Three Rivers (8 page)

He'd been weak back then, sleepwalking through day after terrible day. One day he came home from work exhausted, filthy, and covered in the sharp stench of burning metal. All he wanted was to shower, eat some kind of supper that hadn't been zapped in a microwave, and sleep. His joints ached, his eyes burned from staring at the welding torch flame, his feet and legs were as heavy as the steel beams he'd spent the day moving. He heard Liam's cry before he opened the door. He'd stepped into the tiny, cluttered mess of a house and peeled off his work boots. Liam's screams grew louder. He kicked his boots to one side and unbuttoned the heavy denim shirt he wore to protect his skin from the torch flames and the sun. He shimmied out of his jeans and stood there in the laundry room in his underwear and a T-shirt and a pair of mismatched, holey socks. Even though the house was filthy—the kitchen table scattered with unidentifiable crumbs, the sink crowded with crusty plates and mugs, the living room floor a circus maze of plastic toys and shoes—Eileen would not allow Obi to tromp through the house in his work clothes. She insisted he strip down to his underwear before crossing the kitchen and walking down the short hallway to the bathroom where he could shower away the filth of his workday.

On that day, Obi wanted a shower more than he wanted to check on his screaming son. If the boy was crying, he was alive. Obi figured a few more minutes wouldn't kill the kid and, anyway, he'd been busting his ass all day; Eileen could do something.

The shower steam rose up and cleared away some of his frustration. He lathered his face and hair and stood beneath the water, turning his head from side to side to stretch out the kinks in his neck. Liam screamed and screamed. Obi wrapped a towel around his waist and went to his son. He lifted Liam to his chest and the child's cries turned into a series of soft hiccups against Obi's skin. He felt the heavy, soggy weight of his son's diaper and smelled the putrid scent of the boy's waste. “Goddammit, Eileen.” Obi cleaned Liam and changed his diaper. He washed his face, mopping up the tear-streaked cheeks and clearing the trail of snot from Liam's upper lip.

When he was done, he sat Liam down in the living room and went to look for his wife. Eileen was passed out in the bedroom, an open bag of greasy chips spilled out beside her. She looked almost peaceful, her red curls splayed across the pillow. Obi wanted to love her, had loved her once, but she had turned into someone he could barely stand. He shook her until she opened her glassy eyes and stared at him. “Get up,” he demanded.

“Leave me alone.” She turned her back to him and slung an arm across her face. Obi grabbed the arm and yanked her to her feet. She was a small woman and easy to lift.

“I said get up.” Obi steered Eileen's limp body through the house. He forced her to look at the mess. “I work all day. I shouldn't have to clean the house, clean up Liam, when I come home at night.”

“You don't know what it's like being here with him all day.”

Eileen's voice was like a mosquito buzzing in Obi's ear. He gripped her shoulders, shook her hard.

“Stop it.” She cried, “You're hurting me.”

“Well, you're killing me. I can't live like this.” He steered her to the living room, where Liam slumped over a toy truck. He pushed the truck back and forth, but not as if he cared about it. “Look at your son.”

“Our son,” Eileen said.

“Our son. Look at him. He's not even dressed. He was sitting here in a filthy, stinking diaper when I came home. He was screaming.”

Eileen shoved her hands against his chest. “That's all he does.” She spoke through clenched teeth. “He pisses and he shits himself all day long. And he screams. That's it. He doesn't do anything else. Why should I bother putting clothes on someone who is just going to piss and shit all over himself? Answer me that.”

“He's a baby,” Obi said.

“He's a year old!” Eileen yelled. “He doesn't talk and he doesn't care about using the toilet and he still isn't walking. When does he stop being a baby and turn into a goddamned human being? You're never here and you don't know what it's like to live with an animal all day long.”

Obi slapped her. It wasn't the first time, but it was the first time he'd put any force behind it. Eileen balled up her fists and punched his bare chest. The towel around Obi's waist slipped to the floor and he stood there, naked, fighting with his wife in front of his son. He flung her away. “You make me sick.”

