The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

—Give it time, pumpkin.

  —Don’t call me pumpkin!

  I snatch the hat from her hands and beat it against my leg in the exact way a real cowboy would do. I start walking again. We’re close. I can almost see the cemetery entrance.

  —Hold on, Ma says, and she comes up to me, wraps her arms around me, hugs me hard.—Sweetheart. Blue. I know today has been a hard day.

  Her eyes meet mine.

  —It’s okay. I shrug, a little shy.—It’s been a hard day for you too.

  A heron perches on a dead branch up the street. Its head swivels to listen to me. Its unblinking eyes look into mine. It’s begging to be chased.

  I’ll race you, I think. I’ll race you to the entrance. I leave Ma and sprint ahead toward the cemetery. The heron soars up, wings beating.

  Lucy

  YOU’VE PROVEN YOU CAN GIVE HIM UP. You’ve done it every day for almost four months.

  And here you are now, hurtling up the path after him.

  A few weeks ago Blue asked you for a photograph, a picture of her mother she could keep for herself after you’re gone.

  —I’m never gone, you told her.

  She wouldn’t meet your gaze.—Pa’s gone.

  —He still visits.

  —Hardly ever. And not with you.

  —Well, you don’t have to worry about me going anywhere, you told her.—You’re stuck with me. We’re a twosome. We’re glued at the hip until you peel away from me someday.

  Suddenly you thought of your own mother, what she must have felt years ago, watching her only child, her daughter, walking as fast as her legs would take her to that train station, focused on only one thing: getting away.

  —I still want a picture, Blue said.

  —Well, I don’t have one right now. I’ll have to have one taken.

  But you do have a picture. It lives in the box under your bed.

  Worse than looking at your own tintype is looking at Henry’s. You can’t bear it now; how will you manage when you’re old, when you’re older than Henry is today? You don’t want to rediscover his face years hence and realize he was still young when all this time he has seemed so old.

  None of the things you’d actually want in a memento box can be put in it. His walk. You’d like to box that. Or his hands. Henry’s veined hands turning the page of your geology book by lamplight. Hooking the back of your dress. Or unhooking. Massaging the nape of your neck. Who is going to rub the back of your neck when you are old?

  Blue darts into a ray of sunshine. Light whitens the sand leading into the cemetery. As the rain has peeled back, fog and sun are taking turns.

  More than once you’ve run into a drunkard here in the Outside Lands, some stinking soul staggering through the hinterland, whiskers rancid with spat tobacco. To the north sprawls a corner of cemetery property the U.S. government annexed. Officials went ahead and took a chunk of that land, tore it off with federal teeth. They have built nothing on it. But it’s theirs if they want it. The first human need might be possession.

  Two months ago you took Blue to see loggers in one of the great redwood forests. Paired men in plaid shirts worked with a whipsaw to take down giants in the Santa Cruz Mountains. One logger pushed. The other pulled. Then they changed roles. They toppled the redwood; they took it down near the base of the trunk.

  This is Henry too: felled by a two-handled saw. It’s not a contest between love and duty. It’s between love and love, between duty and duty. Together you and Marilyn have nearly sawed him through.

  Someone has abandoned a pitchfork on the side of the road.

  Unbidden, you recall J. B. Stone, with his red hair, his overalls, his alert, searching expression. He wanted to protect you. He meant well. He’s too young to comprehend the true dangers.

  Maybe you are too.

  What does J. B. stand for? Hopefully his Christian name is John. That’s a fine name. James would be nice as well. He mentioned his father’s name was Jimmy. J. B. Stone knows nothing about you, not a scrap of your history. He thinks you’re free; he assumes a woman of the Outside Lands can come and go almost as she chooses.

  Blue sprints ahead, chasing a heron to the cemetery entrance. The great long-necked bird starts up, agitated, its rest disturbed.

  Age should not be measured in years, should not be measured in time. Age is an epistemological quality. We are as old as we know.

  Henry

  AND NOW YOUR WIFE IS UPON YOU.

