Etta and Otto and Russell and James (16 page)

13

Dear Etta,

I have made you some things, for when you get back. I understand now, all the baking you sent me, stale and crumbled in brown paper and rough twine. Now you’re away and I am here. So I will make and make until you get back to remind you, and myself: there are reasons to come home.

People started to notice Otto’s collection. Driving by, you could see it spilling away from the house like a stretched-out garage sale. What’s that? said the neighbor girl, passing by with her parents on their way to swimming lessons.

It looks like . . . a wolf? said her father.

Oh, and a bison! said her mother, pointing, and . . . I can’t tell, is that a cat?

A skunk?

I think those are rabbits.

Are they real?

Can we not go to swimming?

We have to go to swimming.

I thought you liked swimming?

I do, but . . .

Is that a whale?

D
uring daylight hours, traffic grew thick along the single-track road, crawling like a parade, with Otto’s animals, all matching in their off-white of flour and water and newsprint, like a frozen audience. But Otto never noticed the parade, sleeping every day now through the sun.

A
fter five days of fish, James and Etta came to the outskirts of a town.

I’ll go around and meet you on the other side
, said James, who didn’t like towns.
I’ll smell for you there.

Okay, said Etta, for whom the prospect of bread and sugar and butter was more immediately pressing than companionship. There should be a grocery store in these suburbs, I shouldn’t be too long.

She stopped at the first store she came across, a gas station. She bought sugar-buns wrapped in plastic and three packets of almonds and a liter of orange juice and six pieces of twisting red licorice and a cheese sandwich. As she lay it out item by item on the counter for the attendant she asked,

Is there a grocery store nearby?

And the attendant cocked his head and pointed at a sign taped to the cash register that read,

EN FRANÇAIS, S’IL VOUS PLAÎT
.

Which was how Etta realized she had made it to Québec.

Right, said Etta. Okay. Um . . .
pouvez vous dire moi où je trouverais une shoppe de grocerie?

That’s better, said the attendant, in English. I just like a little effort, you know? So close to the border, it’s easy to feel forgotten, you know? So, thank you, Etta. And, as it happens, there’s a grocery store not more than six blocks from here. Two blocks that way, he pointed across the store, toward the Popsicles and frozen entrées, and then four blocks that way, he pointed through Etta, out the back of the store. It’s got a big red sign. It’s called
BOUFFE-BONNE.
They’ve got beautiful tomatoes.

It was not until Etta was outside on a square of grass between two identical houses, eating her sandwich and sugar-buns and
drinking her juice, that she grasped what had bothered her about the man in the gas station. He had called her Etta. But she had never met him before; she did not know his name. She tried to recall his face, his features, but could only remember his hand pointing this way and that way. She pulled a piece of carefully folded paper out of her pocket:

Family:

Marta Gloria Kinnick. Mother. Housewife. (Deceased)

Raymond Peter Kinnick. Father. Editor. (Deceased)

Alma Gabrielle Kinnick. Sister. Nun. (Deceased)

James Peter Kinnick. Nephew. Child. (Never lived)

Otto Vogel. Husband. Soldier/Farmer. (Living)

None of these would make sense. But Russell wasn’t on this list, and she knew she knew Russell. She took out a pen and wrote in:

Russell Palmer. Friend. Farmer/Explorer. (Living)

under Otto’s entry. But no, no, this boy wasn’t Russell. But there were others. Others missing. Cousins? Brothers- and sisters-in-law? Friends? Others? She wished James were there.

BOUFFE-BONNE
was not hard to find, it was just as the man had said, two blocks across, four blocks up. So, thought Etta, he’s not a liar, at least.

She filled her bag completely, and then took five of the store’s plastic bags, filled one, and tucked the other four away for fishing and other emergencies. This was, she figured, as much as she could comfortably carry.

She took it all up to checkout counter number four, staffed by a teenage boy whose uniform hung off him.
Bonjour,
she said.

Etta! he said.

