The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

—Yes. I’ll do my best.

  Her eyes narrow.—You have to get them all.

  —I will.

  —Promise?

  —Yes! Now scoot. Dry off and put on a warmer dress. Five minutes.

  She assesses you with circumspection, with an adult’s weary suspicion, and trudges inside. She carries the snails with her. The front door bangs shut.

  Blue

  TWO SNAILS POKE THEIR ANTENNAE up from my hands. Mud drips through my fingers.

  —Blue? Don’t wear your good dress. Put on your navy one.

  —Why?

  —Just put it on, please. And hurry.

  She’s calling to me from outside. I’m in the bedroom. I need more time. First things first: Where to put all these snails? They need someplace safe. They’ve had a hard day; they need to dry out in peace and quiet. The bed. There! The mess oozes into the quilt. The snails glide everywhere. The mud seeps into the covers. They peek out from their shells to observe their new home.

  —It’s as fine as the Cliff House, I tell them.

  Now: What to wear to see Pa? Not my good dress. Not my navy dress. Sorry, Ma. I’m of a mind to wear my cowboy costume. Pa bought it the day he and Ma took me to the fair, the same day Pa saw the man he knew and ran away. Before that happened, he bought me boy’s full-legged chaps and boots and a cowboy vest. He bought me a cowboy hat too, only it wasn’t small enough. A few days later, he showed up at home with everything, and he also brought a sheriff’s star, of tinsel, that Ma sewed to my vest. Her dander was up because she doesn’t believe in costumes.

  —Pretending to be someone you’re not is a poor plan, she said.

  She and Pa both went quiet. To cheer them up, I tried on the costume anyway and marched around the kitchen, even though I didn’t feel like being a cowboy right that second, and even though I felt a little stewy. They clapped, but Pa’s face stayed grim, and Ma’s smile looked like she’d had to borrow it from someone. Pa kissed her on the side of her mouth before he left. He didn’t stay as long as usual.

  Ma’s calling my name again, still outside.

  —Blue!

  I’m standing now in my underclothes, looking at myself in the mirror.—I’m coming, I say.—I’m still dressing.

  —And you’re hurrying. Right? I’m counting back from ten. Then I’m leaving.

  That’s not true, and we both know it. She would never just leave me. She’s not allowed.

  I didn’t like that sheriff’s star at first. I didn’t want Ma sewing it to my vest.

  —I don’t care to be a sheriff, I said, talking more to Pa.—I’m of a mind to be an outlaw.

  —No, you don’t want that, he said.

  He pulled me onto his lap. He was sitting at the table. We were eating potatoes Ma had boiled and forgotten to salt. His legs bumped the table and almost tipped my glass of milk. Ma had her back to us both. She was busy scrubbing spoons and forks, giving them a mighty scouring.

  —You want to be the one who makes the rules, Blue, not breaks the rules, Pa said.

  —Says who? I asked.

  He reached over and plunked the cowboy hat on my head. It dropped down and covered my eyes. I tossed my head. The hat didn’t move. I tossed again; nothing.

  —Who turned out the lights? I said; I was trying to make him laugh. He pulled me closer, lifted up the hat, and blew his lips, brrrzt, against my cheek. I hate it and I love it when he does that.

  —Leave her alone, Ma said, turning to glare at him.—She has a headache.

  —I do not, I said.

  —Ten. Nine. Blue, if you don’t come out right now . . .

  —You promised you would save the rest of the snails!

  —I did. Eight. I’m standing right here holding the lot of them. See for yourself. Seven. Sweetheart, come on. You wanted to see your father, didn’t you?

  —Are you sure you found all of them?

  —Five.

  —You skipped six, Mother!

  She doesn’t answer. I can hear her starting to talk to someone outside, a man with a rumbling voice. Good. More time for me to find my costume. I drop to my hands and knees, push aside the bottoms of the covers, and peer under the bed slats. Three boxes and one worn-out valise live under this bed. They contain winter clothes, gloves, spare pots and pans that Pa has given Ma, that he foisted on her, Ma used to tell me.

