The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

  —Ma, I say, pointing at the window.—Look. It’s starting to pour.

  She peers out.—I guess it is.

  —The snails will drown. We’d better rescue them.

  —We’re leaving as soon as we can.

  She smoothes my hair away from my ear, which the doctor has stitched. I don’t want to think about the needle and thread he used to do that. And it’s hard for me to hear from that side of my head now. He bandaged my ear in cloth.

  —Leaving for home? I ask again, just to be sure.

  She nods.—I just said we’re leaving.

  —But for home?

  My voice sounds tinny and small. Mr. Stone pats my hand.

  —You’ve been a brave little girl, he says.

  —I’m not little, I say, and start to cry.

  Ma looks tired. Mr. Stone offers me a sleeve on which to blow my nose. He smells like the outdoors. Like the seashore. Pa smells like old books and cigar smoke. I could smell Pa all day long and not grow tired of it.

  —How old are you? I ask Mr. Stone. Snuffling, I wipe my nose on his sleeve.

  He looks over at Ma.—I’m twenty-nine. That ancient enough for you?

  Downstairs, I stick close to Mr. Stone while Ma crosses to the desk and asks a clerk about the charge for my stitches. Apparently I am very expensive.

  —The total will be two dollars, the clerk says.

  She makes her way back to us. Her brow is wrinkly and upset.

  —I told you not to worry about it, Mr. Stone says.—Told you I’d take care of it.

  She scowls even more.—It’s my responsibility.

  —Your kid fell in the pump station. That’s my territory. I’ll handle it. Least I can do.

  I drop his hand, which, yes, I have been holding, and I look back and forth from him to Ma, who surprises me by staying pretty quiet. The electroliers above me are so bright they hurt my head. My bandages itch. Rain slides down the windowpanes.

  —Ma? I say, plucking at her sleeve as Mr. Stone goes to take his turn at the clerk’s desk.—It’s really raining.

  —I see, she says, though she doesn’t. She’s not paying attention. She’s listening to whatever Mr. Stone’s saying to the clerk.

  —We have to hurry, I say and yank harder.—The snails! And I want to see Ostrich. Can we see him? I want to tell him about what happened to me today.

  She looks sharply at me.

  The clerk says something in a whispery voice to Mr. Stone, who looks back over his shoulder at Ma.

  —I’m taking care of this, he calls out to her again.—Wait for me, will you? You shouldn’t travel alone. Not with a hurt kid. You’re not heading to the city cemetery, are you? That place you told me?

  —We’ll be all right, Ma snaps. Her voice is tilting too high. She puts her hand on my back and leads me, pushes me, toward the doors.—Thank you again. We’ll be absolutely fine.

  He frowns.—You’ve said that three times now.

  —Ma, when can we see—

  She taps me.—Wait till we’re outside.

  —I mean it, Mr. Stone calls out.—Cemetery’s no place for you to be wandering on your own, if that’s your plan. Wait for me. Last time I checked, you two pieces of calico were on your own.

  —I’m not a piece of calico, I shout.

  As the clerk bends over the paperwork, Mr. Stone softens his voice.

  —God Almighty, Lucy Christensen. Let a fellow lend a hand, won’t you?

  Lucy

  YOU DON’T NEED A FELLOW to lend a hand. You have two hands of your own.

  And you’ve grown used to your life, such as it is, to its quietness, to the coverings you throw over it, like the sheets and blankets you draped over the furniture the time you left to spend a week with Henry in Sausalito. You used to cut off sections of your life to see if they’d grow back. When you cut Henry off, he regenerates like the arm of a starfish. When you cut yourself off, you swim.

  —We’re leaving, you say again, bidding Stone farewell; he’s still negotiating the hospital bill.

  He twists around to take in the sight of you and Blue.

  —Thank you, you add, feeling clumsy.—I’m sorry we stole your morning.

  —Don’t you worry about my morning. Don’t you waste one second of your time worrying about how I’m doing. Worry about how you’re doing.