Etta stopped unloading her bags onto the conveyor. This boy too. This skinny young stranger. She pulled at her thoughts, tried to collect, organize. Friend? Uncle? Nephew? She squinted her eyes for focus, to remember. She looked down at her groceries. Why did she have so much? And these kinds of foods? Did she eat these kinds of foods?

Etta, continued the boy, stretching over his syllables, Et-Ta. I really think that you are amazing. I really wanted to say that. You really really are. His voice struggling to say so much, so fast, in a language not his own. You know what? I’m going to see if maybe we can get these foods for free, for you. Really, we should be able to do that. Yes? No? Don’t worry, it is no trouble. Wait here, I will be right back.

Etta squeezed and squeezed her thoughts. Nothing, nothing. She looked around for clues, now that the boy was gone. The cash register, her food, the other shoppers, the aisles of food in boxes and bags stacked and labeled in two languages. English-French. français-anglais. She knew these things. The wall beyond the cash registers was mostly windows looking out into the parking lot. Windows and bulletin boards labeled with things like
LES ANNONCES LOCALES
and
CHOSES PERDUE
and, the furthest one along, right by the automatic doors that opened-closed in hisses whenever anyone walked past,
H
É
ROS D’ICI
. And, there, on the left-hand side of
H
É
ROS D’ICI,
between a picture of a golden retriever and a family in bathing suits, was Etta. The picture cut from a newspaper and with a little article and a map alongside it.

Really good news! The boy was marching back. He rolled up his
flopping sleeves as he approached. My manager says, All free!

Marching behind him was a smiling woman with frizzy gray curls.
Oui! C’est vrai!
she said.

Where did you find that picture?

The cashier and the manager stopped their marching and turned to the
H
É
ROS D’ICI
board. It was in all the papers, Etta. And the article too. And now the
National
publish that little map each day, in the back of the Life & Times section, guessing about where you are. We cut it out and pin it up every day. Well, Janiel here does. He’s one of your biggest fans.

Janiel blushed. Well, he said, it’s just that, it’s really great, right? I think—

Oh! And that means, interrupted the manager, that we can call in a spotting! We’ve spotted you all right! And they’ll thank us on the next map update!

So they didn’t know Etta at all. So she hadn’t forgotten them. Okay. Okay. But now this. She took a breath. It’s just, she said,

They both turned around, away from the board, back to her, eager.

—not supposed to be a very big thing. It’s just meant to be . . . quiet.

Of course, said the manager, lowering her voice.

Of course, said Janiel.

That’s why we’re all so excited.

They helped Etta repack her free groceries. Have there been many . . . spottings reported? asked Etta, slipping carrots down the sides of the bags where she could find spaces.

Oh yeah, loads. But lots of them are made up. Like, this guy in Vancouver said he saw you in the big park there.

And that lady in Nebraska.

And that guy from up north, the elk herder guy.

Russell? said Etta.

They don’t always leave their names, said Janiel.

Now the groceries were all packed and Etta was ready to go, wanting to go, to find James and see what he thought about this and what he knew about this.

So, with that in mind, said the manager, would it be okay if we took a picture with you? We can get one of the other customers to take it.

E
tta stood surrounded by a small crowd of cashiers in matching red
BOUFFE-BONNE
uniforms, with the smiling manager next to her, in the middle. The customer-photographer grinned exaggeratedly and said,
Pret? Un, deux, trois
. . .

After the manager and all the other cashiers had gone back to work, Janiel walked with Etta out to the parking lot. He reached into a pocket. Etta, he said, would you take this with you? He held a paper crane, only the size of a nickel and a little squashed from being in his pocket. Tiny in his long hand. Yes, of course, said Etta, taking it from his hand and putting it in her own pocket.

She met James again on the east side of town, just where the suburbs trailed into wilderness.

That took a while.

It’s all very strange, James. People are strange animals.

I haven’t smelled anyone too close
, said James, once she’d told him about Janiel and the manager and the spottings.
But I’ll pay more attention now.