  —They’re extras, Pa said when he heard that word.—Backups. Hand-me-downs.

  Those pots have not made her cooking any better.

  One box looks the right size to store a cowboy costume. I open it. No costume, but I go ahead and inspect the contents. There are souvenir cards and trinkets, a ticket stub, and a color brochure from a place called Shoobert House. A sand dollar rattles when I shake the box. There’s a picture of my father, looking so young the sight of his face makes my heart hurt. A second picture is in a paper sleeve with an oval opening. It lies under the first. The paper of the first has stuck to the second. I peel the sleeves apart. The pictures are damaged. Rust has done its work. But I can tell it’s Ma in the second picture.

  She told me she didn’t have any tintypes of herself. But here she is, alone, wearing a flat-topped hat with a ribbon. She sits with a painted backdrop of the sea and a younger Cliff House behind her. She gazes into the camera without smiling. She has freckles. Does she have them now? I’ve never noticed. Is the woman in the picture my mother, or is the woman outside the cottage yelling at me to hurry up my mother? The woman in the picture looks more adventurous. But I don’t quite trust her.

  Ma has forgotten her countdown. I peek out the window and catch sight of the master himself, Mr. Sutro. He hardly ever comes over here. He’s on his horse, and he’s paunchier than ever. The poor horse has to hold all his fatness.

  —I’m checking the damage from the rains, he says to Ma.—Seen any flooding?

  She bends to wring out her skirt at the hem and shows him: soaked through.

  The rest of this box contains letters. I rifle through them. Ma has stored things in a jumble. Totally out of order.

  The letter on top is in Pa’s hand. I shouldn’t read it. But what have I spent all those hours learning to read for? Ma said reading is always good. She said reading is always the right thing.

  February 15, 1897

  L.,

  I received your letter dated the twelfth. I certainly would not presume to suggest that you feel other than you do; I can only say that my sensibilities differ. While it is true that it has been agonizing to be in this passage, it is also the one route that would make an outcome other than hopelessly harmful possible. There was an ever-darkening hollow of anger and hurt that was insufferably corrosive. So I agree with you. With the clandestine and illicit dimension largely—albeit not completely—removed, the possibility emerges of an entirely different footing that might support something new. So in that respect, I will not “give up”; I will have a hope that was not there before that dimensions heretofore unrealized and never brought into view will be able to manifest themselves.

  H.

  This is an odd letter. The sentences sound stiffer, and the words wordier, than the way Pa talks in real life. No one in real life says heretofore.

  Outside, Ma’s listening to Mr. Sutro. She can’t tell him to hurry up; she can’t force him to obey her countdown. I have time to read another one.

  March 2, 1897

  I am not sure that I know how to do this any better than you. But I suspect that I keep from desperate measures by disciplining myself to stay in the day. I am not at all persuaded that we are saying goodbye, any more than I think that it is genuinely possible for us to let go of one another.

  I remain determined, however, that you should never experience again what you have experienced in the past days. As much as I wish that I could manage your responses, I know, of course, that I cannot. So my determination may fall wide of the mark. But it will certainly be there in full measure.

  Pa didn’t sign this letter. Also, he’s making no sense. This lette
r is even more confusing than the first one.

  Mr. Sutro’s asking Ma how things are going at the taxidermy shop. He’s talkative. He’s inviting her to borrow more books from his library. He asks her about me too, how I’m doing in school.

  —Second in her class, Ma says.

  Another lie. I’m nowhere near second. There are too many things to do outside.

  I shove the letter back into the box and slide out a third. It’s from the year before I was born. My father has been writing letters to my mother longer than I’ve been alive.

  August 2, 1888

  Dear L.:

  I have not been able to escape how very lovely our lunch was today. There was, above all, the probing conversation that made me rethink how I would assess what we mean when we call something providential.

  Then there was the nape of your neck, and the intensity of your smile that shone so brightly.

  And then the drape of your dress, beckoning my eye to your waist . . .

