Lost Nation (47 page)

“Stop,” said Blood. “Is she dead? You speak as if she is.”

Fletcher studied him a little more. Blood was becoming curious about those silences. What was going on in there. Then realized the girl Molly had been the same. The boy’s mother, in the boy. Blood felt a tug, some bit of lost endearment.

Fletcher said, “She spent most of the afternoon alone in his office. It was only recent I learned what took place there, what discussion was had, what agreements made. When she left she was housed with a midwife the next six months until I was born. From there I was taken direct to the home of your brother, Uncle Proctor, who already was caring for Sarah Alice and Cooper along with his own five. It was a household, I can tell you. Cooper and I was the little ones. Sarah Alice babied both of us, without as far as I ever knew, being partial to Cooper or at least not letting us see if she felt that way. She was so much older, we was both barely ready for school when she was gone and married. She tried to keep close but we were boys and like I said, though Uncle Proctor and Aunt Peg were every way kind and loving, Cooper and me, we were our own little tribe in that big group. Although now I think on it, Great-grandfather was part of that tribe too, wouldn’t you say Cooper?”

Cooper had sat through all this watching his father. Without looking at his brother he said, “Yes. He’s never made a secret of spoiling the both of us a little more than the others. I guess he feels some obligation apart from them. Also, I do believe he takes pleasure in it. In the two of us. He’d cuff me he heard that.”

“Wait,” said Blood. “Now wait. This is all too much.”

Sally was pouring tea. The three sat with Blood’s cry left out, mingling down unanswered to reveal the simple bones of anguish beneath. Sally came round, three separate trips with scalding tin cups. Settled herself some way apart, where she could tend the fire and fuss with the tea and hear everything.

Blood put the cup on the stone beside him. Too hot to drink, so many names and faces. He studied both boys a moment and they let him. It was altogether possible they were innocent, had been left purposely uninformed—in fact given their youth, the disparity in ages, it made sense.

So he retreated and began again. “Tell me. Grandfather is still living?”

Cooper said, “Ninety-six this November. Blind as stone and pretends he’s deaf but he idn’t. Employs a free nigger to lead him from the house—he lives with Proctor and Peg now as well—every day to and from the office. His legs are feeble. Although last winter that boy was sick two weeks and Great-grandfather made the trip each day just fine.” Cooper drank tea and set the cup down and said, “He sent you a message but charged me only to deliver it when we was done. Done with you.”

Blood had a pretty good idea of what that would be. He remained silent now, waiting. He felt Sally’s eyes upon him, guessed she knew what he was up to. Fine with him as long as she only listened. He’d been a fool with her. She felt no debt, no gratitude for him.

Fletcher spoke up. “Unless you’ve lost interest, I’d tell you the rest of what happened. Not so much to me as my mother.”

“Why yes,” said Blood. “We got distracted. Please.”

Fletcher sat silent, worked a little at his tea. Not so much preparing anything, just not hurried: Molly again. Blood wondered if he should speak of this, if it would please the boy, and decided to wait. See how it turns out. Fletcher said, “I never knew, couldn’t find a way to ask without sounding rude, if money was paid her. Although I’m inclined to think Great-grandfather made sure she did not want for anything. Not that she required much. After I was born she returned to Wareham, to her people, the Barretts. Now that I consider, she at least had some help; she had a little house, not much more than a cottage but it was all hers. A couple acres that she planted to garden and kept a cow and chickens. Summertimes she was an oddity, a woman working with the men on the common crops, hay and such. Someone told me she was a fine hand to mow. She never did marry, nor have other children. Though she was approached. But she kept to herself. Again, mostly this is just what I been told.”

Blood said, “So he did buy her off. Grandfather Bolles, I mean. Took you in to raise and sent her up back where she’d tried to get away from. That sounds like a clear trade-off to me.”

Fletcher shook his head. “No. I mean maybe there was a little but I think mostly it was what both wanted.”

Blood glanced at Sally, then back to Fletcher. “Most women want to raise their children. Of course she saw advantage for you but still, the rest sounds like what she most likely had to accept, to get better for you.”