I want to be completely away from all that, said Etta.

You never can be
, said James,
but you can be far enough to pretend.

What about you? What about with coyotes?

It’s the same for coyotes, even.

They walked as far from town as they could before even the dusk light was gone and it was all dark and they had to make camp. Do you smell anything? asked Etta.

No. Nothing,
said James.
No-one.

T
he train had pulled away without them noticing, and they were alone on the platform. Well, said Etta. Otto’s hands still on her arms, his body still needing and pulling toward her. Welcome home.

Yes, said Otto. Thanks. He inhaled and looked around. The dry texture of the wood under their feet, the smell of the thin, bright air, the schedule and track safety notice on the station wall, Etta’s hair and clothes, like the hair and clothes of everyone here, all pulsed: Remember? Remember? Remember? He closed his eyes. Pulled Etta to him again. Just this one thing. Can we go to your house? he said.

Otto waited on the platform while Etta called for a taxi. Please be sure the driver’s not Robert or David McNally, he told her. They’re friends of Amos, they know my mother.

All the taxi drivers are women now, said Etta. But I’ll make sure, just in case.

The driver was a woman neither of them knew. She said nothing as she drove and they said nothing either, hands held, sticky with sweat.

The taxi driver would not accept payment once they reached the teacher’s cottage, putting both her hands forward as though holding Otto and Etta, and their money, away. No, no, she said. I would never.

They stumbled up the front walk, past the school, aching with familiarity. Otto breathed it in with the dust, remember, remember, and he held Etta’s hand tighter as she fumbled with the other one for her front door key. He kissed her arm and shoulder and neck as she pushed the door open and pulled him in with her.

They fell onto the sofa in the front room; did not even make it
to the bedroom, did not even shut the front door. Please, said Etta, remember,

Yes, said Otto, eyes still closed. Yes, yes.

Please, said Etta, please, please.

O
tto looked up at the beams in the ceiling above the couch, counting them in one direction: one, two, three, four, five, and then in the other: one, two, three, four, five. Etta was sleeping or mimicking sleep, her breathing regular and rhythmic, her powder-blue dress pushed up and crumpled, but still on. Are there those same beams in the schoolrooms? he said to himself or to her. I never noticed those beams before.

Otto, said Etta, her voice light with near sleep. Do you want to talk about things?

Not yet, said Otto.

So they lay, not comfortable, not uncomfortable, just there, together, until it was time for Etta to put on her coveralls and head scarf and go to the factory. Is it okay if I stay here until you get back? said Otto. I’ll sleep. I won’t touch anything.

What about your family?

Tomorrow.

Okay. Of course, of course that’s fine.

He walked Etta to the door, kissed her forehead and then mouth, the dust on her lips. On mine too, he thought. Then he went back and sat on the sofa with his head pushed back, and counted the beams, again, and again.

The next morning when Etta got home, she pulled him from the couch where he had slept, to her bed, in her room. She unbuttoned his dust-brown officer’s shirt and pulled his arms out of the sleeves.
She rolled down and off his socks, and lifted his undershirt off his torso, over his head. She kissed his chest before pulling off her own coveralls and letting her hair fall down from under its scarf.

W
hat happened to your hair, Otto?

I was scared. On the boat.

I think it’s good, said Etta. I think it’s good that you look a bit different, now.

They ate in bed. Her dinner, his breakfast. Then Otto washed and Etta fell asleep. In the bath he counted his fingers and toes, ten each, the same, the same as always, and prepared to go to his family’s farm. To go home.

G
race Vogel had always been proud of her eyesight. She wasn’t proud about much, and certainly not by nature, but mention anything about your eyes and she’d challenge you. Right then, she’d say, what color’s that ribbon on the neighbor’s cat, or, tell me what it says on the front of that newspaper out the door, down the hall, and off to the side, or, how many cookies in that child’s hand, there, running down the road. She never got it wrong. Grace Vogel’s eyes were sharp and long and true and had always been that way. Which is how she knew, even from a mile and a half across the fields, even with his hair all turned, that her son Otto had come home. She saw him long before he saw her. She nearly knocked him over, running at him.

