That final summer, she’d enrolled her daughter in a local art camp. The immersion seemed to provide the stability that Edna had been hoping for. All of Sammy’s acting out that had clouded both their lives fell away during those two transformative summer months. Her daughter became more reasonable, helpful. Even kind. More importantly, she’d found joy and purpose in her newfound talent. Then, just before the fall school semester started, Edna had spied Sammy changing clothes in her bedroom. She stood in panties and bra. Her breasts hung heavy, and her belly bloat couldn’t be ignored. Sammy stared into the full-length mirror and, seeing Edna in the reflection behind her, made a pretense of sucking in her stomach. She then collapsed into a chair in the corner of the room and cried for a good hour. After some prodding, Sammy confessed she wasn’t sure who the father was. This, of course, shocked Edna, but only for a moment. They were Sibleys—proud and protective of their own. She promised Sammy they’d face Oslo together and make a life with her child. The picture in the den had been Sammy’s final painting, and those next months, waiting for Luc’s birth, were the best of their lives.
On any other night, she would have waited for Luc to return and they’d lock up the house together, one of many things Edna was teaching him these days. For the future. Instead, she climbed the stairs and swallowed her chemo pill along with a sedative, which she took only on nights like this. When hounding from her past and worries for Luc’s future kept her on edge. Which then made her think of Pierre and his existential awakening. In this way Pierre was very much like Sammy in those last months before her death, as Edna now recalled how her daughter had lived every day in the moment.
Edna crawled between the linen sheets with her clothes still on. She undid the clasp to her pearls and dropped them onto the nightstand. The sound was thick, like spongy stones. She tugged on her wedding rings, easing them over the wrinkles at her knuckle, and clustered them next to the pearls. Lying on her side, Edna stared at the treasures from her marriage. A Chinois enameled pill caddy lay hidden under Edgar’s pillow. She slipped her hand in and touched it, surprised at how warm the thing was. Edgar’s wedding ring slipped out. Smothering the ring in her fist, Edna drew it close to her chest scars and rolled onto her back. She bore the pain in her spine. “Not yet, darling. But soon.”
BATHING IS NOT OVERRATED
SINCE THEIR HEATING SYSTEM HAD GONE down the drain Sandra had, indeed, been reduced to bathing every third day. In between, she sufficed with a chilly wipe-down at the sink. Jim, on the other hand, tried to hold on to the belief that beginning each morning with a stone-cold shower was not only invigorating but might even improve brain function. That optimistic theory collapsed before the first week was out. He still took a shower daily but now doused himself in less than sixty seconds, cursing all the way.
With the house steeped in seven a.m. quiet, day number three had finally arrived and Sandra was more than eager for a full-immersion soak. Four teakettles sat on four burners in the kitchen, their whistles screaming within seconds of each other. She toted them upstairs two by two and set them on the slate floor beside the already-filled claw-foot tub. Infusing hot water a little at a time, Sandra swished with her hand until the temperature felt optimal. She then lowered herself in and stretched out her legs, once again grateful for having scavenged this long soaker from the town dump years earlier. Tension from her accident with the moose the previous night finally eased. After a while, when the water began to cool, she reached for the third kettle. Warmth sluiced over her head and shoulders. She then got busy and sponged her underarms, cleaned between toes, and pumiced calloused heels. She rubbed and rinsed, again and again. And it all felt like the eighth wonder of the world.
While reveling in her ablutions, Sandra also tinkered with the notion of optimism. A good-sized windfall had been set in motion by the crash. And while Sandra never dreamed that she’d be one of those Mainers who viewed roadkill as a means by which she’d stock her freezer, she was also acquainted with the unspoken gospel according to Oslo. Which went something like, when somebody rammed their car into an animal, that unfortunate death would drastically improve somebody’s dinner. Yet, that moose. Sandra took a deep breath, dunked her head underwater, and deliberated. Maybe she’d call the cops and tell them to go ahead and release the moose to someone else. She thought she remembered that in cases of unclaimed roadkill, the meat, if collected soon enough, went to charity. No, that was just plain foolish. The animal was food. By the time she surfaced to take a breath, Sandra concluded she might as well join the club and dine on the moose for as long as possible. Anyway, if she and Jim weren’t Mainers by now, she didn’t know what they were.