Eileen fell, her knee coming down hard on Liam's left arm. Obi heard the crack of the bone as it snapped in half. Liam looked at him, his pink, moist mouth a gaping question and then, suddenly, a scream.

“Look what you've done!” Eileen yelled at him. “This is your fault.”

Obi pushed Eileen away and knelt beside his son. Liam's arm hung limp and at an unnatural angle.

At the hospital, the doctor glared at him when he took Liam off to X-ray and set his arm. A plump woman with weary eyes asked a lot of questions. She made notes on a clipboard and said she would send someone to their home to make sure it was a safe place for a child. “Standard procedure.” It didn't feel standard.

Eileen left them. Obi didn't know where she had gone. He didn't look for her. The social worker visited once and then showed up a few weeks later, unannounced. That was the beginning. A terrible beginning, but perhaps a necessary one.

*   *   *

“You need to get rid of your truck,” Pisa said. “I have a car you can take. It's old, but it runs and the plates are current.”

“I need a truck,” Obi said. “We have so much stuff to carry.”

“It's a big car. Most of it will fit. Decide what's important and leave the rest. I'll have someone drive the truck into a lake. They won't find it for months or years, and by the time they do, it'll be rusted and untraceable.”

“Can't we just let it sit? Maybe I can come back for it when this blows over.” The truck was solid and reliable. Obi knew how to fix what needed fixing. He knew just what kind of terrain the truck would handle. Liam slept on the vinyl bench seat on rainy nights. The bed of the truck was his workbench and their card table.

“Don't hang on to things that don't matter, son. I've tried to teach you that your whole life.”

“I can't believe this is happening,” Obi said. “The boy came at me with a knife. Liam was right there. I had to do something.”

“The boys are guilty of crimes,” Pisa said. “I can see that. They have done bad things, but that won't change what you did.”

“Is he dead?” Obi asked. “Did I kill him?”

Pisa closed her eyes and bowed her head as if she were praying. She rocked back and forth and was silent for so long that Obi wondered if she had drifted to sleep. Finally, she spoke. “Don't ask questions for which there are no answers, son. Curiosity kills more than cats.”

“Where should we go?”

Pisa stroked her chin, touched a mole on the right side of her face and plucked at the wiry hairs that sprouted there. “I know a place. Let me draw you a map.”

 

Chapter Nine

Geneva had a thirst for prophecy, even as a child. Sometimes, when the preacher of her childhood was droning on over a particularly dry bit of scripture, Geneva would play a game. She would open her Bible at random, close her eyes, and let her index finger travel down the cool, onionskin pages until she felt compelled to stop. Then she tried to read the future from whatever verse she'd found. It was at least as accurate as her horoscope in the newspaper and far more interesting. In Geneva's experience, damnation lurked everywhere. Even now, in the cool morning air as she squatted and peed between rows of young cotton, she was overcome with a strong sense that things might go to hell at any second.

*   *   *

“Let's get moving,” she said to the woman who was shaking out the wool blanket. She might as well have spoken to one of the cotton bolls for all the reaction she got. These women, the guides, seemed to delight in being as abstract and mysterious as possible. And unhurried. Not one of them ever seemed to hurry, no matter how badly Geneva needed to see Pisa. She'd never been more desperate than today, but to admit that might just inspire this woman to waste the better part of the day walking Geneva in circles across the Delta.

“I know, I know,” Geneva said. “In time.”

“That's right.” The woman stuffed the blanket into a satchel. “Patience is a virtue.”

“If only I gave a damn about virtue,” Geneva muttered.

The woman turned her back to Geneva and lifted one hand into the air. She looked like she was testing the direction of the wind. “Be like the river,” she said.

Geneva stared at the woman's back, waiting. Surely there was more to her advice than that. When Geneva was convinced the woman had turned to stone, she swung around and pointed an accusing finger. “Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there someday.”

She was quoting someone, obviously, but Geneva wasn't sure if the quote was biblical or historical or literary. Frankly, she didn't care. As long as someday was today, she would flow along.