When she reached him she opened her arms wide and scooped him into them. She didn’t say,

Why didn’t you tell us you were coming?

And she didn’t say,

What happened to your beautiful hair?

She said, releasing her embrace,

Dinner is almost ready. Come along and help.

Otto and his mother were quiet as they walked toward the house. But every ten steps or so she would glance over at him, just to check that he was there. When they had almost reached the house, still quiet, still just the two of them, Otto said,

Where is everyone?

His mother didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look over. Walter and Wiley have gone over, you know that. And Gus is in Halifax now. And Marie has gone to Clara’s, since her husband’s gone. And Amos is working the camp in Lethbridge. And Russell’s got his own farm. And Winnie’s . . .

Somewhere safe.

You know?

No. But still.

And Winnie’s somewhere.

They walked up the house’s front steps, two big and one, the last one, shallow, then stepped over the raised sill of the front door, then turned left into the kitchen, into the clout of dry oven heat and the smell of siblings’ hot dusty hair and breath. Otto saw Harriet first. Harriet with her back to them, checking the hands of his littlest brothers and sisters, lined up, small to smaller.

Harriet, said their mother.

Oh! Oh! Oh!
said six-year-old Josie, near the end of the line, hands filthy.
Otto!

Harriet turned. You . . . You son of a bitch, she said.

Harriet! said their mother.

Otto! said Emmett, eight years old, breaking out of the line toward him.

You never even said . . . Wiley and Walter have us counting down days, but you never even said. Harriet stepped around, past Emmett.

Ot-to! Ot-to! said Ellie and Benji, twins, nine years old, hopping.

Back in line if you want to eat, said their mother.

I just wish you would have said, said Harriet, arms over Otto’s shoulders—she was easily half a foot taller—pulling her brother roughly to her.

At the very end of the line, Ted, five years old, was crying.

Hey! Stop that! said Josie, beside him.

Don’t cry, Ted, said Harriet.

Ot-to! Ot-to! said Ellie and Benji, hopping.

You’re crying too, said Ted. That’s why I am.

Where’s Dad? said Otto.

Upstairs, said Emmett.

Not now, said his mother.

Ot-to! Ot-to! said Ellie and Benji, hopping.

Dinner, when they got to it, was flour-dumpling soup, and even though it was something that Otto had had many times before, this time the sameness of it tasted different, better.

After dinner, Otto went upstairs. All the doors were closed. The parents’ room. The little kids’ room. The big girls’ room. The big boys’ room. Otto knocked on this one. Dad?

Otto. Yes, come in. Sounding normal, himself through the wood.

Otto opened the door, his wrist lifting it instinctively across the place where the floor warped.

Look at you, would you, in those clothes. Would you look at you. No dirt, even.

Otto’s father was tucked into Wiley’s old bed. Only his neck and head above the covers. His hair totally white.

Did I wake you? I can come back later.

No! No. Come here, come closer. Just let me turn this off. Otto’s father looked across to the radio on an upturned box near the bed. Otto hadn’t even noticed its steady murmuring.

I’ll get it, let me.

Then I don’t know what we should expect—
said the radio.

I wasn’t really listening anyway, said his father.

Well, hunger—
said the radio before Otto switched it off. He didn’t know if he should hug his father or shake his hand. Kneel down to his level or stand over him in his teenager’s bed. He knelt. Put one hand near where he hoped his father’s would be, through the quilt.

I should have warned you about the hair thing, said his father. It’s hereditary. You do look great in that uniform, though, still.

Thanks, said Otto.

Did you kill anyone?

I don’t know.

Okay. Otto’s father closed his eyes. It’s okay one way or another, he said. Apart from his eyes and mouth, he didn’t move the whole time they were speaking. I’m not sleeping, he said. Don’t worry. My eyes just get tired of looking in the same direction all the time.