  The skin above Marilyn’s lip shines with perspiration. She reaches out and plants her right palm on your chest. She never does that. She never just comes out and touches you.

  Her hand remains.

  She presses your heart as if measuring the anatomic distance between souls. This close, you can smell a hint of sickness, combined with the rosewater she splashed on herself after she rose from her bed this morning alone.

  She stands before you. Her eyes hold a question.

  —You’re here, she murmurs.

  —I’m here, you say.

  Her fingers sear through your shirt. Gently you remove her hand from your chest and return her arm to her side, where it belongs.

  She turns her head. Recoils as if struck. The wind stills.

  What have you done? You removed her hand. It burned. It burned, and you wanted to keep planting. You wanted to stay in the day, to return these plants to the earth. To focus on what still has a chance of taking root.

  She steps away. She appraises the lilies, considering one plant, then another. Inspecting their fragile petals allows her to avoid your eyes.

  —You’re planting in the wrong place, Henry, she says again.

  She speaks as if you have lost your hearing and not just your reason. Her voice is stony.

  —This is the wrong graveyard. This isn’t Jack’s corner.

  You start to speak, but she raises a hand and cuts you off.

  —Please don’t.

  She surveys the perimeter. She paces. She surveys the beggars’ graves, the numbered footboards, shards of pots, the stray vessels and glass beads left by visitors or forgotten by vagrants who needed a place to stay, a moment of safety. She’s so intent on her analysis she doesn’t see Kerr and bumps into him.

  He doffs his hat, steadying her, before stepping aside with a gentlemanly bow. Bess whinnies.

  —Ma’am, he says, casting a glance your way. He’s well aware of the storms wives bring.—Thomas Kerr at your service.

  —Mr. Kerr. My husband thinks the graves of strangers require the full sum of his attention. What do you say?

  He glances from Marilyn to you and back again. This is not his argument, not his marriage.

  —He’s tired, you say.—You want to quarrel, do it with me.

  —This isn’t a quarrel. If I wanted to quarrel, you would know it, Henry.

  Let her have her say. Let her castigate. You removed her hand. You declined her overture. It’s not often she reaches out. She never reaches out. Not that way. Not in fourteen years. What were you thinking? She laid her hand on you. She offered, and you declined. You didn’t think. You reacted. Or didn’t react.

  That’s the real truth, isn’t it? Your body didn’t respond. Your body politely declined. You and your body together have lost the will to keep trying.

  But be grateful for what you’re allowed.

  And if a fourteen-year gap occurs between the last time your wife placed her hand on your chest and now, so be it. You’re the husband. You’re supposed to be patient. To be present. To wait. Waiting’s your job. You are not very good at it. You didn’t wait long enough. You surrendered after four years, after drying to kindling. All it took was a match.

  Marilyn treads in a circle, the hem of her skirt trailing in sand. She threads her way through the graves.

  —Why did you come here? she asks.—This land isn’t ours.

  —But that’s the point. That was the whole point, you say.—Remember?

  —The point of what?

  She shakes her head. She doesn
’t want to hear your answer, your philosophies. Not today. This is your wife: a woman who will sprint in your direction so fast she practically knocks over an orphan, only to balk once she’s within forgiving distance. Unlike you, Marilyn can travel in reverse. It might be her preferred direction.

  —This land isn’t ours, she says again.

  —It never was, you say.—Not even the garden.

  You shouldn’t have said it like that. The words just popped out. She glances at you, squints into the amber light.

  —What? What are you implying?

  —Plageman . . . Kerr warns.

  She hears something in the foreman’s voice.

  —What? What is it?

  —Marilyn, it’s all right.

  You reach for her hands and hold them. You take back the hand you released a moment before. She shakes her head, wants to pull away. You hold on.

  —Marilyn, listen to me.

  She wrenches away. She is beginning to comprehend. She hears in your voice the outcome of this long neighborhood contest, this failed fight.

  —Listen to me, please, you say again.—We can fight to keep him here. We will keep trying.