  And then the thought of traveling with you and visiting all the places that we were talking about, and loving you by the hour. And loving you again.

  And again. H.

  This letter does not sound like Pa either. It sounds happy. My stomach is beginning to hurt. Do all fathers write letters? Has she written him back? Maybe he keeps a box of her letters under his bed. Where is his bed?

  This thought catches me up short. What kind of father spends every single night sleeping at his store? If Pa doesn’t sleep there, and he doesn’t sleep here, where does he sleep?

  Mr. Sutro has stopped talking. I can’t put the box away. I’m hooked. This one’s from when I was five:

  June 18, 1894

  In the course of my days, I sometimes forget to say what a blessing you have been, what a gift you are, and how very beautiful your love is for me. I love the way you greet the world, and my days are fuller because you are in them.

  —Blue?

  Ma scrapes her boots on the stoop, preparing to come inside. Mr. Sutro is leaving. He’s riding off to survey the rest of his property.

  —Just a minute, I call back.

  I shove the letter into the box and reach for another. One more. Just one. It’s short. He wrote it eight days ago. Even the ink smells new.

  May 14, 1897

  By the way, if you think I don’t yearn, ache, and dream of you routinely, and love you more daily, you are sadly mistaken. H.

  —Blue Christensen! How many times—

  —Coming!

  I return the letter to the box. Beside it is an envelope. On the back of that envelope Ma has written one line.

  I’m going to die for loneliness of you.

  The front door opens. I clap the lid in place, stand up, and kick the box under the bed. The snails have trailed their slime across the top of the covers.

  —Ready? Ma says and enters the bedroom.—Oh, Blue. Look at you.

  I stand before her, halfway undressed. My hair is snarled with tangles. Mud’s all over the covers and my arms and hands. Hopefully I didn’t get mud in the letters. The snails are gliding across the bed. They’re dripping silt through the bed slats onto the floor. Ma’s enormous eyes rest on me.

  —Just what do you think you’re doing, Anna Christensen, standing here like a half-naked savage, spreading sludge everywhere you move?

  I feel very queer. I throw my shoulders back and say:

  —If you want me to follow you around all day doing what you say, you have to help me. You have to explain things.

  A shadow crosses her face. She pulls me close, crushing my ear bandage. She kisses the top of my head.

  —I can’t find my boots, I mumble, my nose smooshed against her bosom.—I want my cowboy costume.

  She releases me and reads my face. Then she nods and, without a word, makes her way to the bureau and tugs open the bottom drawer. The costume has been waiting there all this time, in a drawer I thought she kept for herself.

  She wraps fresh bandages around the cuts on my legs. She helps me dress. She ignores the mud and the snails on the quilt. She’ll be madder than a wet hen about them later. She pats my sheriff’s star, making sure it’s sewn fast, and tells me to turn in a circle before the mirror. She eyes my costume with approval. I would have sworn she’d make me wear the navy.

  —Ready? she asks.—Are we ready to be brave?

  That’s almost what she said this morning. Only this morning it was a sentence, and now it’s a question; now I’m part of it. Together we lock eyes in the mirror.

  —Ready, I say.

  She places the hat on my head.—Good girl. Don’t let the brim hurt your ear. Now let’s hurry.

  She looks hard at me, adds: Your father will be glad to see you.

  We step outside. The sun wants to return. It’s creeping out from the clouds. It winks at me over the old Firth Wheel, the ride Ma has never allowed me to take. I hold my head high as I walk beside her. She thinks that wheel will stop midair, trap me suspended in the sky someday.

  Henry

  BESS PULLS THE HEARSE into a labyrinth of quiet. Stakes and handmade crosses mark the way, encircled by rotting fences. Scrub brush skirts the dunes.

  One of the hearse’s wheels strikes a rock, and the coach wobbles. Kerr pulls Bess up hard. She whinnies.

  —Easy, Kerr says, sawing the reins.—She doesn’t like cemeteries. Which way, Plageman?

  —North.