Okay, said Otto.

You can look, if you want to.

Under the blankets?

Yes.

I don’t need to.

Go on. It’s not so bad. You’ll feel better after you do.

You’re sure?

Yes.

Okay. Otto folded the quilt and the sheet back as far as his father’s waist. He was in his pajamas. His arms were strapped to his sides with heavy leather belts. Amos’s or Walter’s.

It’s the same with the legs, he said. You’d think it’d be uncomfortable, but I don’t even notice.

O
ne day, a few months earlier, Otto’s mother had found his father pressed up against the slated side of the chicken coop, the pattern of it indented onto his face and hands. I didn’t want to be here, he said, my legs just went and wouldn’t stop.

The next day the twins found him up in one of the wind-break trees, the one with the thickest branches, the densest leaves. They only found him because he shouted as his arms climbed without his permission, and they’d been close by, in Rocksvalley.

No matter how hard he tried, his body no longer paid attention to his commands, had its own will. He discussed it with his wife whilst lying on the kitchen floor, where his body had him down on his side.

You must try very, very hard, she said. Try to lift your arm.

He tried, but his arm stayed limp against his side.

Try, she said. Try harder. Close your eyes and try. Squeeze them closed and try.

He closed his eyes—he could still control his eyes and mouth and nose, those were his, still—squeezed them, and tried to lift his arm. He thought of his wife and of Otto and Wiley and Walter and Winnie and Harriet and Amos and Ted and Emmett and Josie and Ellie and Benji and Clara and Marie and Gus and Addie and tried and tried, but his arm didn’t move. Instead, his legs began to kick out in slow motion, like he was swimming.

Okay. Never mind, said Grace Vogel. We’ll try again tomorrow.

Is Dad seizuring? Ted and Josie had come into the kitchen. Josie was holding a day-old chick that kept trying to jump out of her hands.

No, said their mother.

No, said their father. Don’t worry. Just seeing what it’s like for the mice, being down here. Ted, can you go find Harriet? Josie, let’s see that chick.

Harriet and her mother had managed, together, to get Rupert Vogel back up onto his legs, and half-guided, half-carried him up the stairs to the big boys’ room. I’m sorry, he said.

It’s nothing, said Grace. You’re not so heavy. I’ve carried calves heavier.

Though it was difficult to hear much of anything because Mr. Vogel’s fingers had started snapping over and over, fast and loud.

He still did what he could. A wandering body was no excuse for not pulling his weight. During the day, Mr. Vogel listened to the news reports on the radio, to each and every one, all day, listening for anything that they all should know, or any names they all already knew. And at night he had his wife and Harriet bring him down and prop him on a chair beside the chicken coop. Because he was in bed all day, staring at the same bits of the room, he had no problem staying awake and watching for foxes or coyotes. With his arms and legs belted to the chair, his eyes looked all over, back and forth and back and forth, up and down and up and down, taking in as much as they possibly possibly could.

O
tto walked up the drive to Russell’s new house. He knocked on the front door in a quick rhythm, then waited. Then he knocked again. Then waited. And one more knock, one more rhythm. Then a
count up to thirty and back down again. Then he went to check the barn.

The main door was on the other side of some barbed cattle wire, so Otto climbed up through a window instead, propping himself on his elbows and calling into the stifled air inside. Russell! Russell? The few cows who had wandered in for shade eyed him lazily, their jaws going round and round. Russell was not there.

Otto let his elbows relax and pushed himself back down away from the barn. He looked around. Some shovels, a pile of rocks, a horse at pasture, more cows, and a cat trotting up to him. Black with white feet. You know Russell? asked Otto.

The cat didn’t respond. It trotted past him and beyond, around the side of the house. Otto followed it. It continued around to the back of the building, past some swings made from tires and rope, untied and in a stack, to an old tractor with peeling paint, rusted edges, and the hood up. The cat hopped up into its seat.