There are other e-mails, too, of course, all the usual junk—marketers and creditors, NEA newsletters, client inquiries. My mother writes that she is packed, again, ready to move to their new apartment. My grandmother is doing poorly, she says. I might want to plan a visit. There’s the occasional stray e-mail from Hannah’s friends, too, which I forward to her in-box, though one night I open one from her friend Ava, which reads: “Joel Stimpek is going to the party at Leyla’s on Sunday. It’s a no-brainer, Han. He thinks you’re hot! Don’t be such a ballet geek!” I close the message immediately, save it as Unread. It occurs to me that Hannah could do the same with my messages, but I dismiss this thought—teenagers aren’t that interested in their parents’ lives and Hannah is no exception. These days, she barely seems to notice Nathan’s and my existence.
Today, the first Sunday in October, Rosalyn Benton, our Ashfield neighbor, has let her goats stray onto our property again. There are five of them this time. When we arrive at the site, they’re tearing off strips of Tyvek paper and pooping on the newly rebuilt front porch. For some reason, I imagine them in Beatrix Potter outfits—little blue knickers and stiff corduroy jackets—and start to laugh.
“Can you drive over and get Rosalyn?” Nathan says irritably. “Tell her to come get her animals under control. And grab a couple coffees while you’re out, would you?” But I don’t want to go to Roz Benton’s. I’m afraid of this neighbor, with her translucent turquoise eyes and cracked yellow fingernails. She always reminds me of a mermaid, hauled against her will from the sea. She’s a retired social worker, or so the locals say, who supposedly never recovered from the loss of her son to Vietnam. Now she makes her living on goat cheese, yarn sweaters and psychic readings, a genuine leftover from the sixties. There are many like her in these hill towns, too many to account for the alarm I feel at the thought of driving to her cottage.
“We’ll just walk the goats back home,” I offer. “The girls and I will take them.”
“Uh-huh. And how, exactly, are you going to manage it?” Nathan stands in the gravel driveway, long fingers fanned over hips. I find myself thinking about the first time we met: I was twenty-six, broke and strung out in a rented dump with four other women, including Theresa, who had lured me to Northampton in an attempt to rescue me. That house was listing like a sinking ship, with starlings’ nests in the porch eaves and so much old paint caked on the sills and trim, it took us a week to pry the windows open. Nathan, a late-blooming undergrad and sometimes carpenter, came to repair a fence for our psychotic greyhound, Byrneman (after David Byrne), who’d bitten the mailman twice and the slumlord once. But Byrneman merely rolled over for Nathan, exposing his soft, freckled belly. “You can’t ignore a man who has a way with animals,” said Theresa, who was forever trying to fix me up with someone nice for a change. “You have to give him a chance if that dog approves.”
Watching him glower at Rosalyn’s goats, I wonder what happened to the gentle idealist who drove me to the hardware store that first day, instructing me on drill bits and the death of affordable housing, then offering to mend our porch roof for free. Afterward, he sat beneath it sipping Irish whiskey out of a Yankees mug, tickling Byrneman’s belly, speaking about his passion for Adirondack furniture and his father’s heart attack with a tender naïveté that made me look twice, despite the narrow eyes, a certain softness around his jaw.
“How are you going to manage it, Sylv?” he repeats. “Have you got goatherding talents I’ve yet to discover?”
“It’s only a ten-minute walk to Roz’s place. We’ve got carrots in the ice chest. We can lure them home. The girls can help, right, Han?” I yank my daughter’s iPod earplugs from her head. “You’ll help me take the goats home, won’t you, sweetie?” I over-enunciate.
“Yeah, sure. Whatever.”
“I can help, Mommy,” pipes Emmie, hugging the neck of the littlest goat. “I know how.”
“Oh, do you?” Nathan’s expression finally cracks. “We’ve got a whole family of closet goatherders?” He laughs. “What about coffees?”
“Why don’t you run to the market yourself?” I shrink from his gaze. “Take the car.” The truth is, I’m shunning the Ashfield Market, where Tai likes to have his Sunday coffee and paper—avoiding the inevitable moment when we run into him again, and I have to navigate my unruly feelings in front of my children, or God forbid, my husband.
