What They Wanted (17 page)

I darted towards Gran, speaking in the hurt tones of a child. “You don’t think that, do you, Gran? That I talked him over.”

Gran was still holding on to the tea things. “You can’t fault her for the boy’s doing, Addie. He’s too much himself to be ordered about.”

Mother shifted her eyes from mine, her face taking on a discomfited look. The opened mouth of the suitcase with its overflowing clothes gaped up at her with such impudence that she marched towards it, pushing down its lid. “He’ll not be leaving this house then, I can promise you that,” she directed at me. “He’s not himself these days—he’s too upset over his father to be thinking clearly.”

“That’s what I’m telling you,” I pleaded. “The boat—did you tell her about the boat, Gran?”

“She knows about the boat. Addie, you tell her now, you don’t fault her for his leaving.” Gran’s hands quivered as she laid the tea things back onto the table. Stretching a scrawny wrist from the sleeve of her nightdress, she lowered herself into her rocker. “Fighting over nothing,” she grumbled, “the two of you, always fighting over nothing.”

“She’s always thinking the worst of me,” I said.

“Are you saying you don’t want this?” Mother demanded. “After all you said in the hospital last night about the young leaving home?”

“University. That’s what I was talking about—why, what’s wrong with that?” I flashed as Mother’s face flickered with scorn. “You think he’s gonna be fishing and logging his whole life? You think he’s fit for no more than that?”

Mother’s eyes burned. “I told you before, my lady—no fool is your father or your grandfathers. And they fished and logged all their lives. As long as you can’t tell me why the berry grows in the field, there’s learning enough right here.”

My eyes went without bidding to the pile of well-read books beside her rocking chair. I lowered my head, but then thought of Chris fumbling awkwardly with the boat, losing his footing on the pan ice. “One thing I know,” I replied, cringing as I did so, “Chris is no more cut out for hunting and fishing than I am.”

“What do you know about that,” said Mother. “You’ve not been here. He sings like the lark all morning long, out there helping his father with his fishing and work stuff. I know his gift—we all know his gift, and how he loves it. But would he like it as much if he wasn’t helping his father, too? If he wasn’t content in other ways? Least he’s choosing what he does. That’s what makes him happiest right there, choosing his own way, and he should be left to it.”

“Well then, he’s choosing to leave, isn’t he?” I cried triumphantly. “So why don’t we just leave him alone and let him go, then? And who’s to say he wouldn’t be more content sitting in a room somewhere all by himself, making art? If that’s what life fitted him for, he should be doing it—lord knows we’re not all fitted for happiness, are we?”

Mother’s eyes fixed upon mine, as though searching for something she might’ve missed.

“Not just the one thing that makes a person happy,” said Gran, looking to us both. “Your mother’s right on that, Dolly. And we can trick ourselves too,” she said, looking to Mother. “There’s many a sad soul out there that thinks they’re happy simply because they picked their own path.”

“My, Gran, is that what you thinks of me,” asked Mother, “that I’m fickle, that I tricked myself into thinking I’m happy?”

“No, my maid, I don’t think you fickle—wouldn’t easy, is all, taking a fancied path in our day. Talk to the boy, Addie, I hears him outside.”

I turned to the window, catching Chris peering through the curtains. He peered closer upon seeing Mother, and frightened he would run off, I ran to the door. “Tell her,” I said, latching onto his arm and dragging him inside, “tell her it’s not me putting ideas in your head.”

“For sure I needs
some
body putting them there,” he said with a grin, “not like things grow there all by themselves.”He staggered backwards and leaned on the doorjamb, the smell of rum filling up the house. “No sir, not like things grow there— whoa, where we going?”

Mother had latched onto his other arm and was dragging him towards his suitcase and pointing at it as though it were the cause of his leaving. “You unpack it. You unpack it right now and put your stuff away.”

“Aw, cripes, Mother.”

“You’re not leaving this house in no morning, it’ll finish your father you takes off like this.”

“Aha, now, don’t go doing this.” He gave a silly grin, draping his arms around her, forcing her to his side.

“You’ll kill your father, you’ll kill him,” she threatened, pushing him away, “and Gran, too—she can’t sleep a wink when you’re not in the house. Speak to him, Gran—and what about Kyle—he’s too used to having you about, how’s he going to be without you?”

“He’ll be fine, just fine, won’t you Kyle—Ky? Oops, where’s Ky?”

“Oh, you’ll laugh, you’ll laugh all right,” cried Mother as he lurched to his suitcase, shoving his clothes back in. “Bet Kyle’s not laughing, though—call him, go out and call him.” She marched to the door, swinging it open. “Kyle! Ky!” She stepped outside, her voice fading into the night.

“Go, get her back,” said Gran as the wind nudged the door shut behind Mother. “She’ll be sick come morning—Sylvie, go get your mother.” She hunched over, picking a shirt off the floor. “Here,” she said to Chris, “before it’s trod on.”

“Nay, I don’t need that,” said Chris. “Show, let’s see—what is it—nay I don’t need that. Thanks, Gran. Thanks.” He flashed her a grateful smile, then cocked his ear to the sound of his brother’s voice arguing with our mother. “Ky’s the one needing help. Go get him, Sis.”

I shook my head. “Come on Gran, they’ll fight it out, let’s go to bed. My, you’re all worked up,” I exclaimed as she stood there, the shirt dangling from her hands. She let it fall back to the floor and sat down in her rocker. I went to her, rubbing the thin, bony shoulders the way I used to those first days in Mother’s house when Gran would shuffle about, not knowing what to do or think without the comfort of her own floors beneath her feet.