Fletcher took time, finished his tea. His tone now dropped a little he said, “No. It wasn’t like that. She had the right, anytime she was to New Bedford to come see me. Now that didn’t happen often, New Bedford was a fair tramp for her to make. Most often when she did come it was in the fall, when her family brought cartloads of apples, springtime too, after shearing. But mostly I think she had her fill of the place. I think she was uncomfortable, coming to the house.”

“Your Aunt Peg could be a formidable woman.”

Fletcher looked at him as if he didn’t know what Blood was talking about. As if he’d been interrupted. He went on, “The other part was summers. Summers she had me for a month. From after my first birthday until the summer I was nine. When, before I was supposed to go that year I talked to Uncle Proctor. Who talked to Great-grandfather. Who talked to me. It was the only time he ever was angry with me, something terrible. He wanted me to know all my people, not just the Bolleses. But I would not go. I stood there in the little sitting room he had off his bedroom and told him however many times he had me carted out there I’d turn around and walk back. If it was every day all summer long.”

Fletcher stopped, as if the story was over. Looking into the mound of coals, the sun striking his shoulders and the back of his head. His tea, cold and forgotten on the stone beside him. With his free hand he rubbed at the bindings over his right forearm as if trying to get to the skin beneath. Blood knew the feeling.

Finally, his own voice lowered, as if meant for Fletcher alone, the best he could do, he said, “She mistreated you?”

His own voice near the same as Blood’s, Fletcher said, “No. I was shamed of her. It wasn’t a life I wanted any part of. I was too young to understand how strong she was to’ve done what she did. I was just shamed by her. She knew it, which was why she stopped coming to see me in town. I was a little boy and she was the one part of my life I hated. There was times I was envious of Cooper, envious his mother was dead.”

Cooper said, “You never told me that.”

Fletcher said, “I knew it was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself. So I stopped going. Time to time she’d send me a sweater or socks she’d made me. But they was either too big or too small. Or I just pretended they was. I don’t know. I just didn’t want em. And then the winter I was twelve she did die. Took to bed sick and only came out to go in the ground. I didn’t even go to the funeral.”

Then was quiet. After a bit Blood said, “I’m awful sorry.”

Cooper stood and said, “Excuse me a minute.” And walked off behind the tent, past the horses and into the woods. Sally looked after him but stayed where she was.

Fletcher looked directly now at his father, his eyes hardened. He didn’t get that from his mother, thought Blood. Fletcher said, “It’s peculiar strange. The last few years, as I’ve learned the truth about you, how and what you did, I determined never to be anything like that. To be careful, thoughtful. Gentle with whoever I love or come to love.” He paused, looked off toward the woods. Then turned back, fiercely went on. “But now, sitting here listening to myself tell you of my mother, it occurs to me I already failed. I see I’ve got that same ability in me: to turn away cold from someone dear. It’s a sad thing. And I can go on, knowing it’s there. And try to live my life different. I came thinking I wanted you to know I was in the world. It seemed real important to me. Now I don’t know. There’s no pride in meeting you.”

Grimly, swiftly he stood, teetered for balance and said, “I’m filled with tea myself. Excuse me.” And walked off, steps hard and certain, taking a route toward the woods somewhat different than his brother had. To be alone.

Blood did not watch until he was gone from sight but dropped his eyes to the fire and then, feeling Sally watching him, he raised his head and gazed off into some unknown distance. Hoping she would not speak, hoping she would have the grace to leave him alone.

Eventually she said, “How you doing, Blood?” Her tone not the harsh scald he expected—not altogether kindhearted but even: a tone he could respond to or ignore. He was grateful for that.

After a bit, he turned and said, “Mostly strange. I come expecting anger. They’ve much to be angry over. But it feels all turned around.”

She said, “Well. They idn’t you, Blood.”

“Don’t you be so certain,” Blood said. “It’s likely there’s much they don’t know, is what I’m thinking.”

She said, “But that’s why you’re here, after all. You can set em right.”