As it turns out, Rosalyn’s goats are equally unmanageable. Twenty minutes into our expedition, we aren’t much closer to the property line than when we started. Hannah attempts, with carrots and as much patience as she can muster, to entice the animals through the leaf-strewn woods, while Emmie and I act as sheepdogs, herding them this way and that, trying to stop them from stumbling into the river.
“They’re not very bright, are they?” notes Hannah, flinging another handful of carrots onto the soft ground.
“Or maybe they just don’t like carrots.” I clap my hands behind the tiniest one, who keeps threatening to bolt. Emmie seems to think the whole thing a terrific game; she’s barking like a border collie, laughing and darting through leaf debris, pretending to nip at their heels.
“I think she’s found her calling,” Hannah says drily.
“Well, I’m glad she’s enjoying herself. We might be out here all day at this rate.” Through a stand of pines, a few minutes later, I can finally see one of Rosalyn’s outbuildings at the edge of her meadow.
“Just a little farther,” I pant. “I think they’re starting to get the hang of it.”
And it does seem that the goats are beginning to cooperate: we get them to wander in a straight trajectory for a while, somehow enticing them onto the arched wooden bridge spanning the stream that serves as a property line.
Then, everything happens in an instant. Emmie runs onto the bridge, too close behind the animals, causing a wave of panic among them. She sprawls on the boards just as the mother goat lashes out with a sharp hoof that catches Emmie hard in the forehead. She howls, startling the kid, who scrambles off the edge of the bridge and falls a good four feet into the water. I call for Hannah, who is already wading into the river to rescue the goat. Then I turn to inspect the gash on Emmie’s head, which is bleeding copiously into her left eye.
“Good God,” I gasp as the adult goats scatter over the bridge and across Rosalyn’s meadow. Hannah emerges from the water, soaked to her hip bones, clutching the kid to her chest. I can’t hear what she’s saying over Emmie’s wails.
“Just put him down,” I suggest, searching my pockets for a tissue—anything to mop up the blood. “He’ll follow the others.”
“There’s something wrong with its hind leg,” Hannah yells. “I don’t think he can—” She catches sight of Emmie’s wound. “Holy shit,” she breathes, eyes round as fifty-cent pieces.
I squint up toward Rosalyn’s cottage, weighing my options, then unwrap my sweatshirt from my waist and use it to clean Emmie’s gash. She quiets momentarily. Blood soaks through the white cotton, turning it neon red, and at the sight of this she begins crying in earnest again, while I beat down a stiff wave of panic. Trying to recall what I know about head injuries, I remember a time when my sister ran through a sliding glass door at Gram and Poppy’s and the blood pooled shockingly, though it turned out she only needed two stitches. Ali was out cold that day. At least Emmie is conscious and screaming mightily. Her Hello Kitty T-shirt will never come clean. With the help of Hannah’s pocketknife, I rip one arm from my sweatshirt and tie it around her head as a kind of tourniquet. “Can you carry that little guy up the hill?” I ask Hannah, heaving Emmie onto one hip. “Rosalyn Benton may be weird, but I bet she’ll have first-aid supplies.”
The first time I met Rosalyn, she as good as cursed us. She’d walked over to introduce herself a week or two into the renovation, just after we’d discovered the complete lack of insulation in the kitchen. Nathan and I were slumped on the decaying porch steps, debating whether to tear apart the Sheetrock or blow in insulation,
when Rosalyn emerged from the woods, her gray hair shining in the 5:00 p.m. light. It was early September, and she held a bouquet of Queen Anne’s lace and a pound of goat cheese, as if there was any place to store such things at a construction site. Still, I was touched by her hospitality, until she opened her mouth.
“The family that lived here before didn’t fare so well,” she said in her even therapist’s tones, her watery eyes unblinking.
“I’m starting to get that,” said Nathan wryly.
“The poor man lost his way, couldn’t keep up with the place. You may have heard….”
“We heard that there were money problems,” I offered. “We heard his poor wife and child died in a car accident and—”
“That’s what some people say.” We were all silent, regarding each other warily.
