by John Saul
"Where'd you look?"
"In the 'fridge."
"Grandma keeps them in the laundry room. Come on."
A moment later, each of them armed with a warm Coke, they wandered out into the backyard. "Hey, have you been down to the river yet?"
Michael shook his head. "I haven't been anywhere."
"Well, come on," Ryan told him. "The river's the best part of Prairie Bend." With Michael following him, Ryan headed around behind the barn, then across the pasture toward the strip of cottonwoods that bordered the river. Five minutes later, the two of them stepped out of the sunshine into the deep shade of the trees. In contrast to the openness of the prairie the woods were choked with underbrush. The canopied branches overhead created a closed-in feeling that made Michael shiver.
"Where's the river?" he asked.
"Down the trail. Come on."
A couple of minutes later the path made a sharp right, then opened out onto the river. Here the bank was low, and Ryan scrambled down onto the beach that separated the woods from the water. "You should have seen it last month. It was full, and the whole beach was covered. Right here, the water must have been six feet deep."
"How deep is it now?" Michael asked. They'd crossed the beach and stood at the water's edge. The river was moving lazily, the current only rippling the surface near the far bank, but it was murky, its waters stained by the silt it carried.
"Only a couple feet on this side. You could wade almost all the way across, but it gets deep over by the other bank."
"Can we go swimming?" Michael asked.
Ryan looked doubtful. "I don't know. It's still kind of early, and the water's pretty cold."
"Aw, come on," Michael urged. "You said it was shallow."
But Ryan still hesitated. "Nobody ever goes in this early. It's too dangerous. You can't see where the holes are, and the current can grab you."
Michael stared out at the river. "You chicken?" he finally asked.
That did it. Ryan scowled at his cousin. "There's a swimming hole down near the bend. Come on."
They started downstream and in a few minutes came to the point where the river began the first of the curves that would take it around the village. Here, the spring floods had eroded the bank, creating an inlet where the water seemed almost still. A huge cottonwood stood by the inlet, its roots half exposed, one enormous limb reaching out over the water. From that branch, a rope hung, an old tire tied to its free end. Michael knew immediately what it was for.
"How do you get to it?"
"You have to climb the tree, then go down the rope."
Ryan explained. "Once you're on it, you get it swinging, then dive off it."
"You wanna go first?"
Ryan stared at him. "Are you crazy? Nobody's been in swimming yet. There could be rocks in there, and it's cold, and you don't know how deep it is. None of the kids go off the tire until someone's been down there to make sure it's safe."
"What could happen?" Michael asked.
"You could break your neck, that's what," Ryan replied.
"Bullshit."
"Bullshit, nothin'! It's happened."
"Well, it won't happen to me," Michael said. He set his half-drunk Coke down and started stripping off his clothes. A moment later, naked, he scrambled up the cottonwood and began making his way out onto the limb that overhung the swimming hole. From the shore, Ryan watched him anxiously.
"Don't start down the rope 'till you check it out. It might be rotten."
Michael nodded. A few seconds later he came to the rope, and straddling the branch, grasped the loop with both hands. He gave it an experimental tug and, when it held, began pulling harder. Satisfied that it wouldn't break, he reached down and took hold of the hanging section. Finally he rolled off the trunk, and began letting himself down the rope until his feet touched the tire. When he was standing on the tire, he grinned at Ryan, then began slowly pumping to get the tire swinging.
"You're supposed to sit on the tire," Ryan yelled.
Michael ignored him. The makeshift swing began to move, with Michael maneuvering it so that soon it was arcing back and forth, over the bank on the backswing, and out over the center of the swimming hole on the forward swing. When he had it going as high as he could, he crouched on top of the tire, waited for the crest of the forward swing, then released his grasp on the rope and sprang away from the tire, flipping himself into a back dive. Just before he hit the water he took a deep breath, and listened with satisfaction to the scream that had burst out of Ryan. Then he plunged into the icy water.