  Before you can sort out what’s happening, he strides over, abandoning the clerk. He stands before you. Without hesitation, without pausing a second to consider the matter, he leans in and kisses you. On the cheek. But still. You don’t have to stand on tiptoe to reach this man. Here are his lips, soft as yours, right at your cheekbone. Here are his hips, narrow and tight, right up against yours, his hips grazing your skirt, his hips suddenly all you can think about. You don’t have to strain, not an inch, to meet this man. He is ready everywhere.

  He pulls away, and your lips brush the stubble on his neck. The skin under his jaw stings with heat. Accidents do happen. He colors.

  —Hey, he whispers.—Hey.

  For a second, you wish you were a different woman.

  Henry will be through with the weeding. He probably forgot to bring gloves. Of course he forgot. You always brought them for him.

  He loves your humble cottage by the sea. He used to call it home. Even though he never spent a full night inside. He adored its cleanliness, its unpretentiousness. Its separation from the everyday.

  His everyday. Not yours. He never saw you scrub a floorboard. But you did scrub them.

  —It’s more barn than cottage, you reminded him once.

  He nodded.—The simpler the better.

  —More shed than barn.

  A better woman would have refused to live in such a place. You’d settle for being an interesting woman. But being interesting is how you wound up living in a glorified lean-to in the first place, hiding on a hillside in the back of a rich man’s estate, a man who collects the grotesqueries of taxidermy and builds catch basins in the belief that he can control the ocean.

  Free will? The tides don’t ask that question.

  Stone steps aside, still flushed, as Blue moves in to take possession of your skirts, grabbing them with one fist, her lower lip protruding. She doesn’t like him standing so close to her mother. She didn’t like that kiss. Maybe she wanted one for herself. The bandage covering her ear gives her a rakish look.

  You lead your little pirate toward the doors. Stone calls out a final time, bestows a final caution.

  —It’s dangerous, you know. A woman traipsing around the Outside Lands alone.

  You look out at the raining heavens and laugh aloud. If only danger were that straightforward. If only it were visible.

  —What’s so funny? he demands.

  —Nothing. It’s very kind of you to offer. Thank you. It is.

  But it’s your life, not J. B. Stone’s. It’s your life to savage. To salvage.

  Blue

  MA TRIPS ON THE SIDEWALK outside the French Hospital. The rain has made puddles on the boards. She catches herself, but she still winds up with her hands and knees on the planks. A small oof escapes her. Rain pelts the top of her head. I can see the part in her scalp, the helpless pink.

  —Mother, I bellow, more sad now than anything.

  She stands and brushes off her skirt, which doesn’t help. So she turns to me instead. She tries to yank my sailor jacket tighter around my shoulders, tries to improve me. As if that’s her problem. My jacket’s damp as anything. I push her away.

  —Why can’t you just accept help? she asks.—Who taught you to be so stubborn?

  For reply, I just look at her.

  —Pumpkin, she says, trying again.—What is it? Walk with me. Please. We have to reach the streetcar stop.

  —I am walking. I’m not the one who fell.

  She should not have let Mr. Stone kiss her on the cheek.

  —I know you’re tired, she says.—We need to get you fed and into dry clothes before we do anything else.

  —Are w
e headed to the snails? And can Pa come over? I want to see Pa.

  Ma takes a long breath before she replies.

  —I don’t know if he can see us today, she says.—I don’t know if we should interrupt him today.

  —Why not?

  She shakes her head. I’ve stepped in it now. She must be collecting her thoughts—that’s what Pa used to say. Like her thoughts run outside the house without her permission.

  I let her be and trudge forward. What did that doctor call her?

  Up ahead lie hills of sand and patches of scrub brush. A few houses too. More and more people and houses are coming to our neighborhood, but not in an orderly way. Not following the rules.

  A burst of energy comes over me. I don’t know where it came from. I sprint ahead. Ma hitches up her skirt with one hand as she follows me. Usually she’s faster than I am. Not today.

  —Mother, I wheel around and say.—Be careful. You look like you don’t feel good.

