Authors: Jeffrey Lent
He was looking at Jessica and her eyes were floating blank, all the way back to their dark tight glazed legion, and he wanted to say It was all right when Emily disembodied and tremulous came through the machine again. “Hewitt, it’s Emily. If you’re there please pick up. Elsa.” She paused and gathered herself. “Elsa tried to kill herself. Hewitt please be there, please pick up, God where are you?”
His eyes ripped, torn as he pushed up, his legs asleep from the knees down, Jessica pushing away, head turned, and then he was stumbling running to the kitchen where he caught up the phone.
“I’m here.” Craning his neck trying to see down the hall, the empty end of the couch.
“Oh thank God.”
“What’s going on?”
“You were the only person I could call. God, isn’t that strange? But you’re the only one that knew everything or at least that I knew did. There’re plenty who suspect and I’d guess even more after today. And Hewitt, it’s been one hell of a day and the kids are freaked and half an hour ago I gave them each a Xanax so they’re finally sleeping now. And no, I’m not doping my kids but Elsa pulling this three months after their father—”
“Don’t explain yourself to me. Now, what happened?”
“She’s all right, she’s in the hospital, they pumped her stomach, she’s on IVs, the monitors look good although she’s still out and it could be a while before they know if she has any damage, liver, kidneys, nervous system, brain—the works. But it was a miracle, I guess. This was not one of those cry for help deals—she was serious. She had empty bottles lined up like soldiers, plenty of them swiped from other people, those were painkillers, most of them, including some from Dad. I guess she figured she needed them more than he did and he could always get more, right? The way Elsa thinks. Plus she had a good supply of her own. Little Miss Organic had scripts from a shrink in Fairport for about every possible medication for depression you could come up with. God the stories she must’ve spun. She’d been refilling them right on time but not taking them. She was hoarding them all summer. Ever since, ever since Marty died.”
“Was there a note?”
“Is the cat out of the bag? I don’t think so. But I won’t know for sure for a few days because driving back from the hospital I thought wouldn’t it be just like her, as a final proof of how seriously she took
it, if instead of a note she’d sat down and written and mailed a letter. Or letters. Well, we’ll see. At least if she did it wasn’t today, or at least from her own mailbox because that’s what saved her life.”
“Em?”
“Hewitt? God, you haven’t called me that in years.”
“I’m right here but could you hold a sec? I really need a glass of water.”
“Go ahead. I’ll wait.”
He set the phone down and went to the sink, ran water into a tall glass. He could hear movement upstairs. It sounded like she was pacing around her room. He wanted to run down the hall and call up to make sure she was all right but didn’t have the time. And wasn’t sure it was the best idea. For any of them. He went back to the phone.
“Back.”
“Where was I?”
“Uh, mailing letters.”
“Right. Like a lot of people the guy who runs the rural mail route out there in Guyanoga has a soft spot for Elsa. And she gets stuff in the mail all the time but only has a dinky regular box, not one of those big farm mailboxes. But instead of leaving her a slip like he’s supposed to telling her to pick up a parcel at the post office he’ll bring it along and pull on up the drive and honk his horn. If her car’s not there he leaves it inside the porch. Short story, car’s there, no Elsa swinging out to meet him and do her Elsa thing. So he has a bad feeling and checks the door. I don’t know what it’s like in Vermont but we still don’t lock our doors here—”
“Just summer people.”
“And there she was in the kitchen. She’s got one of those old-fashioned daybeds she likes to keep by her woodstove but she was mostly down on the floor when the mailman poked his head in. She’d vomited but it was backed up in her throat. The mail guy knew enough to reach in and clean it out with his fingers and then dial 911 before he went back and started giving her CPR.”
“So they got her to the hospital. What’s next?”
“As far as what happens when she comes around, well, Hewitt, I don’t know. Unless the doc and the cops scare the shit out of her, which might happen given the shape she’s in but would be pretty much a first for her, she’ll have some story to tell is my guess. Or she may just let it roll. The survivor crap, you know? A fresh start, a clean plate.”
“What about you?”