Blood gazed upon her, near envious of her understanding of his sons. And then over her shoulder and out past the horses, he saw both boys together. They spoke a short time and came forward. Toward him. There was something in the way they walked—perhaps it was only seeing them together and comprehending the bond and force of the two—but Blood was chilled. He reached down to check his leg but it was cool. He knew he should rise and walk around, that the leg was stiffening. But he only sat and waited. Drew his jacket together. Sally observed him through this and finally glanced over her shoulder.

She said, “Here they come.”

And just like that, Blood was ready for them. Of most importance was the growing certainty that whatever they did know of him was arranged, somewhat cleansed, diminished to the role of Man Who Simply Disappeared. Blood felt the hand of his grandfather in this, seeing old Eben from that first morning, keeping the family tight, the story controlled. As the boys grew other questions would certainly have come up but Eben and Proctor and Peg were certainly able to expand the original versions meant for small boys so they seemed reasonable for young men. Of his own father, there was no question—Matthew Bolles had always been in thrall to Eben. Blood in swift clarity determined There are only four things that matter now. To have the full story out, for the boys to make sense of as they would. To learn what he could of Sarah Alice. To receive from Cooper old Eben’s message, surely the condemnation Blood had deprived his grandfather of all those years ago by slipping away. And finally, regardless of what it took, whatever anger must be stirred, whatever ruse employed, to compel the boys to leave, the sooner the better, this very day if possible. Even if it meant driving them to a final and unbreakable loathing of him. Whatever that took, even fresh lies, wounds imposed. He would see them leave. He had some tricks left, old dog. Guessing Sally would go with them, at least some-ways. He couldn’t picture her in New Bedford and doubted, when it came down to it that either Cooper or Fletcher would either. But no matter. Let him save her as well.

The country was teeming with gathering madness and it would be senseless to have these three caught in it. As for himself, if he could drive off the children, he still held hope he might slip off as well.

The boys were before the fire now, come to a halt and for the moment drifting. Blood saw this and knew Fletcher had confessed his breaking down. Blood took a breath to launch himself but as he did saw the drift flee Cooper as the boy stepped forward, squatting on his haunches so he was just inches from his father, his face even with the beard something frightening. His mother’s eyes. Betsey there furious before Blood. And so it was Blood drifting instead, his thinking broken, fragmented for a frightening moment.

Then Cooper said, “Just so you know, you wasn’t ever hidden. Not so much as you might’ve thought. Every few months, at most a year some feller would come in asking for Great-grandfather. I was probably about twelve when he began to tell me of these reports.” In astonishing imitation that seemed to contain portents of what else was to come, Cooper said, “He’d say ‘It appears your father has taken to driving swine. Doubtless believing he has found kindred fellowship. Not a thing you should bother your schoolmates with. But one you should know. These bastards, they take delight in delivering such news. And more delight in that I buy their silence. They think it needles me. But your father is intent upon his own mission—a thing I care not to attempt to understand. Take heart, boy. Madness does not run in the family.’ That sort of thing. But I got to ask, you were so resolute to forsake us all, why stay where such word was bound to trickle in. Why did you not go off to the western prairies or such? It’s a puzzle to me. What thinking was behind it? Was it not enough to forsake us?”

Blood tipped a little. Such misunderstanding. His son, his wife’s eyes; did not move; no hand reached to steady him. Just waiting.

Blood said, “Could I trouble one of you for a cup of water? This leg flashes me hot and cold.” Immediately regretting mention of the leg, as if for sympathy.

Wordless Fletcher dipped a cup from the bucket and brought it. While Blood drank Fletcher took Cooper’s old seat on the log. Cooper had not moved.

Blood said, “There is so much. You boys know a fair bit. But there
are pieces more than you’ve been told. And perhaps others that you know but haven’t thought all the way through. I mean no disrespect to either of you but you’re young men—the way of things may yet appear clear to you. It seems you’re beginning to learn all those shades between simple and complicated on this adventure you set yourselves upon. And there is more to come.”

“Father,” said Cooper. “Obvious, there’s more sides to a story. We came after yours. What we make of it is our business. But you obfuscate. Can you not speak plain? Why did you stay so close?”

Blood said, “Now it seems mean-spirited. The way you phrase it. But I meant no harm. Only to myself.”