anna said. “And how about that coat rack? My husband had that specially made by a local artist. It’s solid birch.” Anna stopped. “I guess this is really for me, isn’t it?” she said quietly. “It would make me feel better if you took some of this stuff. But that has nothing to do with what you want.”

  “I surely will miss you,” Violet said. “All of you. The boys, Marvin, the dog. That’s all. I’ll miss you all.” They walked out on the lawn. Violet spotted Anna’s old bathrobe in the trash can and pulled it out. “This I’ll take. You wore it a lot, didn’t you? I’ll remember you by it.” She stood by Anna’s new truck—a Toyota Tacoma with a camper shell, which she decided to buy after four sleepless nights of deciding what to do next. She would simply drive, take only the things she needed for a long road trip, and the things that meant something to her personally. Everything else was replaceable.

  Violet ran her hands along the shiny black surface. “Is this what they call a testosterone truck?” She blinked behind her glasses.

  Anna laughed. “I think it has to be bright red to qualify as that.” At the dealership in Portland, Anna had debated between the 4Runner and the Tacoma, leaning toward the former until the salesmen, learning that she alone, without a husband, would be the sole driver, pushed her toward the plusher SUV. That was the deciding moment. She wouldn’t play into anybody’s notion of what a woman should drive.

  Violet peered inside. “Will you have the rest of your things sent on to you later?”

  “No. This is all.” Clothes and camping gear, her wedding album, her cello, a dog bed and bowls, her husband’s good microscope, and every box of slides she found in his study that day. The slides she had of Flynn’s were carefully wrapped inside a wood jewelry box in the glove compartment.

  “When are you planning to take off?” Violet said.

  “Today. Right now,” she said, surprising herself as much as Violet. But she couldn’t spend another night in this house; even if she only drove to Portland and spent the night in a motel, now was the time to leave.

  “Right this minute?”

  Anna nodded. “I’ll tell you what. I’m going to give you my keys. Go back through the house and make sure there’s nothing you want. Take some things, Violet. Even if you take them to sell them. Those light fixtures in the hallway are worth thousands. They’re Tiffany.”

  “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity,” Violet said, with a wave of her hand. “We’re made of time, and so are our things. I don’t need material goods to keep you with me.”

  “I’ll call you. And, wherever I end up, whenever I end up somewhere, I want you to come visit. You are always welcome wherever I am.” She gave Violet a slip of paper with her cell phone number, and Marvin’s number in New York. “You can leave messages with him, if you can’t reach me. I’ll check in with Marvin and Jack and Stuart from the road.”

  She held on to Violet a long time; another second, she thought. If I don’t let go in five seconds I’ll chicken out. “Thank you for everything. Thank you for being there for me.”

  “No thanks are necessary.”

  Anna whistled for Baby Jesus, who heaved himself up into the front seat. In the rearview mirror, she saw Violet standing in the same place, her dogs in perfect sit-stays that Anna hadn’t yet succeeded in teaching Baby Jesus. At the stop sign at the end of the road, Anna U-turned, pulled back into her driveway. Violet walked over to the driver’s side. Anna rolled down her window. “Your leaves,” Violet said. “Your tea leaves….”

  “Okay,” Anna laughed. “What?”

  “Most everything ahead is pure blessing.”

  Anna kissed Violet goodbye. “I’ll call you in a day or two.”

  Except, as it turned out, she didn’t call. The first week went by in a blur. Two weeks turned to three, and before she knew it, a month had elapsed. Sometimes she drove nearly nonstop for three days, then stopped for a week for no better reason than that she liked a certain coffee shop. At least once a day it occurred to her that she should check in with someone.

  One morning in Joplin, Missouri, she decided to just get it over with. She pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store, took out her phone, but then changed her mind. What would she say? I’m all right; I’ve been driving, just driving. Nothing has happened to me, good or bad. She left the car running with the air conditioner on for the dog, and went inside the store. She picked up some snacks, a new road atlas, some dog treats, and bottled water. But by the time she stood in line and paid, she’d talked herself out of it. She imagined how the news of Marvin and Jack and Stuart and Greta would feel rushing in at her. When Jack and Stuart left the house in Maine, it was as if Flynn had died all over again. And Marvin. Just the thought of hearing his voice, the faint echo of Flynn in his phrasing, was enough to start her shaking.

  She got back in the truck, handed Baby J. his milkbones, uncapped her soda, and studied the map. She didn’t much like these Midwestern states. The campgrounds were full of overfed, overgroomed, and invasively friendly families. She turned her phone on, off, then on again. Maybe Marvin would be at work and she could leave a message. But when did he ever really work outside the home? Except for teaching here and there, he always worked in the studio where he lived. If she could be sure to just get his—or Jack’s—answering machine, she would call.