  —North. How far north?

  —The master mariners’ graveyard. It overlooks the strait.

  He tilts his head, indicating Bess.

  —She might need a short rest. She’s used up what wind she had.

  He could be referring to himself.

  —It’s not far, you say.—I’ll walk her. I’ll lead.

  A graveled path points forward. The first rows of headstones are as crooked and stained as Kerr’s teeth.

  —Old girl can walk herself, the foreman says, shaking his head.

  Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe the vote they took will free you.

  Jack’s the one who needs freeing. He’s earned his release. He deserves the one thing you haven’t been able to grant him: time away from his parents, time to become something other than what his parents lost. Time crawls all over him; it worms through quartz and feldspar.

  —Whoa, Kerr calls, tugging again.

  A wind gust rattles the fence boards. These graves contain members of the Knights of Pythias. Bess rears, showing the whites of her eyes.

  —She can’t abide cemeteries, Kerr repeats as she lands heavily.

  You climb down from the driver’s box, step over to the mare, and grip her halter. Looking sidelong at you, she snorts derisively. Her muzzle’s silver. She’s too old to be galloping in this wind, spurred into a pace not her choosing. A body can do only one thing well on any given day. And that’s on a good day.

  —Which way? Kerr says again.

  He misses his Odd Fellows’ landmarks, the headstones he knows. To your right sprawl the rail ties that Adolph Sutro laid back when he co-opted a corner of this cemetery for his own private railroad.

  Holding Bess’s halter, you walk north. The mare’s head bobs low against the westerly wind.

  How will you tell Marilyn? Don’t think about it.

  Don’t think about Marilyn; don’t think about the neighborhood associations. Don’t think about Hubbs, or Colma, or San Mateo County. Don’t think about the disinterment. Either you will do it or the city will do it. Don’t think about the city. Don’t imagine the scrapers that will pull hundreds of skeletons up from the earth, the equipment that will drag up the deceased, plowing row after row, farmers of bone, peddlers of dust, men pinning off graves with cords, roping off coffins. Workmen wearing denim pants and cotton shirts will strain forward, staring into graves to learn what remains, what memories survived their underground purgatory. A rosary clutched in one skeletal hand. A sack of coins in another. False teeth.

  They’ll dig up the dead; they’ll empty the cemeteries
, or try to; they’ll beat the sand down until it’s flat and firm enough to sprout grass, to hold irrigation pipes, grow a golf course. The dead are in the way of the living.

  —Hold up. I’m not riding if you’re walking. Make me look like a useless—

  Kerr leaves his sentence unfinished as he dismounts from the driver’s box. He doesn’t want to be carried to the edge of the continent, led like a prince on a livery. He’ll walk beside you, on Bess’s other side. He and his consumption will make the journey together.

  The wind whips his beard, pointing it like a windsock. He claps his hat tighter and regards you.

  —Ready?

  You nod.—Ready.

  Will you move Jack? Yes. You have to.

  But put these plants in the earth first. Give something back to the earth first. This isn’t grace; it’s works. Marilyn’s theology is finally rubbing off on you.

  In January, one of your last visits to the cottage, you offered to end things with Lucy. To say goodbye for good.

  —I’ll stop it right now. I’ll stop it for both of us, you said.

  You were at your wits’ end, trying to figure out what she needed. What she needed kept changing.

  —How dare you abandon me, she replied with a great racking cry.

  —But you told me to leave you alone, you replied, fighting back tears of your own.—You can’t have it both ways.

  Apparently, she can. Apparently, this is how things work. She wants to be left alone; at the same time, she will not allow you to leave her. If you heed her request and stay away, as you’re currently doing, she’ll conclude you’ve abandoned her, set her out with the trash. If you disregard her request and keep coming over, she’ll tell you she’s trapped, caught in secrets, not allowed to walk in the open.

  —No one walks in the open, you said.—We are all ridden in the dark.

  You mailed another letter to her a few days ago. Probably she hasn’t yet received it. You should be taken out and shot.