A knuckle rapped at the door. Jim poked his head in. “Can I come in?”
“Don’t let the steam escape,” she said, waving him into the bathroom.
Jim closed the door, wiped the mirror over the sink of fog, and brushed his teeth.
“I just called … reserved the truck … they’ll take some meat … as payment …,” he said between brushing, rinsing, and spitting.
“Sounds like a plan. Now make yourself really useful and wash my hair.”
Jim propped himself on the edge of the tub and dug a small wad of Sandra’s soft homemade soap from a glass mason jar.
“You’ll need more than that—it’s been three days,” she reminded him with a thin smile.
“Yes, boss,” he said, and clawed another clump.
Jim pushed Sandra’s torso forward. He gathered up the length of her hair to the crown of her head, then mashed in the soap, creating a concoction that looked like loose oatmeal. With the flats of his fingers, he massaged her scalp. Sandra released a low moan. Hidden muscles still ached in odd places. She arched her back, then re-collapsed, hanging her head between her knees.
“Amaaazing,” she whispered into the water. “I think I love you.”
“Well, thank fuck for that.”
She looked up at him, wiping a clump of soap from her forehead. “Get in the tub.”
“Do we have time?”
“The moose isn’t going anywhere.”
“It’s awkward … my back.”
“Try. Jesus.”
Jim kicked his boxers to the side, stepped in, and sat opposite. Sandra slid underwater to rinse her hair. Then she sacrificed the final kettle, pouring hot water over Jim’s head. Steam rose up and they remained this way for a few minutes, watching the water, dense with soap, eddy around their limbs.
“Let’s plan the day,” Jim suggested.
“Not yet. This is too much heaven,” Sandra said, rolling her head from side to side on the back rim of the tub. “See what you’ve been missing? All those idiotic showers.”
“True,” he conceded. “Why don’t I listen to you more often?”
“No idea.”
He used his feet to pry her legs open and she let her knees fall to either side of the tub. Jim placed the ball of his foot on Sandra’s pussy. She adjusted so that her clitoris was in direct contact, then edged forward to create more pressure.
“Right. There,” she encouraged.
Jim brought her to a quick orgasm.
“I do love you,” she managed between pants, eyes shut tight.
“You said that already.” He laughed.
“When I’m sex-ditsy I repeat myself.”
“You’re beautiful when you aren’t thinking.”
“Which is practically never, right?” Sandra said, spying at him with one eye open.
“I didn’t mean it that way,” Jim said defensively.
She stretched her legs out and as Jim moved over to make room, she noticed his penis was hard.
“Can we?” she asked.
“On the bed.”
“Your back is better?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, Jim stood and reached for her hands in order to pull her up. They stepped out of the tub and he used a large bath towel to dry them both off, then wrapped her dripping hair into a terrycloth turban. When he nestled
her from behind, his hands cupping her breasts, she felt his erection pressing against her butt. This was Jim: his kind attention and an eager body. And somehow this goodness managed to counterbalance Sandra’s tendency to assume less-than-optimal conclusions about most things and then think an additional five steps ahead with dread. A man with a greater career drive and who provided more financial stability would certainly have mitigated those habits. But she welcomed, and was grateful for, Jim’s easy stare across the kitchen table every morning. Because though they still occasionally broke each other’s hearts in ways they didn’t bother to discuss anymore, in the end, Jim’s failings were nothing earth-shattering. Not even original. Forgivable.