  Lucy

  RAIN SLIDES DOWN THE BACK of your neck. To your east lies the Odd Fellows’ Cemetery, its pale gravestones barely visible. A lone nag pulls a hearse up a solitary lane. Two men hulk atop the driver’s box. Their heads are bowed, almost supplicatory. But that’s not the direction you’re traveling.

  —Sweetheart, you say to Blue.—I know you’re tired. We have to make it to the streetcar stop. We’re almost there.

  —I’m not tired, she says.—You are.

  Her eyes are filling. She wants to see her father.

  This isn’t a contest. It’s not a match between the living and the dead, not a competition for Henry’s attention. That would be sick. And you would lose.

  You started writing about the buildup of the Richmond last year. It began as a game with a purpose. Blue was dragging her feet on a grammar lesson that required her to distinguish subjects from objects. She prefers to play outdoors. To make the lesson palatable, you supplied her with sentences about the outdoors, sentences describing the half-finished roads, the paths she’d rather be exploring. You wrote about the newly paved and graded thoroughfares of the Inner Richmond, closer to San Francisco proper. Descriptions of the houses hastily hammered into place along sloping hillsides sprang to your pen with little effort. Blue gnawed the end of her pencil, studying what you’d written. You realized you had a knack for the subject.

  You read your first report aloud to Henry before submitting it to the Richmond Banner.

  —Charles Hawthorne has completed a fine Queen Anne house at the corner of Fourth Avenue and Clement Street, with marble steps. Stewart Menzies has just let the contract for six two-story cottages on Second Avenue, just south of California Street. The timbers of the houses will be exposed and stained. The style is to be old English, patterned somewhat after Shakespeare’s house in Stratford-on-Avon. The houses will be very novel, and (in total) will cost nearly eighteen thousand dollars.

  Henry applauded.

  —It’s dull, you said.

  —Never, he responded loyally.—Not in a hundred years.

  For your labors, the Banner paid ten cents—enough to take the streetcar twice. Other than those two-sentence firebox updates, it’s the only article of yours the editor has published. Before he accepted your work, he wanted to make sure your husband had approved of you submitting it.

  —Yes, you said.—My husband approves.

  You were too tired to drum up your usual lie. The ride to Sixth and Clement had taken over an hour. Sand caked the tracks so thickly the conductor had had to recruit two passengers to help him sweep it off. Mr. Claude was back at the workshop alone, stuffing a fox and two pups.

  The editor removed his monocle and appraised you from toe to head.

  —Writing is a fine hobby for a woman to cultivate once her children are grown. Are your children grown, Mrs. Christensen?

  —Yes, you lied again.

  You clipped that lone publication and mailed a copy to your mother.

  She wrote back: And you left Omaha for this?

  Yes. Yes, you did leave Omaha for this. What of it?

  The late heavy rain has played sad havoc with the condition of Point Lobos Avenue. Its surface is a mass of red mud, with an adhesive tenacity equal to a layer of putty.

  Henry helped with that last sentence; he contributed sad havoc. He sat at your table, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he read and reread your words. He’d challenged your original phrase, which was fast and loose.

  —That makes no sense, he said, glancing at you over the rim of his glasses.—Fast and loose? Rain can’t play fast and loose.

  —I say it can, you said, and you reached across the table, kissed him on one ear, then the other, removed his eyeglasses, and kissed his nose.

  —You’re exhausted, he said.

  —Not as much as you.

  —Never. I’m never tired when I’m with you.

  You felt him stirring, sensed the heat rising beneath his shirt. When he swallowed, you watched his Adam’s apple. You went and stood over him and massaged his neck, kneaded his neck muscles, the tops of his shoulders as he sat. He looked beleaguered. And peaceful. He looked both.

  From the bedroom, Blue whimpered in her sleep.

  You removed your hands. You crossed the room to check on her, and then when you returned to the kitchen, you proceeded to boil water for coffee. You extinguished the moment.

  Henry tracked your shift. He tracked it, and he kept his mouth shut.

  If you two see each other only once a week, twice if you’re very lucky, you don’t have the luxury of moodiness, of aloofness, of playing cat-and-mouse. You should have been grateful. You were. You should have seized the moment. You did.