From the shore, Ryan stared at the spot where Michael had disappeared into the murk, unconsciously holding his breath and counting the seconds. Time seemed to stand still as he waited for his cousin's head to reappear.
Ten seconds went by, then fifteen.
Twenty seconds.
Thirty.
His breath bursting out of his lungs, Ryan began to panic. Should he jump in after Michael, or run for help? But run where? No one was home at his grandparents', and the village was too far away.
"Help! Somebody help us!"
And then, just as he was about to jump into the dark water, the surface broke, and Michael's grinning face appeared. With three strong strokes, he made it to the shore and scrambled out.
"It's neat!" he cried. "You want to try it?"
Ryan ignored the question. "What the hell are you doing? I thought you'd hit a rock!"
"I coulda stayed under for a whole minute," Michael said, flopping down on the ground. He was barely even panting, and his eyes were sparkling. "Did I scare you?"
Ryan glared down at his cousin and again ignored the question. "You coulda gotten killed."
"I scared you, didn't I?"
Ryan finally nodded his head. "So what?"
"Betcha thought I wouldn't do it."
Ryan shrugged elaborately. "So you did it. What's that prove, except that you're stupid?"
"It wasn't stupid—it was fun. Go on—try it!"
But instead of peeling off his clothes, Ryan only sat down and reached for his Coke. "I'm not gonna try it, and if you want to think I'm chicken, go ahead. There's rocks down there. You were just lucky you didn't hit one."
Michael took a sip of his Coke and thought about it. He'd known there were rocks beneath the surface—at least, Ryan had told him so, and he hadn't thought Ryan was lying. And yet, while he'd been swinging on the rope, he hadn't felt frightened. He'd felt excited, and knowing he was taking a risk was part of the excitement. But he hadn't really thought about getting hurt. Or had he? He tried to remember, but couldn't. All he could remember was the thrill of swinging out over the river, then letting go and plunging toward the cold water, not knowing exactly what was under the surface.
Suddenly a vision of his father came into his mind, plunging through the air, then slowing as his chute opened. Always, the chute had opened. But what if it hadn't?
Was that what his father had loved about skydiving? The risk? Knowing that each time he tried it, the parachute might not open? And yet, even as he'd dived, Michael had known nothing was going to happen to him. He'd known it. But how?
He began pulling his clothes back on, and a few minutes later the two boys started back toward their grandparents' house. It wasn't until they'd emerged from the woods and started across the pasture, though, that Michael finally spoke.
"I wasn't going to hurt myself."
Ryan glanced at him, but kept walking. "How do you know?"
Michael shrugged. "I just know."
Now Ryan came to a halt and stared at Michael. "What are you, some kind of nut?"
"N-no," Michael stammered. "But when I dove, I knew I was going to be all right. I just knew it." Unconsciously, his hand went up and rubbed the back of his neck, and Ryan suddenly grinned.
"If you didn't get hurt, how come you're rubbing your neck?"
Michael dropped his hand to his side. "It's not my neck. I just have a headache, that's all."
"Ye
ah," Ryan agreed, his voice mocking now. "Just a headache. You did hit a rock, didn't you. Lemme see your head."
Bending, Michael let his cousin examine the back of his head. "Is there a cut?" he asked, his voice half curious, half challenging.
"Unh-unh. Is it sore?"
"Not like I hit it. It's just a headache." Suddenly he frowned, wrinkling his nose. There was a strange odor, as if something was burning. "What's that stink?"
"Stink? What stink?" Ryan sniffed at the air, then shook his head. "I don't smell anything."
"It's like something's on fire." He scanned the horizon, sure he would see a plume of smoke nearby, but there was nothing. He turned back to Ryan. "Don't you smell it?"
Ryan scowled. "I don't smell anything, 'cause there's nothing to smell. What are you, some kind of nut?" he said again.
A flash of pain shot through Michael's head. "Don't you call me crazy," he flared.