Sandra was aching for the sex by now, and Jim certainly knew this. But he held off, rubbing her hair dry, working from scalp to split ends. Then he fluffed the strands out, plucking with his fingers the way he’d learned from watching her try to create some volume from pin-straight hair. Finally, Jim kissed the back of her neck and led her into the bedroom. He sat in a chair and Sandra kneaded his shoulders, gently broaching his lower back. They always attended to each other this way—a mutual forestalling. And Sandra was particularly thankful for the delay now, because she detected unfamiliar perfume on his Grateful Dead T-shirt she’d just scooped off the floor.
She turned to look out the window. The sky was azure blue, portending a pleasant day to pick up the moose. A raven landed on top of Jim’s greenhouse roof and she remembered that the latest crop of lettuce was due to be harvested for that night’s dinner. Within those few seconds, while pondering other forces of nature, Sandra found her way back from the dark side of her imagination. Because Jim’s attention and affection toward her had never, ever waned. Not even once.
She turned back to find him watching her, now from the bed. Allowing the Grateful Dead to drop from her hand, Sandra saw Jim track the shirt until it hit the floor. He closed his eyes for about five seconds, then refocused at her face but didn’t smile. Sandra cat-walked across the mattress and flopped onto her back. Jim ran his hand across her breasts, rubbing her nipples, then pumped himself to get hard again. She felt for his cock with one hand while fingering herself with the other. Sandra was wet, and smiled at him to signal that she was ready. But instead of entering her, Jim crumpled his body into a ball and cupped both hands around her ear as if what he was about to whisper might change the course of their lives. And yes, his next words shook her. How he needed her more than he wanted her. How he’d want her forever. And that he loved her in a way he’d never imagined possible. Neither moved for several seconds, which seemed like minutes and which, to Sandra, felt like a miracle.
“Don’t leave me,” he said, grabbing her hand without looking at her face.
“You don’t know by now?” she asked.
“I need to hear it.”
“I’ll never leave you, Jim.”
“Again. Please.”
“There isn’t anything you could do that would make me go. Nothing.” She’d never meant it more.
“I’m so tired. I don’t know why.”
She tangled her arms and legs around him and squeezed tight, as much as her muscles could give. He gasped from her power. They fell asleep, entwined like Pompeiian figures in mid-motion, but woke at intervals to see if the other was still there. The morning evaporated.
Later, at midday, while they ate sandwiches and drank sour lemonade, Sandra and Jim plotted out the next couple of hours with the precision of air-traffic controllers. They’d gutted and sectioned animals on occasion and with some competency, but never anything as large as a moose. And because she still felt ambivalence about this particular animal, Sandra very much wanted to depersonalize the slaughter. So, taking all this into consideration, they called an experienced butcher several towns over who agreed to not only prepare the moose, but also take meat as payment.
The truck had been delivered while they’d slept and now sat parked outside, next to her motorbike. While Jim got acquainted with various gears and tested the winch and ropes, Sandra cleaned up the lunch dishes and made confirmation calls to those children she’d teach the next day. Oddly, it was the parents who tended to forget their own kid’s lesson; she’d been burned more than a few times, making the drive only to find the student wasn’t even home. So, she’d recently begun checking in the day before—annoying and time-consuming, yet necessary. She’d just finished with the last student’s father, who had no clue about the lesson but promised his kid would be there, when Edna phoned to apologize for her behavior the previous evening, something Sandra noticed was becoming a habit with her.
“Thanks for lending us Luc for the drive home,” Sandra said. “We’ll come get the car tomorrow if that’s okay with you. But Edna, forgive me. I need to ask again. What’s going on with you?”
“Nothing. Really. I’ve been tired is all. Though right now I’m terribly worried because Luc didn’t come home last night.”
“Oh? Maybe he went to the Robinet and stayed late. Slept in his truck? You’ve mentioned he’s done that before. Come to think of it, I did notice he didn’t turn back toward your house after he dropped me off.”
“I’m trying to let him be, give him independence. But … I suppose I’ll wait till evening before calling the police.”