There was a pause. Then Emily laughed and despite or because of the circumstances it was the first time he’d heard that particular laugh in decades and his heart lurched. She said, “What about me, what
about
me? I’ll tell you what about me. When this whole thing washes clear, if there’re no letters and she has a story that holds up and if she hasn’t fried her brain or her organs, I’m going to drive out one fine afternoon and have a talk with her. And the shit is going to get scraped right off the spoon. The deal will be simple—I’ll keep it a secret but she has to come and tell Nora and John what she was doing and what happened.”
“Oh, Jesus, Emily. I know you’re pissed, righteous pissed. And I’m sure you want to push her face in it and that would do the trick but what about the other side of it? You talked to me about that. I mean, that’s their father you’re talking about.”
“I wasn’t the one screwing his brother. And like I think I told you, if I’d found out before he died it all would’ve come out anyway. Look, Hewitt. Sooner or later they’re going to learn the truth. If it’s sooner they’ll be angry at him and I can be the voice of reason, trying to explain that these things happen and blah, blah, blah. But if it’s later then the only one they’ll have a real right to be pissed at will be me for keeping it secret so long. Didn’t you tell me that? And, Hewitt?”
“Emily?”
“I don’t want to get into this right now but you know what it’s like to learn years later that things were much different than what you thought at the time. You following me?”
He took a drink of the water and quietly said, “I see your point.” Then still quiet but stronger he said, “As a matter of fact I’ve been through quite a bit of that sort of thing myself recently. More than you know. And so except for one thing I’d say I strongly agree with you.”
She sighed and said, “Of course they’re too young. But Hewitt, think. What if it’d happened five years from now? If they were both off at college and the same thing happened? Would they be old enough then?”
“Okay.”
“That’s it. The horns of the dilemma. All I have, all I can do, is deal with what’s here and now.”
They were quiet again. An easy quiet, not so much waiting for the other to speak but a natural pause as if they were in the same room.
So Hewitt said, “You know, Em, I really am terribly sorry you’re going through all this.”
She waited and then said, “Thanks, Hewitt. I’m taking that exactly as you intended. And Hewitt?”
“What’s that?”
“You always were a gentle man. Even when you didn’t know any better.”
He smiled and said, “I believe I’ll accept that exactly as you intended.” Then he said, “So, today and Elsa aside, how’re you doing?”
Oh shit thin ice again he thought as soon as he said it.
She let him wait. Or was collecting. Finally she said, “I really don’t know. Some days almost good. Mostly. Other days are more difficult. I’m absolutely lousy at my job but what in the world would I do if I quit but sit around the house and get morose and probably start sipping wine at noon? I try to keep things up for the kids but I have to be careful there, it’s a delicate dance with both of them coming and going emotionally at different times and my trying to gauge when they need their solitude and their own time to grieve and be angry and all that and when they need Mommy, which pretty much describes the wide arc of their swings. Nora’s gotten too quiet and John’s pushing
me, staying out later than he’s supposed to and I know he’s smoking pot with some of his skateboarding buddies but I figure to hold off on the riot act right now, at least until this business with Elsa resolves itself and maybe the combination of what happened to his father and almost to his aunt will scare the bejesus out of him and if that doesn’t work then all I can do is sit down and talk to him. Who knows, maybe I’ll take the big jump and sit down and get stoned with him, tell him stories about the old days, see if any of that sinks in. Except my regrets from the old days don’t have much to do with drugs and rock and roll. Oh God, Hewitt. I was with my mother at the hospital today and she’s still strong and tall as ever, not a stoop to her although her hair’s pure white now and she looks great. I mean she’s looked great and it’s been Dad I’ve been worried about the past few years and all the sudden I looked at her, she was on the other side of the bed holding Elsa’s hand and gazing at her face as if her presence would wake Elsa or maybe just beaming all that mother-love toward her daughter hoping it would be felt, and I could see the sag in her, the muscles of her face slowly giving way, pulling downward and I thought My mother has gotten old and I didn’t even notice and how the hell did that happen? Especially when I look in the mirror every morning and see myself.”