Ryan's expression darkened. "I'll call you whatever I want to! What are you gonna do about it?"
Michael stood still, sudden fury toward his cousin mounting inside him as his head throbbed with pain. "Drop dead," he heard himself whisper. "Why don't you just drop dead?"
Ryan's eyes began to dance, and the beginnings of a grin spread over his face. But then, as Michael glared at him, the grin faded, and the color drained from Ryan's face as his hands clutched at his stomach. He began backing away from Michael, then turned and began running across the field.
A moment later Michael was alone, and his headache began to ease. As he started walking back toward his grandparents' house, he tried to figure out what had happened. But no matter how hard he thought about it, it still didn't make sense. All he'd done had been to tell his cousin to drop dead. Everybody did that, and everybody knew it was only words. And yet, for a few seconds, it had almost looked like Ryan really was going to drop dead.
But they were only words, and they weren't even his words. They'd just sort of tumbled out of his mouth, almost as if someone else had spoken them.
But there was no one else…
Janet emerged from Dr. Potter's small consultation room into the parlor that served as reception area during the day and Potter's living room at night. Amos Hall rose from his position on the Victorian sofa that stood in the bay window, but Anna remained still in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, her posture expressing a calmness that her anxious eyes belied. "Well?" she asked.
Janet's mouth curved into an uncertain smile. Now or never. She had to tell them, and through a sleepless night she had decided that the examination would provide the perfect moment. "Well, I'm pregnant," she said.
A sigh emerged from the older woman, and she slumped in her chair. "So," she said at last, her eyes shifting away from Janet to glance warily at her husband. "I suppose that's some kind of blessing, isn't it?" she said.
"I don't know," Janet replied, too involved in her own emotions to notice her mother-in-law's reaction to the news. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to do some thinking about it."
"Thinking?" Amos Hall strode across the room and took Janet's coat from a hook, holding it for her as she slid her arms into its sleeves. "What's there to think about?"
Janet swallowed, wondering if she should tell them that her first thought on having the pregnancy confirmed was that she should have an abortion as soon as possible. She had known she was pregnant for several weeks and had kept her suspicions to herself, hesitating even to tell Mark. There had been no real notion in her mind then that she would not have the baby—she loved Mark too much to deny him a second child, despite the upheavals it might cause in their lives. After all, Michael was already nearly twelve—almost a teenager—and their small family was settled, comfortable. But now Mark was dead. Everything had changed.
"I'm not at all sure I should have it," she said in a carefully neutral voice. "I'm not as young as I could be—"
"Not have it?" Anna cried. "Not have Mark's baby? Oh, Janet, you can't be serious. Why, that would be— well, to start with, it would be murder!"
"Now, Mama, don't get yourself worked up," Amos Hall cautioned his wife, though his eyes never left Janet. "Things have changed. Not everyone thinks the way you and I do anymore."
"If the baby's healthy, it has a right to live," Anna declared, her eyes flashing with anger. Then, softening a little, she turned to Janet. "I'm not an old-fashioned woman, dear, whatever Amos says. I can certainly see that there might be circumstances where it could be better for a baby not to be born." She eyed Janet's midsection critically, its slight swelling apparent to her now. "Besides, it's too late, isn't it?"
"Almost," Janet conceded. "But what about my feelings? Don't my feelings count?" she added, then wished she hadn't.
"Your feelings?" Anna asked. "What do you mean? Do you mean you don't want the baby?"
Janet shook her head. "That's not it at all, Anna. It just seems like—" She stopped short, suddenly realizing she didn't have the slightest idea of how she felt about anything. All she felt was confused. If only she could talk to Mark… But she couldn't, not ever again. And, she remembered with a shudder, the Mark she had thought she'd known was a different man from the one she was discovering since she'd arrived in Prairie Bend. She appealed to Amos. "Would you mind if I walked home?" she asked. "I really think I need to walk a bit. I need to get used to things. There's so much to sort out."