“Well, I guess you think something different,” suggested Nathan after a pause.
“John Kauffman shouldn’t have stayed on here after his wife was gone,” Rosalyn said, glancing around at the stripped siding, the overflowing Dumpster, the crumbling porch steps. She shook her head sadly. “I hope it goes better for you people, but they say houses have their own auras.”
“Yes, this one has the aura of about seventy thousand bucks in renovations.” Nathan chuckled joylessly.
“I hope it goes better for you people,” Roz repeated. “Let me know if you want me to do some energy cleansing.” And then she walked away, leaving her offerings on the railing.
“I think she just cursed us or something,” I said after she’d disappeared down the road.
“Please, Sylvie. You’re starting to sound like the old-timers in town.”
“What did she mean by ‘energy cleansing’?”
“I don’t think I want to know,” he said, dropping his head in his hands.
Now Rosalyn stands before me in her tiny, dark kitchen, inspecting Emmie’s wound, while Hannah pats the russet head of the injured goat Roz has stashed in a laundry basket. I glance at the odd assortment of clutter: herbs and chili peppers hanging from the low rafters; jars filled with beans, legumes and dried mushrooms, unidentifiable mossy bits, shells. The windowsills are lined with pieces of driftwood, painted wooden animals and ceramic goddesses. Though as crowded as any room I’ve been in, it seems clean. I’m starting to feel less panicked when Roz announces, “I’ll just make a healing poultice, then. To stem the bleeding.”
“I’m afraid she might need a couple stitches,” I whisper over Emmie’s whimpering head. Roz stares up, those wide eyes startlingly beautiful in her withered face.
“Aloe leaves can be quite useful for—”
“We just need a good-sized bandage, if you’ve got one. And maybe some ice.”
“Of course. But it might be wise to brew some calendula and nettle—”
“And then a quick ride back to our place, if it’s not too much trouble.” I try to communicate gracious disinterest with my whole person.
“Uh, Mom, I’m, like, totally soaked here.” Hannah indicates her river-sodden jeans.
“Ah—it’s always the little ones who suffer when we go wandering.” Roz nods gravely, rummaging in a cabinet under the sink.
“Excuse me?”
“Think of my Daniel…” She wafts back to the table, unwraps two brown bandages and secures them to Emmie’s forehead. Then she freezes, scrutinizing my daughter’s face. “Why, she looks just like Lucy.”
“Lucy?”
“Yes—” she says, her hand starting to tremor, like one of those bobble-headed dogs on a dashboard. “The children are the ones who pay,” she concludes.
“Look, we were just trying to get your goats back to you, Roz,” I say. “I didn’t mean—”
“Of course. Of course you were. And I’m sorry for the trouble my darlings caused you. They’ve never been able to keep away from John Kauffman’s old place.” She pats Emmie’s thigh. “Looks like I can’t, either.” Plucking the kid from the laundry basket, she tucks him under one arm and leads us out the side door, to an ancient VW bus. I climb in, hoisting my trembling four-year-old onto my lap, struggling to keep the ice pack—wrapped in Rosalyn’s now-bloody gauze scarf—pressed against her wound. Hannah ambles in behind us, tailed by three of the goats; at the sight of this, Emmie stops whimpering and lets out a delighted squeal—a good sign.
“It’s all right,” chirps Roz. “The sweet dears like a ride to town now and then.” As she backs out the long driveway, Hannah falls forward and the goats scramble onto the vinyl seat beside her. She crosses her arms, scrunching hard against the window.
“More exciting than hanging out at the mall, though, isn’t it?” I tease. She rolls her eyes as we bump down the dirt road.
“I’m filthy and freezing.”
“Just hold on, Han. There’s a change of clothes in the car.”
But when we pull into our driveway, there’s no sign of Nathan, or the minivan.
“Brilliant,” drawls Hannah, who is being nibbled by one of the goats.
“I want Daddy to fix my boo-boo,” Emmie whimpers.
“He’s probably just gone for coffee.” I place a hand on Hannah’s damp leg.
“Yeah, but you never can tell with Daddy, can you?”