Chris belched loudly. He snapped the locks to his suitcase and lifted it off the chair, thumping it to the floor beside Gran’s rocker. Then he knelt before her, a silly grin on his face as she patted his cheek. “I’ll be back before Christmas, all right?” he said, then hung his head tiredly as Mother came back inside, a sharp draft cutting across the room. She held the door open for a minute, calling out to Kyle.

“He won’t come in—Chris, go get him. Kyle!” she called.

Chris looked at me, his eyes suddenly wearied. A twinge of pity struck me, and without will I gave him a bit of a smile. Instantly his grin was back, and so poignant with relief were his eyes that I shook my head with warning, thinking he would lunge towards me, kissing my face as when we were youngsters and I brought him pretty rocks from the beach.

“Little bugger,” cried Mother, closing the door. “He’s been drinking, too—I think he’s getting sick out there. Where you going? Sylvie, where you going?”

“To bed.”

“Wait, don’t go yet.”

“Can’t stay awake, Mom. I’m dead.” I paused, saddened by the anxious look brittling her eyes. As with the night before, I searched for the brilliant blues of that teacher-mother who’d stood before me in the smallest of rooms in Cooney Arm, invoking thought and intrigue. But those eyes were lost to us both now, darkened by her fears. And her voice, as she carried on with her pleading—“Talk to your brother, Sylvie, tell him he can’t leave, talk to your brother”—was full of the commonplace, the shrunken sphere of her own secluded world.

“I can’t argue it, Mom. I just—I’m just too tired right now.” I tried to pull away, but was held in place by the urgency gathering in her eyes. With a feeling akin to pity, I kissed her cheek and then trudged down the hall to my room.

I WAS SLEEPING
when Gran slipped into bed, but awakened immediately. “It’s like she don’t like me sometimes,” I mumbled into Gran’s back.

Gran’s voice was full of strain. “What brought her home, then? She come to see you off. Took courage to leave Sylvanus, sick like that.”

“But you seen how fast she turned.”

“Fright’s what you seen. She’s frightened of Chris’s leaving.”

I fumbled beneath the blankets, reaching my arm around Gran, no bigger than a wrinkle amidst the flannel of her night-dress. “Swear to gawd, you’re shrinking,” I said.

“Dare say I am. It’s in the mind the old lives, Dolly, and that takes more and more room all the time. Be better off yourself, if that’s where you done your rambling.”

“Ooh, here we go agin.” I found her hand, so tiny and warm, and trembling, like holding the breast of a frightened bird. “Are you cold?”

“Go to sleep, now.”

“But why are you shaking?”

“Been shaking for years.”

“Gran.”

“Can’t withstand things like I used to, is all. No strength left.”

Mother’s words came to me, about caring for the old. “You want me to stay longer?” I asked. “I can quit my silly old job— I already offered to for Mom.”

“Not washing a dish that takes strength, Dolly. It’s other things now—watching ye go off. But you got to go. Your mother once cherished that notion. And your poor uncle Elikum. He always wanted to go places but never found the courage. Might still be alive if he followed his heart. You go on now, tomorrow, and let Chris follow. No love’s harder than a mother’s. Remember that tomorrow. Remember that when you thinks on your mother.”

“I’ll make Chris stay.”

“Nonsense. His mind’s set.”

“But she’s so upset. And you, too. It’s always like that around the bay—everybody hating somebody’s leaving. Why? Why does everybody get so upset?”

“From the way we used to live, I suppose. All by ourselves, getting what we wants from the other. When somebody leaves then, we feels crippled. Go to sleep, now—don’t have a nervous stomach, do you, getting back on that plane?”

“No, Gran.”

“Go to sleep, then.”

IN WHAT FELT LIKE
minutes I opened my eyes to a gentle shaking of my shoulder, a tinge of light diffusing the dark, and Chris leaning over me. Like phantoms we glided through the greyish light of dawn, gathering belongings, pulling on sweaters, boots, fumbling only at the door when Kyle appeared from his room. They stood close for a moment, the two brothers, unsure of how to say goodbye.

“Later, buddy,” said Chris, “we got it figured, hey?”

Kyle nodded.

“Right, then. So—you’ll drive Mother about and keep the woodbox filled.” He clapped Kyle’s shoulder and they gave each other a clumsy hug. Their arms fell apart, and Chris hurried out the door, Kyle standing there watching after him.

I put down my suitcase and threw my arms around Kyle.

“Don’t be lonesome, now—he’ll soon be back,” whispered.

He dug his chin into my shoulder and I hugged him hard, feeling the smallness of his shoulders beneath his shirt. “You’ll take care of things?”

He nodded, his fine hair brushing my cheek. “Make him call Mom, won’t you?” he asked, his voice rough.

“I will. You know I will. And we’ll call you, too.”Kissing his face hard, I let myself outside and leaned against the door. The air was cool, salty, and I breathed deep as I looked out to sea. The hills, the water, the sky were the same ashy black, and the air so still I heard the flutter of a gull’s wing. Other sounds came to me in the amphitheatre of early morning: water lapping against the pilings, the timbre of wavelets upon rocks, the far-off drumming of sounders—surely they must’ve been my first sounds, for I was suddenly soused with loneliness, a longing for that lullaby of long ago. An impulse struck me to rush back inside and bury my face in the warmth of Gran’s pillow. Instead I walked slowly towards Chris, who was jamming his suitcase plus a sleeping bag into the back seat of the car, motioning me to hurry.

FIVE