by Ash Davidson
“Do you have any goldfish?” Rich asked, his chest nearly bursting with the good news.
The clerk shifted herself heavily off her stool and sauntered toward him. She took a clear plastic bag from a pile and a dip net from a hook on the wall.
“Which one?” she asked.
“It’s for my son,” he said, breathless, as she filled the bag with water and scooped the flopping fish inside.
“Anything else?” she asked, knotting the top.
The register chugged out the receipt. She nestled the plastic bag with the fish inside into the glass bowl along with the canister of fish flakes and handed it to him. He tucked it under one arm. Outside, he passed the jeweler’s, and there in the display, a pendant: a single pearl.
When he got back to the truck, he pulled his door shut, set the fishbowl on the seat beside him, then popped open the blue velvet case to peek at the necklace on its silver chain. Pearl, he’d seen at the top of the list on her nightstand.
He started the truck and rolled out of the bank lot. Waves crashed against the crescent of beach as he hit the straightaway, rain sweeping in again as he got into the bends. He flicked on his headlights. After a year of worry, his whole body felt loose, wild with relief. The wipers swished. He swung around Last Chance curve and the fishbowl slid, dove off the seat. He reached after it, fingers grasping air, steering with one hand, road barely visible over the dash. He touched glass.
“Gotcha.”
He brought the bowl up into his lap. Ahead, a horn blared. Headlights filled his windshield. He jerked the wheel to the right, swerving, the horn’s pitch swelling, distorting, and then, in slow motion, he was tipping—
Down below, through the dark trees—snatches of silver, ripple of ocean.
Then he was upside down, flung against the passenger door, heavy thunk-thunk of wood denting metal.
His head cracked window glass, crash of rock, rolling—he was weightless, he was airborne, a snap in his neck—Colleen—and, now, he was falling—
COLLEEN
The phone rang and rang. Colleen pushed in the kitchen door and stomped across the linoleum to grab it. Suddenly, it stopped. Enid. She’d ignored the first few rings, but when Enid hadn’t given up, she’d sighed, shucked off her gardening gloves, and brushed the dirt from her knees. The door ajar, she heard Chub tag the old dog out back—You’re it!—and twist away.
She picked up the receiver and dialed.
“What?” she demanded when Enid answered.
“What?” Enid asked back.
“Did you just call me?”
“No.”
“Oh.”
On the other end, Enid was quiet. They hadn’t spoken since the day after Chub’s fall, Enid checking to make sure he was okay.
“I bought strawberries,” Colleen said. “I was going to make jam.” She let the invitation hang in the air, stretched the phone cord so she could see out the window. There was Chub, crouched in the tall grass with his binoculars, cheeks round with his held breath, as though not breathing were the secret to invisibility.
“All right,” Enid said finally.
It was past eleven by the time Enid pulled up out front in Eugene’s truck. She came in carrying Alsea, Wyatt trailing behind.
“It’s so sunny out all of a sudden,” Enid said. “This day just can’t make up its mind. Wyatt, what do you have to say to Aunt Colleen?”
Colleen saw the scratches on his face and neck, the bruises she’d made.
“I’m sorry,” Wyatt said. He looked smaller, younger. He was only a little boy.
“You’re sorry, what?” Enid demanded.
“I’m sorry I pushed Chub and he got hurt.” Wyatt’s lip wobbled. “I’m sorry—”
“It’s okay, sweetie,” Colleen said. He staggered into her, pressing his face against her stomach—he hadn’t done that in years. She patted his back. “I’m sorry too. I’m sorry I hit you.” He sucked snot in his nose, stepped back, and wiped his eyes.
“All right. Now, go tell Chub,” Enid said.
Wyatt scampered out. Colleen saw Chub stand up from the grass, wary. Wyatt crossed the yard to him. They faced off, and then Chub led Wyatt to the pile of fetch sticks. He waved one in front of the old dog’s face, hurled it across the yard, waited, took the dog by the collar and dragged him over to it, Wyatt trailing behind.