I check Emmie’s saturated bandages, knowing Hannah is right. Nathan’s the only person we know capable of turning a ten-minute errand into a major detour. I know his lateness isn’t a personal affront, but something more complicated and benign—a kind of childish idealism about time mixed with his inability to gauge the big picture, and spiked, most likely, with a dash of passive aggression.
“My head hurts, Mama,” Emmie says again, swamping me with fresh panic.
“Okay. Listen, Roz, would you mind taking us to the market? Nathan might be there with the car.” But Rosalyn is absently stroking the kid in her lap, staring at our unfinished house.
“We ought to do some energy work around that foundation,” she lilts.
“Right, but—can you take us to the center of town?” My voice is now sharp with irritation.
“Anything for the little ones.” She pulls onto the paved road. Hannah makes a face.
“You still think it’s brilliant there’s no cell phone service up here, Mom?”
“Don’t worry. We’ll find him,” I say. But as Roz idles in front of the market, I can’t spot our car anywhere on the street or in the parking lot. Still, I decide we should get out; there’s at least a working phone here, and I sense that Roz, now muttering something about Mercury being in retrograde, will not be of further assistance. As I’m thanking her for the ride, she blurts, “There’s Tai Rosen’s car. Surely he can help you.”
“You know Tai?” My stomach churns into a pretzel.
“Oh, sure. Helped me with my garden some time ago. Sort of famous around here.”
“Is that right?”
“One of the only people around who understands about labyrinths. Are you friends?”
I pause, perhaps long enough for her to detect something in my features, for her eyebrows float to her hairline, those aqua eyes glinting—no longer dreamy.
“We’ve got to go.” I offer my hand, which she turns, holding firmly in her own. “Thanks again for your help,” I try, but she’s busy examining my palm.
“Would you look at that,” she mutters. “Cleanly divided.”
“Sorry?” I withdraw my hand from her cool, sinewy fingers.
“Your life line is divided in two. What do you make of it?”
“I don’t know, Rosalyn.” Antsy to get away from her, I lift my injured girl from the bus. “I don’t know what to make of anything, just now.”
The Ashfield Market is empty, except for Eveline, two young women in black at the back table and Tai, of course, reading his paper at the counter. My insides lurch to make room for this new piece of chaos, and I shift Emmie higher on my hip bone. He glances up as we enter, his surprise turning to consternation when he sees the look on my face, my bloodstained toddler and sopping teenager. My alr
eady rushing heart gallops so violently, it threatens to knock me clean over. “We’re looking for my husband,” I say in what I fear is the voice of a nine-year-old. “Emmie’s hurt—we need— Did you see Nathan come in?”
“Sylvia.” Just that one word—quiet and insistent as a prayer—and my breath finds purchase in my lungs again. “I don’t even know what your husband looks like.”
“You after Nathan? He came in looking for fasteners.” Eveline appears behind Tai. “I sent him to Williamsburg, to the hardware store. We haven’t got— Lord Almighty, what happened to the child?” At this, Emmie begins crying again and Hannah mutters an obscenity.
“I think she needs a couple stitches. I don’t have my wallet, or, anything.”
“You’ll come with me,” Tai insists. And then, more softly, “I can take you.”
I stare into his face, studying the features that have become too familiar, though they aren’t—I rarely see this abundant mouth, the vivid eyes, except in my thoughts, reading his e-mails, sipping my guilty wine. His torso suddenly seems too long, as if some whimsical, sadistic god has heaved him heavenward by the armpits. Growing nauseous, I wonder if I’ve somehow orchestrated this whole event, sacrificing my youngest just to feel the simple heat of this hand resting on my forearm.
“Take us to the hospital,” I whisper. “If it’s not too much trouble.”
For the second time in two months, I am speeding in the maroon Saab, listening to Tai’s reassurances, only this time they’re directed at Emmie, falling asleep between Hannah and me in the back, her wounded head on my lap. Theresa’s warning echoes in my mind: your kids will be involved eventually, if it’s taking up this much space…. Why is it that when your life’s falling apart, everyone becomes a bloody seer?
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