Those Across the River

Table of Contents

 

 

 

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This is an original publication of The Berkley Publishing Group.

 

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

Copyright © 2011 by Christopher Buehlman.

 

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

 

Buehlman, Christopher.

p. cm.

ISBN : 978-1-101-54386-3

1. World War, 1914–1918—Veterans—Fiction. 2. Plantations—Georgia—Fiction. 3. Family secrets—Fiction. 4. Memory—Fiction. I. Title.

PS3603.U3395T48 2011

813’.6—dc22

2011005232

 

 

I wish first to remember Elaine Koster, a formidable and unforgettable woman who was my literary agent all too briefly. Elaine’s assistant, Stephanie Lehmann, has my thanks for wading into the manuscript armed with an indifference for the horror genre and a keen eye for bullshit; she beat this novel until it had to die or get strong. Undying thanks also go to Ellen Twaddell, associate agent at the Elaine Koster Literary Agency, for fishing me out of the slush pile. Jenny Steiner Meisinger was with me through the first glimmer and the first draft, and Jennifer Rae Johnson (now Buehlman) saw it born in its current form. Danielle Dupont, an actual muse, never had any doubt; and those who know Karen already know where Dora got her eyes. I want to thank the readers who took the time to comment thoughtfully on this piece in its various forms: Ciara Carinci, Franc Auld, Michael J. E. Reilly, Chris Holcom and especially my sometime writing partner Allison Williams. Thanks to Alan Hutton and Kevin Daniels for their weapons expertise, and to Mouse, who helped me more credibly imagine what I have been lucky enough (thanks to men like him) never to have seen firsthand. Thanks to Brenda White Caballero for giving me, as the Spanish say, light. And thanks to Jack Bostick, a teacher who told his students scary stories.

T
HIS IS HOW it started.

Eudora and I pulled up the drive with the sound of gravel under the tires. When the house came into view she squealed.

“Is it ours, Frankie? Is it really all ours?”

“That’s what the paperwork says.”

“It’s such a fine yellow. I think I’ll call it the Canary House. Will you call it that with me, or will you feel silly?”

“The Canary House suits me fine.”

She grinned and gave me a flash of her mismatched eyes; one lake-grey, one shallows-green. The most bewitching eyes I ever saw, or will ever see.

“Let’s just sit here and look at it for a moment. We’ll have some gay times in that house, but we don’t know what they are yet, so let’s just hold on to that. The potential, I mean.”

“Alright.”

“Or, better yet, let’s imagine all the things we want in that house. Can you imagine making love to me on the staircase? Within the hour?”

“Easily.”

“Will you carry me across the threshold?”

“Let’s save it for the wedding. And only if nobody’s looking. We’re already married, remember? At least as far as our neighbors are concerned.”

“Neighbors. How soon will our neighbors be our friends, I wonder. Can you see us having friends over for dinner?”

“Yes.”

“What about as old marrieds sitting on the porch? Holding hands with our closer hands and swatting flies with the free ones. Can you see that?”

“Not at all.” I laughed.

“Well, perhaps I don’t care to swat flies with you, either.”

And then she kissed me so hungrily that we never made it to the staircase.

 

 

 

THE MOVERS CAME not at the hottest part of the day, but about an hour after that, when the heat had built up so that it stood under the eaves and porches and made the moisture in the ground steam underfoot. The truck, beaten-up and rusty, with a dent in the front fender, pulled up just behind my own car. The moving truck’s paint had once been white. That was why the blood stood out. Just a little of it, no more than a paintbrush would flick, but fresh.

That dent hadn’t been there in Chicago.

The driver, an affable Negro with a broad frame and a wide, handsome face, saw what I was looking at as he cut the motor. Black smoke farted behind the truck. He stepped down from the cab. His smaller partner got down, too. Stuck close to him.

“We done hit a dog. He come quick from under a house. Crawled back under the house slow.”

“Was the drive okay otherwise?”

“Oh, I done worse, yes I have. But the roads around here pretty rough.”

I saw from his eyes that he saw Eudora come out of the house. Everybody looked at Eudora a beat longer than they should. Even before they noticed her eyes.

She came up beside me and offered the men coffee mugs full of water.

“There’s no icebox or I would give it to you cold,” she said.

They drank it down fast and thanked her.

She took their mugs and went back up to the house and the big man wiped sweat out of his eyes with the heel of his hand just to keep himself from watching her go. The little man was not so artful.

“Shall we get started?” I said, retiring my shirt and glasses.

“Oh no, Mr. Nichols. We paid for this. You jus show us where you want the boxes.”

“Nonsense. Three will finish faster than two. And then we can eat.”

 

 

 

THE MOVING-IN WAS hard, mostly because of the tight turn around the top of the stairs. My rolltop desk was the worst. I could have let the hired men do it, but I felt guilty. A man has to work for his extravagances. I mashed the Holy Ghost hellfire out of my fingers negotiating around that corner, though. Perhaps this was the required sacrifice for all the good writing I hoped to do. I caught the big Negro chewing on the inside of his cheek, trying not to laugh at the funny face I must have made when I hurt myself. I do make funny faces. Then he looked at my hand. It was the first time he noticed the missing finger. He looked away.

I went outside, shaking my hand, and found Dora lying across the hood of the Ford. She had poured herself deerishly across it, upside down, letting the hot metal sting her back through her thin dress. Her eyes were fixed where the sun hung forked in the trees. Her hat slid off her head, the hat with the dried rose on it, and now the light made the gold in her hair catch fire.

“You’re going to pass out and fall right into the apples,” I said.

“It’s your own fault, Orville Francis Nichols. Had you not prohibited me from helping with the boxes, I would have something better to do with myself than lay here watching the world go by. You know, it goes by more interestingly upside down. That’s a fact.”

I walked over towards her.

“Besides, I am nearly one hundred and twenty-five pounds in weight, and if I follow your instructions not to lift anything heavy, I may not lift myself.”

“I’ll lift you.”

“Not with those sweaty donkey-arms, if you please.”

I lifted her anyway, braying like Nick Bottom, and she laughed and play-slapped at me.

“You handsome, dripping thing. You with your shirt off, trying to be a socialist.”

I turned back towards the house.

“And your fine Italian shoes,” she called after me. “Who’s going to carry all your pointy shoes upstairs, Professor?”

I made muscles for her as I went in.

 

 

 

THE NEXT TIME I found her she was kneeling in the kitchen, using her thumbnail to slit the tape on a cardboard box. She pulled out a set of silverware from 1871, a wedding gift of her grandmother’s. Benton Harbor money was in that silver, from her grandfather’s vast Michigan orchards. All the pieces had engraved roses and the tines of the forks were so delicate they seemed to be made for children. She looked at herself in a teaspoon, upside down again. I melted away before she knew I was watching her. Good God, I was in love. Had been since I saw her in class all those years ago. The married girl who sat up front. The stubborn, funny one who was studying to be a teacher. The rich girl who didn’t want Daddy’s money if it came with rules.