  She stared at a group of teenagers gathered around a souped-up truck, smoking cigarettes and drinking sodas. The girls were tarted up in short skirts and sprayed hair, and the boys all in a uniform of baggy pants and T-shirts. She looked at one young woman in particular who was beautiful but seemed not to know it. The girls around her, though, looked at her with tight, distant smiles. She was dark-haired and t
hin, her hair and makeup were natural. She was fifteen, sixteen, maybe. She caught Anna’s eye and smiled. Anna smiled back, felt something catch in her throat, then put the truck in reverse.

  For now, driving was what made sense. The more she drove, the longer the intervals of peace were lasting. She’d never been any kind of outdoors person, and she was amazed to discover how much being away from human habitation, sight, sound, and scent soothed her. She liked waking up in her tent. Mornings were the best part of the day, the fragrance of pine trees and dewy foliage, the scuffling of small animals and birds all around her.

  The campgrounds were thinning out, since it was nearing the end of summer, and days sometimes went by when she didn’t see a single person. “West,” she said aloud. “I think we shall go west.” Baby Jesus wagged his tail.

  Anna liked the terrain of California, the robust pines and Joshua trees, the scrubby desert landscape and somber mountain ranges all in the same vista. She had a comprehensive guidebook that listed the natural hot springs in California, and she spent ten days visiting as many as she could. Most had campgrounds nearby, but they were too crowded for her taste. She wanted solitude and quiet when she crawled into her tent at night, not some mother screeching at her children, or a group of partying teenagers blasting through the night. She typically drove to a campsite ten or fifteen miles away after she finished soaking.

  The last one she visited, though, just at the Nevada border, felt like paradise. When she pulled into the nearly deserted parking lot and saw how hidden and remote the mineral pools were—she had to walk in nearly a mile, and even then found them only by the sulfurous odor—she thought she might stay here forever. No one would ever find her.

  For two days, she soaked continuously, going back up to her campsite at noon and early evening for a meal, then, after sundown, back into the water. It had become her perfect remedy for sleep. She soaked for an hour while staring up at the stars—beautifully silvered in the sky without the distraction of city lights—sipping wine until she knew that one more minute in the water would leave her too fatigued or dehydrated to walk back up the hill. This was the best her mood had been in well over a year. Not happy or content, exactly, but without the constant nightmares and plaguing guilt that—literally, it seemed, from the way her stomach felt—ate at her until everything she did, even blinking her eyes, was painful. She was afraid to move on, afraid that this new and fragile peace was somehow tied to the place.

  On the third evening, after hiking around the surrounding trails, she walked down the path for her nightly soak. She’d grown careless about clothing. She hadn’t owned a bathing suit in years, anyway, and wore only a light robe that she took off as soon as she reached the pool. It was dark, but she’d memorized the path, and could negotiate the rocks and roots in just a pair of flip-flops. She didn’t even need a flashlight anymore. She hung her robe from the tree branches, settled her customary bottle of wine and glass within reach. It wasn’t until she was actually in the water and her eyes adjusted to the dark that she realized she wasn’t alone. Two other people. Two men.

  Anna introduced herself to them and they to her: Andy, in his thirties from Los Angeles, and George, older, maybe sixties. She was disappointed at first that she had lost her solitude, then found she didn’t mind. The men made small talk and neither of them seemed to mind her silence. Anna gathered that they weren’t together. She stayed relaxed, which was the amazing thing, and slowly let a thought surface that it might not be a horrific thing to be around people again. She found that she could listen to them talk—mostly Andy, the younger one, about his recent divorce—and not have every other word trigger a painful memory. She was getting better about memories, anyway; what seemed harder now was imagining the future, a terrifying expanse of time made up only of milestones, not ordinary moments. When she thought about the coming year, she couldn’t imagine anything other than where and with whom she would spend Christmas, what she would do when Flynn’s birthday rolled around. Everything before her seemed like a huge table set for one, a wasteland of sterile apartments, and clear, uncluttered surfaces. These were the thoughts that sometimes kept her awake at night. She might never need to replace things broken by the rush and chaos of domestic life, might never again need to Scotchguard her furniture or coordinate daily schedules.

  “What do you do, Anna?” A rich baritone. The older man, George.

  Anna reached for her bottle of wine, poured a glass. “I work in health care.”

  “A nurse?”