Amos frowned. "Are you sure? I'm not sure how much exercise—"
Janet put up a protesting hand, and made herself smile with a confidence she wasn't feeling. "Times have changed, Amos. And I really do need to be by myself, just for a little while." Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and stepped out of Dr. Potter's office into the bright noontime sun. She glanced around, orienting herself, and then set out for the center of the village.
Prairie Bend, she realized, was truly no more than a village, and it seemed, as she walked the single block from Potter's house to the main street, oddly familiar. It wasn't until she'd walked a bit further, though, that she realized just what it was about the town that she recognized. It was like the country village of her dreams, the picturesque town she'd imagined whenever she'd envisioned the peaceful little farm that would someday be hers.
Prairie Bend was more than a century old, but it appeared that it had reached its full size shortly after it had been founded.
It had been carefully planned in the shape of a half wheel, with four spokelike streets radiating out from the square at the hub, and three more streets, each of them paralleling the curve of the river, sweeping around those spokes. The lots had been carefully laid out, with obvious foresight, but then, apparently, the planned-for, population had never materialized, for most of the lots were still empty, though none of them was uncared for, and the wide green lawns, bordered by trees and occasional gardens, created a parklike, spacious feeling.
Nowhere was there a building that looked new, yet nowhere was there a building that was in disrepair. The village was small: a general store, the post office, a drugstore which did double duty as the only cafe in town, two gas stations—one of which had a garage—a tiny school, and the church. All of it neatly arranged around the little square, all of it shaded by immense old trees, and all of it cradled in the bend of the river.
Janet paused in the square and tried to reconcile what she was seeing with what Mark had told her about Prairie Bend. But slowly, she began to realize that he had never said much about it at all—only that he hoped never to see it again.
But why?
There was nothing threatening about it, nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for its loveliness.
Then what was it that Mark had hated so much?
And why had Prairie Bend never grown?
Why had a place so lovely stayed so small?
She didn't know, and she probably never would know.
Unless she stayed.
It was the first time she'd let herself fully face the idea that had been niggling at her mind all morn
ing, but now, in the quiet and peace of the spring noontime, she began examining the idea, making a mental ledger of its advantages and disadvantages.
She had family, albeit in-laws, in Prairie Bend; none in New York.
She had little money in either place, and nothing much in the way of professional skills.
She would be able to keep her apartment in New York for the moment, but only for the moment. Eventually, she would have to find a cheaper place to live.
In Prairie Bend, she owned a farm.
Mark had hated Prairie Bend, but had never told her why. Perhaps there had been no reason, or at least no good reason.
She thought about her in-laws. Good people, kind people, who wanted to take care of her. But why? Who was she but the widow of the son who had rejected them? Why should they care about her?
Yet, even as she asked herself the question, she was sure she knew the answer. They cared about her because they were warm and loving people who didn't hold their son's actions against her or her child. No—they wanted her, and they wanted Michael. And for a while, at least,
she wanted to rest in the refuge of Prairie Bend and the love of Mark's parents.
As she left the square and passed through the rest of the village, then started out toward the Halls', she knew her mind was made up.
Forty minutes later she walked into Anna Hall's kitchen and sat down at the table. Her mother-in-law glanced disapprovingly up from the cake batter she was stirring, then away.
"Did you get your thinking done?" she asked in a voice that implied a sure knowledge of the outcome of that thinking.
"Yes, I did," Janet said quietly. "I'm going to keep my baby, and I'm going to keep my farm. Michael and I are going to live here."
Anna Hall put down the spoon, then held her arms out to Janet, who slipped willingly into her embrace.
"If that's what you want," Anna whispered. "If you're sure that's what you want, then you're welcome here. More than welcome. But I warn you," she suddenly added. "Once you become a part of Prairie Bend, you'll never be able to leave."
A shiver passed through Janet, but a moment later she had forgotten it.