She followed the woman across the cotton field and through a patch of thick forest. It was familiar and strange at once. Soon enough, they emerged from the trees and Geneva spotted the familiar house. The river flows on, she thought. I am the river. She was a solid fifty yards from the house when she saw Pisa step out onto the front porch. The woman never changed. Geneva would recognize that squat, sturdy body, the long dark braid, the flowing dress from a million miles away. She was the same at thirty as at fifty. She'd be the same at 110 and Geneva figured she'd live that long. Pisa's hands moved like playful birds when she spoke. She spoke now to a man and a small child, who followed her onto the porch. Geneva had never seen men in that house. It was a female place, full of female energy.

The woman leading Geneva stopped and put an arm out like a barrier. “Let's wait.”

Geneva resisted the urge to tell her that rivers might slow, but they didn't wait. She watched Pisa hand the man a package, then kneel to hug the child. She helped the child into the passenger seat of a dusty gray hatchback. The man climbed in behind the wheel. The car pulled away and Pisa stood watching until the dust trail behind it settled. When the car disappeared, Pisa's shoulders sagged and she walked back into the house. Pisa had never looked less powerful. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Maybe Pisa was just an ordinary woman, prone to disappointment and grief.

The guide pressed Geneva forward. They climbed onto the front porch and stood amid the hodgepodge of junk: clay figurines of jackrabbits and wolves, a pair of warped handmade cane rocking chairs, wind chimes hanging still and silent in the calm of the morning, pots filled with herbs for cooking and for healing. Fresh pine, lemon balm, and something that made her crave seafood filled the air. “Give me a moment.” The woman rapped on the door and stepped inside. Geneva smoothed her hair and waited.

The woman emerged, jiggling a set of keys in her palm. “Pisa is ready for you now.”

The river has arrived, Geneva thought as she stepped into the cool mouth of the house. Pisa grabbed her hands and pulled her in close. She inhaled the sweet clove scent of Pisa's hair. Pisa held on to Geneva's shoulders and stared into her eyes. Pisa's skin, the color of a faded red oak, showed few signs of age. The faintest web of lines surrounded her mouth and eyes. Her hair, shot through with silver threads, hung long and black in a single braid down her back. She wore a dress much like Geneva's, a faded cotton sack that skimmed across her strong, generous body.

“So much.” Pisa's voice quivered. “So much is happening for you.”

Or
to
me, Geneva thought.

The women sat on a woven rug and faced each other in silence for what seemed like an hour. Geneva leaned in, impatient for Pisa's words. Finally, Pisa spoke. “Your husband is very ill. He will die, but that's not news. We all die.” Pisa laughed and tilted her head.

She sighed, glad to see that Pisa still had the gift. “When will he die?”

Pisa gave her a long look. “I can't tell you that. It's too much to know. I will give you a bouquet of healing herbs to burn at his bedside and some words to say. They will ease his transition.”

Pisa closed her eyes and swayed a bit, trancelike. “I sense that your daughter has returned home.”

“Well, thank goodness.” Geneva was mostly thankful that Pisa's gift seemed to be strong. How else could Pisa know about Melody? “I asked her to come home and take care of Bruce, but I wasn't sure she'd come,” Geneva said. “That girl doesn't care a lick about what I need.”

“She is at a point in her life where it is good to be a bit selfish. You remember being that young. She needs to figure herself out before she can move forward, but she is home now. She has just arrived and it is good that she will be there for her father. It will be good for her and good for him and good for Bobby, too.”

“And good for me.”

“It will be difficult for you.”

Geneva didn't doubt that. Pisa had predicted Bobby's accident and given her the words that saved his life. She gave her absolution and filled her with power and strength after her mother's horrible death. If Pisa said it would be difficult, Geneva would just have to bear it.

Pisa turned her eyes toward the ceiling, let her gaze track along a path that only she could see. She seemed to be slipping into a trance but, quick as lightning, she snapped her head down and clapped her hands. “I have wonderful news.”

“You're kidding.” Geneva couldn't fathom receiving wonderful news.

“Bobby will find love. It will not last, but it will be real. Better to have loved and lost, right?”

Geneva laughed. Pisa must be kidding. Bobby rarely left the house and showed no signs of being able to hold down a job. What kind of woman would want such a man? How would he even meet a woman?