  —No. Don’t! I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to hear another word.

  —Shh, you say and pull her close. She resists, twisting away, and in the process she delivers an elbow to your gut, unintended, maybe, but hard enough you double over. Kerr masks a sympathetic groan with a cough.

  —Let go of me, Henry, she says, even though you’re no longer holding her.

  You straighten.—You have to understand. Please, Marilyn. We spent last night locked in the park station.

  Her face is ashen.—I told you to handle the cemeteries. You said you would take care of it. That’s all I asked. I asked you for one thing only. I let you do everything else you want.

  She takes a breath; she’s not finished.

  —I never asked you any questions, Henry. I never asked you for a single thing. All these years. Only this. So don’t say it. Don’t say anything. Don’t even try.

  She swipes at her eyes, adds:

  —You don’t deserve it.

  She knows.

  Almost four months ago, Lucy wrote and asked you to stay away from her, to take care of things at home. To mend what you could. Did you obey? Yes to staying away from her. No to taking care of things at home. No to mending what you could.

  —Marilyn, you say.—Hear me. Please. I need to explain what happened. While Kerr and I were locked up, Hubbs had the Richmond group take a vote.

  She shakes her head.—What did I—

  —They voted without us. We tried. We did everything we could do. But they voted to shut this place down.

  Kerr nods.

  Her fists press against her mouth, grinding into her lips.

  —They’re going to move him. They’ll move our Jack?

  —Yes, you say.

  —They’re going to dig him up?

  She sags. Her knees find the sand first, and the rest of her follows. You step forward, but she motions you back. She’s about to be sick. The skin under her jaw, visible as she heaves, as her spine spasms and her stomach expels nothing, has begun to show the slackness of middle age.

  Kerr claps a hand on your back.

  —Tell her, he rasps.—Plageman, tell her the plan.

  Bring him back up? You will not; you cannot; you must. Otherwise some other man will put a hand on him. Whoever digs up a child should know that child’s name. That ought to be in the Bible.

  You look up at the sky and search for a single sign of life in the firmament.

  Kerr returns his pipe to his mouth and steps back as you crouch next to her. Kneeling on the sand, you’re side by side, heads bowed, as if facing an altar. Her mouth is slightly parted.

  —When? she breathes.

  —We don’t know. He might not be moved for a while. Or it could happen soon. It’s up to the supervisors.

  —But it’s coming.

  —Yes.

  —Mr. Kerr, she calls out.—Is it coming?

  She does not lift her head to look at the foreman.

  —Yes, ma’am, he calls back.—I am truly sorry to say.

  Think of something else, and you might make it through this day. Shut your eyes. What will you see? A wooden box. It will hold nothing but rest within.

  Lucy asked you to stay away. She asked you to give her up. You did what she asked. But you would have liked the chance to say goodbye to her.

  Here, then, is your duty. It’s in the ground. Your duty is to dig. This is the day that the Lord hath made. Let us rejoice and be glad. Go ahead. Choke on it, Henry Plageman. Choke on the gifts of the day.

  Blue

  THESE BUSHES ARE REACHING OUT with their sharp arms to grab me and my costume. Ma pushes a branch out of my way. It snags her sleeve and tears it.

  I stop along the path to free her.

  —Hold on, Mama, I say.

  We’re passing one of the burial grounds for people with no families.

  She nods but stays quiet. Her calm way fills me with pride. I can’t talk about it. But my heart feels what I mean. And my bandaged ear won’t quit throbbing.

  When Pa comes over—when he used to come over—the time for talking always went by too fast. There was never enough time to tell him what was on my mind. He’d listen until his ears gave out, and then he’d put me to bed. Next it became Ma’s turn to tell him everything she was thinking about. One time I peeked around the door and spied them sitting side by side at the table. Ma was all talked out. They weren’t saying a word. They just sat there next to each other, holding hands and staying quiet. Ma’s head was resting on his shoulder.

  The trail has come to a fork. Ma stops and looks at me.