“They’ll be okay,” Enid said, coming up beside her. “They’re boys.”
Colleen washed the first flat of strawberries and Enid set Alsea down on a blanket, then sat at the table cutting the green tops off.
“Did you have lunch?” Colleen asked.
“Not yet.”
Colleen heated tomato soup, fried grilled cheeses in a pan. Rich should be home any minute.
Chub and Wyatt chattered, pulling their breads apart to see how far they could stretch the cheese, then begged to be excused. Without them, it was quiet again.
“How’s Marla?” Colleen asked at last.
Enid let out a long sigh, reaching for another handful of strawberries. “I don’t know. She doesn’t talk to me. It’s like she can’t wait to turn eighteen and get out of here.”
“Neither could you,” Colleen reminded her.
Enid snorted. “And look at me now.”
Colleen stood over the stockpot, stirring.
“Eugene wants her to go to college. Her grades are good enough,” Enid said.
“What would she do at college?” Colleen asked.
Enid shrugged. “Nurse? Teacher? What do I know about college? I don’t even know why he thinks she’ll want to—”
“I’m pregnant,” Colleen blurted out.
Enid tilted her head. “That’s great,” she said. “Isn’t it?”
Colleen nodded, then swallowed. She hadn’t meant to tell her.
By the time the last of the jam jars were sealed, it was almost dinnertime. Enid nursed Alsea.
“I wonder where Rich is,” Colleen said, clattering the dirty pot into the sink. The faucet sputtered.
Enid gathered up Alsea and went to get her boots on.
“Take some of these,” Colleen called after her. “We can’t eat all this.”
She heard Rich turn in. She’d have to tell him the water was spitting again; he needed to check the new pipe.
“Hey,” Enid said. “Harvey’s out front.”
Colleen dried her hands.
“What’s he doing here?” Enid asked.
“Checking on Chub?” Colleen guessed, looking out the window.
Harvey rested a palm on the top of his squad car, looking out at the ocean, sun low in the sky, glinting off the water. He turned and walked slowly toward the house. She pulled open the front door, a tickle of dryness in her throat.
“Hi, Harvey,” she called. Chub’s fine, she was going to say. I’m sorry we bothered you that night—
Harvey took off his hat. With the sun in her eyes, she couldn’t see his face clearly.
July 1 ENID
The day Dad’s body washed up, Mom came to get Colleen and me at school. Normally, the bus let us off at the Deer Rib fork and we walked the last two miles. By the time we got home, Mom was on her second mug. Bottom-shelf gin. Take the polish right off your nails.
That day though, we walked out the double doors and there she was, leaning against the fender of her beater Mercury still in her gutting apron, smoking a cigarette. We stepped off the curb. I was just a kid, happy not to have to walk those two miles, but Colleen grabbed my hand. Other kids moved around us. Dad had been missing for days. He’d disappeared before, gone on benders, come crawling back. But this time they’d found his truck abandoned in a pullout near the harbor.
I started for the car, but Colleen held me back. She squeezed my hand—one, two, three—kept us there at the edge, like if we just didn’t cross to the other side of that parking lot. If we just stayed where we were. Here, on this side, he was still alive.
Later, after Colleen left for Arcata, she used to call the schoo
l. We didn’t have a phone. That bitch Gail Porter used to make me spit out my gum and hand me the receiver.
“Enid?” Just my name, the sound of Colleen’s voice, loosened the knot I worked so hard to keep tied inside. She was always more my mom than Mom.
Then Mom got sick. I got knocked up. I was scared. Kel let me use the phone at the Only. I called Colleen and she came home. Just like that. I called, and she came home.
Once, after Mom died, Eugene and me drove out to the cabin with Marla. Colleen was so alone out there. I felt bad about it. Except, when we got there, she wasn’t alone. Rich was up on the roof. She’d only just met him. Eugene had brought him along to dinner a couple times. But there were the worn-out old shingles strewn across the yard and Rich on his hands and knees with a pouch full of roofing nails, laying new ones.