“The police? No. You’re completely overthinking this. Look, Jim and I are off to pick up the moose right now. We should be home in a couple hours. I’ll check back with you then. But don’t call the police, Edna. You don’t want them in your business. Anyway, I’m sure he’ll show up any minute.”
“You’re right. Fine …” Edna trailed off.
“Wait for my call. Okay?”
“Yes, yes. Good, Sandra, I feel better.”
Jim honked and she grabbed one of his caps off a coat peg, stuffed her hair into it, and hurried to the truck. In spite of the warm weather, they’d donned heavy work jeans, long-sleeved shirts, and waterproof boots, all as protection from the potentially filthy work. Jim reached over, took her hand, and pulled her into the cab. He grinned, his face full of excitement, and she was happy to take his cue. Sandra patted Jim’s knee. “Come on, big boy. Let’s go pick up dinner.”
As they drove, and now in daylight, Sandra found it baffling that she couldn’t locate where the accident had occurred. Admittedly, she and Pierre hadn’t paid any attention to their surroundings, particularly during their intense exchange while on the interstate. And once they’d hit the county road, with nothing but pitch black outside and singing to music at full volume inside, the time had passed as if suspended. Until they hit the moose. Still, Sandra was more than frustrated after they’d traveled the entire distance from the fork on the lake road to the ramp leading onto the interstate. Jim turned the truck around and parked on the side of the road. They sat in silence, listening to the engine groan.
“This is weird,” Sandra finally declared.
“Think. What do you remember? Details.”
She unbuckled her seat belt and propped her feet onto the dashboard. Jim opened a thermos of coffee and offered her a swig. She imagined the caffeine sweeping a mental fog aside, because when she thought about the previous night, it did feel more like a dream than reality.
“Okay. She fell into the woods down a shallow embankment. I’m guessing thirty feet or so off the road. A patch of low trees was broken at the roadside. That’s how I first spotted her, because the car happened to be angled in that direction and the headlights were on. I went a few feet past the trees, and that’s when I saw her rear end. But Jim, the back windshield was shattered. Wouldn’t we have seen glass on the road, or at least felt it under the tires?”
Jim rubbed his unshaven chin, thinking. “Maybe. But it might have blown mostly into the car rather than out. The slant. Make sense?”
“Right, and Pierre commented that the pellets were beautiful. He’d scooped them up from the backseat. So, yes. But the car swiveled a lot. I remember trying to correct with steering. Braking made things worse, of cou
rse. You’d think we’d have seen some evidence of skid marks.”
“Not necessarily. Our tires are pretty bald, and worn rubber tends to glide rather than grab the pavement,” Jim said.
“Yeah, it did feel like I was on ice. Too smooth.”
“God. Tires. Another thing to replace. Maybe we should just junk the car,” Jim suggested.
“What? No way. That monster saved our lives last night.”
“Funny. I’m the one who usually wants to hang on to useless stuff,” Jim said, laughing.
“Role reversal. A sure sign of a successful marriage,” she said.
“We’ll keep the car,” he said, stroking her cheek. “Just don’t ask me to start teaching cello.”
“Slim chance of that. C’mon. Let’s head back and this time drive really, really slowly.”
The truck was, it turned out, quite a wreck, and even more dicey at the slower speed. Its shocks weren’t up to absorbing the seemingly endless potholes dotting the county road. Threadbare seats didn’t help matters either. Sandra, with no ass to speak of, grabbed a blanket from the back and placed it on her seat to help absorb the assault to her sitz bones. And it felt a strain all the more because the accident continued to show up in seldom-used muscles all over her body. Meanwhile, Jim knuckled the steering wheel, toggling from first gear to second and back per Sandra’s instructions as she scrutinized the road.
“There it is!” Sandra finally yelled, grabbing Jim’s shoulder.
“Thank God,” Jim said, and rolled to a stop.
“Back up about twenty feet,” she said.
He shifted, and the truck stuttered in reverse until Sandra gave the signal. She jumped out, leaving the door ajar, and stood at the precipice to the shallow slope.
Oslo, Maine Page 17