  “No. A medical technologist.” She paused, anticipating the next few questions, and gave a brief bio. “I’m from Boston and Maine, though I am, at the moment, nomadic. I don’t have a destination in mind. I don’t have any family left.” To her horror, she began to tell them the story about Flynn, of her daughter who was supposed to show up but never did. How it all started and where it had ended. She told them about Jack and Stuart, and the baby they were trying to have after committing to each other at long last, talked about her granddaughter and how mysterious and magical she was, how her presence in Anna’s life opened up a whole different world. “She believed in reincarnation and that she could communicate with the spirit world. We all thought she was just overly imaginative, you know, but there is something so strange about it all now. Sometimes I would swear that she is right beside me. I feel her. I smell her, and sometimes at night I feel her next to me while I’m sleeping. It’s not a dream. I don’t know what it is.”

  Neither of them spoke when she finished. It didn’t matter to her what they thought. She felt curiously intact. Impossibly sorrowful, of course, but as if everything in her was unified in this sorrow. One of the most terrible aspects of grief was the sensation that each part of your body produced different, often warring, signals: overwhelming fatigue coupled with insomnia, gnawing hunger pains and nausea upon eating, restlessness and physical agitation along with the hopelessness of completing even the simplest household task.

  “That is an amazing story,” the older man said. “You must be an exceptionally strong woman.”

  Anna murmured noncommittally. “Would either of you like some wine?”

  “I actually need to get out of this hot water,” the younger man said. “I need to push on to L.A.”

  Anna poured herself another glass. She really shouldn’t, but the warmth of the water and a new lightness rising up in her made her want to celebrate a little, get a little giddy.

  “I’ll try a little of that wine, if you’re still offering,” George said.

  “Sure,” Anna said, then realized she had nothing to pour it into. “You can share my glass, or there’s the Bowery method.”

  “The Bowery method?”

  “Right from the bottle.”

  “Oh.” He laughed. He reached for her glass. His warm hands brushed against hers. “Ah, a French wine. Let’s see. Chardonnay. Probably a ’97.”

  Anna tipped the bottle in the path of the moonlight. “That’s right. How did you know? Are you French?” There was an echo of an accent in his speech. Something vaguely European.

  “I am a vintner. Born and raised here in California, but of Italian descent.” He took another sip. “Nice. A nice choice. Bracing, but elegant. Assertive and tender at the same time.”

  “You have a vineyard?” Anna looked at him intently in the weak light. He was handsome, as far as she could see. His profile was strong, classically Roman.

  “Well, I have part of one. My family has had part ownership for three generations now.”

  Anna poured the rest of the bottle, moved a little closer to him so they could share the glass. “Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about yourself.”

  He was sixty, a widower with three grown children. An immigrant’s son whose father had had a vineyard outside of Siena, in central Tuscany. “In a little village next to Montelocino, where my father was born and raised among the vines, wine in his veins. He came to this country at the age of twenty.” George described the summers of his boyhood in N
apa Valley, sitting at a long table in the arbor with the newly harvested grapes, a feast for his family of thirteen, and a hundred of the vineyard workers and their families—in those days, his father hired nearly all Italian immigrants, which was how it remained until he made a bad choice with a Merlot in ’62 and had to sell part ownership. “Anna, you wouldn’t believe how perfect those days were. It was like being back in Italy. We had three feasts a year in the orchard. One after the harvest, one on St. Joseph’s Day and another on Easter. Of course every wedding, and there were a lot, was held there, too.”

  Anna listened as George described the dancing, the tarantellas and waltzes, the day he met the girl who would become his wife. “She was seventeen. I was nineteen. My father had just hired her father as a taster. He was right off the boat, one of the best tasters in Tuscany. There is a word in Italian. A phrase. Assaggiare luce del sole. To taste the sunlight, though that doesn’t translate so well. My father used to say Alberto knew which vintages had had too much western sun. They were moody. Doloroso.” George laughed. “And the sun-drenched southern Cabernets. Arrabbiato con luce del sole. Angry with sunshine.”

  Anna laughed at George’s impression of the self-important wine taster and saw him exactly: a little man with a perpetual wine glass in his hand, a golden tongue and a beautiful daughter: his twin blessings and twin curses. Even from this distance, in a memory not even her own, she felt the warmth of the people, the bonds of a tribe. Through his vivid descriptions, she saw George’s mother with the ever-present rosary beads in her hand, his sisters crowded six at a time in the bedroom, the excitement of each courtship, wedding, and baby.

  “Of course, Alberto took one look at me and knew right away what I was about. He had come over from Italy with his two brothers, who my father put to work in the presses. Alberto had them follow me everywhere. Every move I made had a witness. This, of course, gave me hope. If I were not a serious contender for his daughter’s affections, nobody would notice where I happened to spend my Sundays. Serafina, the girl who would become my wife, was under the maternal eye.”