I’m not proud of it, but I was jealous. It was nothing to him, fixing that roof. He’d have fixed a hundred roofs for her. I saw it when we sat down to dinner and later, when he stood at the sink, soaping our plates. I saw the way he watched her bouncing Marla on her knees—giddyup, giddyup. Already, his heart beat for her.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my husband. But for Colleen—Rich—it was different. And if she had him, then what did she need me for?
It took me a while to come around. But then we sold the cabin, she had Chub, she had her own life there, with him, and she was happy. Colleen’s so quiet, it’s hard to tell, unless you really know her, but I saw it. This life she’d always, always wanted. With all the ups and downs, she was happy.
If I live to be a hundred, I’ll never forget the look on her face when Harvey came up to the house. It was like some part of her knew. The way she’d known that day at school. This time though, it was me who grabbed her hand and held it. When Harvey got close, she backed up. With her free hand she was clutching her belly, shaking her head. No. No. No. And she was squeezing these quick, panicked pulses, like she was spelling out a message. Rich! Rich! Rich!
It would take a few days, Harvey said. To get a boat, divers.
No. Colleen shook her head. No. As if Harvey was mistaken.
Someone saw it, Colleen. Harvey tried to reason with her.
She tugged at my hand, backing up. Poor Harvey, I backed up too. I think some part of me still believed my big sister could undo it. That we could step back and the curb would be there. That we could turn around, and walk back in those doors.
July 12 COLLEEN
The house smelled different, like firewood and fried eggs left on the stove, like it had smelled when she first came to live in Rich’s house. The clink of her keys set down in the bowl of agates. The empty rooms. She was still expecting him to be here when she came home. To knock his boots against the back stoop and duck in. To ask her: How was it?
She helped Chub out of his funeral clothes, put him to bed. In the bathroom, she took off her earrings. A sob rose up from her belly. She turned on the faucet and let it run. All day she’d been holding it in. Now she sat on the toilet and cried.
When she was through, she washed her face and made toast. She took a pot from the kitchen out onto the front stoop and tipped the five-gallon bottle until water poured.
The little metal urn had reminded her of a cold thermos when they’d handed it to her. The grave was in the west corner, near his parents, below a weeping willow whose leaves swept the ground. She brought the good water inside.
In the backyard, she fed the old dog his dinner. Her nostrils were rubbed raw. Her swollen eyelids ached. She stroked the mutt’s hackles while he ate, soothing him the way Rich had. She stared at the yellow square of window light. From outside, it looked like a normal house.
Tall grasses painted cold wet tails along her legs. Rich hadn’t mowed since—
She pressed her palms against her eyes.
Finally, she went in. One by one, she turned off the lights, until she stood in the doorway of their dark bedroom.
Will you be okay to drive? they’d asked after the service. Not, Will you be okay to chop wood, change your oil, raise your son without his father? Not, Will you be okay to live? As though driving were the only thing she would have to learn to do without him.
She sat in the rocker. She didn’t want to lie down. The phone rang and rang in her dreams. She’d wake with the gasp of the drowned, fling her arm out across his empty pillow. Sometimes, in the haze of waking, it took her a moment to remember.
She rocked to the same rhythm she’d once nursed Chub to—Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Any moment she’d hear Rich’s tires on the gravel, his keys in the burl bowl. The chair creaked on its runners, keeping her quiet vigil.
Past midnight, she finally crawled into bed, took the last shirt he’d slept in—retrieved from the laundry basket—from under the covers. It still smelled like him.
I’m twelve weeks today. She slid her hands over her belly, as Rich might have. She buried her head in her elbows. Rich, come back. Don’t leave me here. I can’t do this by myself. Please. Come back.
July 13 COLLEEN
Enid stopped by with a rotisserie chicken and the check for Rich’s share of the salvage job. She brought a stack of mail up from the box.
“I could come stay for a while,” she offered.
“We’re okay,” Colleen said.