  —There’s something I have to tell you, she says.—I need to tell you before we reach the mariners. Before you see your pa.

  There’s something she needs to tell me, or there’s something I need to hear? There’s a difference. I think I’d rather not hear whatever she wants to say. Not with that scrunched-up face she’s wearing.

  —Remember a few months ago, she says, the day you walked with me across the estate to mail a letter? I promised then I would explain everything to you.

  —My ear hurts, I fling back and keep walking. Overhead four gulls fly, racing to reach the highest dune.

  —Sweetheart, this is important. It’s about your father. It’s about why you can’t see him as much as you’d like. It’s about why he doesn’t live with us. I need you to listen to me.

  She catches me by the shoulder and crouches, so the two of us are at eye level.

  —Please hear me out.

  —Don’t talk to me. I want to see Pa!

  —We’re about to see him. We’ll be with him in just a minute. That’s why I need to—

  —I don’t want any more stories, Mama. Stop it. My ear’s hurting!

  She reaches out to take my hand. I pull away. She grabs me a second time, clamps my wrist with her cold fingers. She’s trying to trap me. I pull back, hard. Her eyes are bigger and sadder than I’ve ever seen them.

  —Today would have been Jack Plageman’s sixteenth birthday, Blue.

  —Whose birthday?

  —A boy named Jack. The boy in the story I need to tell you.

  —No. No, that makes my ear hurt. I want Pa!

  —This is about Pa. I need you to understand whom he’s visiting.

  —I’m not feeling well. I may be sick.

  —Might. You might be sick.

  —Ma!

  She squints at me. It is not a nice squint.—You’ll feel a lot worse if you don’t listen when I tell you to.

  —Stop that. You’re hurting me!

  She pumps my arm.

  —Why don’t you ever do what I ask? she splutters.

  She’s making a wreck of this day, and she knows it. But she can’t stop herself; she can’t push her wheels out of that ditch. Too late. She pumps my arm again. This time it hurts.<
br />
  I cry out and plunk myself down in the middle of the footpath. I won’t say another word. That’ll show her. I’ll be a rock. A boulder. Good luck now, Mother.

  —Blue? she says. Her voice sounds like someone else’s.—The boy Jack. It’s his grave your father’s going to see. Jack was your half brother.

  Henry

  HERE’S WHAT SURVIVES: The tides. The spiked yerba buena, once used as a tonic for good health. The coast aster, thought capable of charming away evil. The seaside daisy, whose Greek name means “old man in the spring.”

  The ghosts of the Ohlone people endure too, specters chasing game along the footpaths. Elsewhere along the bay, the Ohlone shell mounds constitute the original cemeteries of San Francisco.

  Marilyn watches the path that leads to the mariners. You and Kerr stand on either side, flanking her.

  —Move him, she says, addressing you.

  Over her head, Kerr glances your way.

  She continues.—I said, move him. Move our son. Do it, Henry. That’s what you’re planning anyway, isn’t it? That’s what you were going to suggest. So go and do it. Move him before they tear this place to shreds. Before they turn this godforsaken place inside out.

  —Ma’am? Kerr says.—We don’t have to take on anything today—

  She turns. Her voice rises, hard as glass, and as shattered:

  —You drove a hearse here, Mr. Kerr, didn’t you? It appears my husband finally thought a plan through. And Henry, you brought a shovel, I presume?

  You nod, feeling as if you’ve committed a crime. Her eyes return to you. Those eyes convey an entreaty, a gasping need.

  But she will never just say it. She will never just come out and say it.

  —Then that’s just fine, she finally says.—That’s fine, both of you. Move him. Do it. Do what you came here to do.

  Kerr vigorously nods.

  —That’s exactly it. That’s exactly what I suggested to your husband. Do it first. Do it ourselves. Don’t let the city get anywhere near your poor boy. Beat them at their game.

  She raises her eyebrows.—This isn’t a game, Mr. Kerr.

  Is she awake? Yes. Is it the awakening you wanted, you once begged her to claim? No. But a man doesn’t get to choose.