  But to seize the moment ten years running is impossible.

  Blue squirms to free herself from your arms. You’re standing in the middle of the rain, in the center of this empty street. The day has started to spiral; the day has started to take over.

  And here comes the streetcar. Finally. You’ll board it and return to the cottage. Let Blue save a snail from the rain. Be patient with her. Be a mother, for God’s sake. Get something right. If not for yourself, then for her.

  And after? What happens after the snails?

  One second at a time. One self-admonition at a time.

  You’re holding her tight again; without thinking, you’ve folded her into a bear hug. She writhes in discomfort.

  —Let me go, she bleats.—I want my Ostrich.

  —When you’re thirty, you’ll understand, you say, wrestling her quiet, unable to step away.—When you’re thirty, Blue, you’ll look back and understand why things didn’t work out for us the way they do for other people. I know this is hard. I’m sorry.

  —I’m eight, she howls.

  Henry

  KERR PULLS OUT A PIPE, a beat-up T.D. clay. He tamps the tobacco, offers you first dibs.

  Declining, you raise your hand.—No, thanks.

  —A man can puff and ride at the same time.

  —I’ll pass. Really need to keep moving.

  —We are. Just a quick drive by my place is all.

  The foreman guides the hearse west onto Point Lobos. This is his detour, not yours. He can’t bear to be separated from his beloved Odd Fellows’ more than a night at a time.

  The entrance to his cemetery lies just ahead. The French Hospital sprawls in the distance, its brick edifice slick and proud in the rain.

  Jack never made it to any hospital. There wasn’t time.

  It will take all your strength, all your reserves and then some, to rebuild his garden. The task takes longer each year. You’re battling entropy. And age.

  Past Parker Avenue, Bess picks her way toward the main gate to Odd Fellows’. Kerr draws on the last of his pipe. He doesn’t turn into his cemetery; he just wants to eyeball it, give the place a good once-over. This is his kingdom, plain and neat, with a low stone wall bordering the property. Not a cross is skewed. The dead lie immaculate in rows a compass could have drawn. The administration
building near the property’s edge is a turreted and gabled construction within which he daily neglects his paperwork.

  —Call me an officer of the peace, he says jollily.—But the population I serve lives underground!

  He whistles a jaunty tune. Bess resumes her labored movement. Surrounded by fallen clouds, the distant hospital resembles a sanctuary from a medieval tale. The walk outside it lies quiet.

  The beginning of the end: Thirteen months ago, April of last year, a dour month, the same month Point Lobos Avenue flooded and your route to Sutro’s estate deteriorated into a slushy creek, so that for two weeks you could not reach Lucy, could not travel to her on your usual Wednesday afternoons, the same Wednesday afternoons Marilyn understood you to be engaged in bookkeeping and inventory. Regularity of pattern is key when attempting to live two lives, when trying to navigate two streets. Adhere to the pattern, follow the traffic, and no one will question your comings and goings.

  But you failed this time. Failed to keep to the plan. Your horse wouldn’t cooperate. Your life wouldn’t cooperate.

  Bailey, your middle-aged roan, abhors the saddle and bit. Rarely do you ride him. You should have left him in the stables. He went down in the mud that day on the way to Lucy’s, and you went down with him, landing on a rusted railroad tie the rains had swept into the lane. Bailey screamed and rolled.

  Your horse recovered. You contracted an infection. Your neighbor Chambers is a compounding pharmacist; he treated your knee with carbolic arnica salve. Fever grounded you for seven days. Marilyn skipped her volunteer duties to help Stevens cover the store, leaving you to recuperate in the company of Richard. She pounced on the books as soon as she arrived. She proved better with the ledgers than you and Stevens had ever been. This didn’t surprise you; she used to keep the books for the Women’s Memorial Church. The ledgers surprised Marilyn, though. She couldn’t believe in what shape you’d left them.

  —I thought you went through the accounts weekly, she said with a puzzled frown as you sat, leg elevated, and sipped broth that needed salting.—Every Wednesday evening.