* * *
There was paperwork. Waiting in line at the county health department for Rich’s death certificate, a piece of paper she held in her hands, like a ticket she could trade for her husband, if she could just find the right office. There were casseroles. A banana cream pie left on the mat. Colleen covered the casseroles with tinfoil and stacked them in the refrigerator. When the freezer was full, she threw them away.
Harvey stopped by to check on her, sat with his hat between his knees.
“I can’t sleep,” she admitted. “I keep thinking—”
Ocean flooding in the window he kept cracked, his panic as the light faded overhead, his lungs burning, that final deep gasp.
“He was gone before he ever hit the water,” Harvey assured her.
“How do you know?”
“I’ve patrolled that road for thirty years. Seen a lot of wrecks. He didn’t feel a thing, Colleen. I promise you.”
Colleen wiped her eyes.
“How’s Chub?” he asked, to change the subject.
She shook her head. One hour he was fine. The next he climbed up into her lap and clung to her. When would this all be over?
* * *
Don and Gail Porter brought a gasoline can. Don went out back and mowed the lawn.
Dot brought a cobbler.
Pete brought a cord of firewood and stacked it for her.
The young, skinny man from Rich’s crew, Quentin, brought back an old chainsaw Rich had loaned him.
“I can put it in the shed,” he offered. “It’s heavy.”
“You should keep it,” she said. “We won’t use it.”
“He might, when he’s older?” The man lifted his chin at Chub.
She shook her head no.
“Can I see?” Chub asked, stepping around her, then peering at the different parts as the man explained them.
“Your dad taught me a lot,” he said. “He was a good man.” He set his hand on Chub’s shoulder.
It wasn’t until after Quentin left that Colleen noticed the two new water bottles sitting on the gravel below the stoop, as though Rich had delivered them in the night.
* * *
Marsha made coffee, the kitchen table heaped with unopened mail—sympathy cards, bills.
“Look at all this,” Marsha said. “You ready for some help?”
Like the sputter of the kitchen faucet, the spider roaming the bathroom ceiling, what were her finances except one more thing waiting, waiting for Rich to return?
Marsha sat down and opened the bills. “Where’s your bank book?”
Colleen brought it to her.
“Where’s the loan bill on that 24-7 land?” Marsha asked.
Co
lleen shrugged.
“Did he pay it this month already I wonder?” Marsha thumbed through his checkbook, wrinkled her nose, talking to herself. “This here is a lifesaver.” Marsha tapped the salvage check, which Colleen still hadn’t deposited. “He had life insurance, didn’t he?” Marsha asked. “Clive sold all the guys policies back in the day. Might not be a lot, but every little bit helps.” Marsha flicked through the folder Colleen had brought her. “Come on now, Rich,” Marsha mumbled. “Where did you put it?”
Colleen pressed her fingers to the spot in her chest where the ache had lodged. She wanted Rich to come home and sort out this whole mess. She wanted Rich.
* * *
After everyone had left and she was finally alone, after she’d turned on Chub’s night-light and stood for a moment in its red glow, she went into their bedroom, took the stack of undershirts out of Rich’s dresser, and pressed them to her face. The cloth was woven with his scent, soft with wear. It muffled the sound.
July 18 CHUB
His mom slung the waders over her shoulder, took Chub’s slicker off its hook, and held it out. Chub raced down the hall for his binoculars.
Outside, the old dog got to his feet.
“Can we bring him?” Chub begged. “Pleeease?”
His mom found a length of rope, tied it to the dog’s collar, and set the other end in Chub’s hands.
“You know the way?” she asked.
He found the path and followed it. At Little Lost Creek, the dog waded across, then shook. Chub squeezed his eyes shut.
“Come back!” he yelled, chasing the trailing rope.
He got up to the 24-7 tree first and ran around the back, jerking the dog’s rope, pulling him along. He crouched, huffing too hard to hold his breath for long. One one thousand, two one thousand.
After a moment, he heard his mom. He clamped the old dog’s snout shut so he wouldn’t pant so loud.