“Hey, Emily?”
“Hewitt, if you’re going to say something stupid about how I haven’t changed I’m going to hang up right now.”
“Uh, well. I think I sort of badly covered that early this summer but right now I was going to ask if you could hold on a minute?”
“Do you need to go?”
“No. No, no. I’ll be right back. Okay?” And didn’t wait but set the phone down. While she’d been talking he’d heard muffled steps coming down the stairs but it was only when he heard the front screen door snap back that he realized those steps were muffled because they were trying to sneak.
He didn’t bother with the living room but went out the kitchen door on to the porch where it was full dark and he reached back inside
to snap on the yardlight just in time to see Jessica rising from where she was stuffing something into the backseat of the Bug and under the bright yellow light she turned and glanced toward the house, the invisible Hewitt up on the porch and she turned swiftly and slid in and cranked the engine, the headlights coming on and lighting the side of the forge. He dropped down the steps in a swift trot and as she backed around he called out her name. She popped a little gravel as she went over the bridge and then was on the road heading south toward Lympus and he stood the brief moment it took for the headlights to be swallowed by the roadside trees and the sound of the engine to drown in distance.
Aloud he said, “She’s gone for a drive. That’s all.” Then turned not believing himself and walked back to the house and climbed the steps, the full day falling over him so his feet and legs and back and head drained at once away from him and he was empty as could be.
“Are you all right? I heard the door.”
“No. I’m fine. It’s just—I’m back now.”
“No. I think I should let you go.” She was contained, retreated, cautious. She said, “It’s been so good of you to talk with me. I’m better. I think I can sleep now. All the sudden I’m sagging.”
“Em, I’m really okay.”
“No, you’re not. But I love you for lying. And I really am going to say good night.”
“All right. Emily?”
“Yes?”
“I do hope Elsa’s all right.”
There was a pause and then she said, “Thanks, Hewitt. I do too. And not just so I can give her hot holy hell.”
“I know.”
“Good night, old friend.”
“Good night, Em.”
* * *
A
FTER A WHILE
he got a beer from the fridge and went into the living room. He stood a bit and drank some of the beer which didn’t taste very good. Finally he set it down and walked around the couch and picked up the rocker and brought it back to its usual place. Then went slowly up the stairs. All the lights were on above, as they had been. He paused at her door and saw what he expected, went on to the bathroom and it too was stripped of her things. He went back to her bedroom and sat on the unmade crumpled bed. Two drawers were open and empty and the top of the bureau bare of her usual stacks of clean clothes. In the corner behind the bed he saw her work boots and crumpled toolbelt, still with her tools. And on the bedside table a single book was left. The toolbelt and boots rang of disdainful discard. He picked up the book, a slender volume of poems with a stark black cover bolted with a white slash.
The Great Fires
.
He carried it to the bathroom and began to fill the tub, water straight from the hot tap. He went downstairs and retraced his route, turning lights off along the way. Back upstairs he paused at her door and reached in and twisted the knob switch and the room went dark also. In the bathroom he stripped and felt the water and turned on the cold tap, then laid out a fresh towel by the tub. Before he stepped in he picked up the book, intending to read at least the first poem to see what she’d left him and a scrap of paper fell free, planed and floated down toward the water surface. He snatched it up after it landed and read the smearing message:
I love you but so what
F
OR A COUPLE
of days he moped about. He received a postcard from Meredith informing she’d settled on Middlebury and looked forward to seeing him next fall, adding a postscript saying hello to Jessica. He found several tins of sardines in the pantry and slowly bribed Rufus back into the meager society of himself. He finished bringing down the cut and split wood and stacked it in the woodshed and judged he had
enough for the winter and a good bit besides. So he got a few things done. His brain was largely other places. Rufus following him. The sardines had convinced him Hewitt was the big fellow to stick tight to.
The third evening he went straight from his supper and called Emily. It seemed a reasonable amount of time.
“Hello?” The voice sweet, curling up toward a tentative question.
“Emily?”
“It’s Nora. D’you want Mum?”