When she did remember her son, Eva Bock prayed. It was the only time she prayed, and since she rarely remembered, she prayed infrequently. She began with the Lord’s Prayer but usually wound up arguing about the funeral with Hugh, her husband, dead thirty-two years now. “Thy will be done, on earth as it is in Heaven,” she would recite, imagining Thomas’s soul continuing to fly upward while the rest of him fell back to earth. “And get rid of the flag,” she told Hugh. “It’s sullying his coffin.” When they sent Thomas home in a bag with a zipper, Hugh oversaw the entire affair: the guns, flag-folding, honors from a country that served Thomas up in the name of— what? It was a question she’d asked so many times it was boiled down, the feeling refined out of it. Just a quiet string of words she wished God would tell her the answer to. Sometimes during these prayers, when she got to the part where she meant to argue about the funeral, a young Hugh Bock would appear before her, expressionless and shining in a white linen suit. He was handsome and when she saw him like this she would forget what it was she wanted to say. She would feel girlish and shy and want to adorn him in some way, perhaps slide a daisy into the buttonhole on his lapel.
Today she did not remember Hugh or her son. She thought only of hand-delivering the letter in her pocket. It was cold out, close to freezing, in fact, and her knuckles ached around the handle of the umbrella. Should have put on my coat. But there’s no sense in turning around. She was passing the pond and gazebo beside the school. Children—looking impossibly tiny to her, dwarfed by oversized backpacks—were emerging from side streets and parked cars. They wore brightly colored rubber shoes and hats with tassels. Mothers and fathers looked at her but did not wave or say hello, which was the way Eva wanted it. It was the reason she’d started wearing the headphones. The muscles of her face no longer betrayed any expression, so that it was difficult for anyone to tell if she was feeling friendly, which she usually was not. More than anything else, while she walked, Eva Bock wanted to be left alone.
Two boys wearing hooded sweatshirts flicked thin branches over the pond like fly rods. Sunlight and shadow spotted the muddy water, the surface of which buoyed a thousand brightly colored leaves. A yellow dog sat on the bank beside the boys.
“Careful,” Eva said. She had not intended to say the word aloud.
They turned to look at her. One boy laughed, then leaned over and said something to the other.
“What are you listening to?” the second boy called out.
Eva kept up her wide, even steps. “Floods in Mexico,” she said. “A mountain fell into the sea and the wave washed away a village in Chiapas.”
The bell rang. The boys ran across the school’s front lawn, the dog following, their shoes kicking up little moist tufts of grass.
Something in the way the boys ran off . . . Eva felt as if a stack of papers were shifting inside her head. Remember. But as soon as she tried there was only the road ahead of her, a line up of latecoming cars, children’s faces like pale moons in backseat windows. Eva planted her feet and stood, waiting for the cars to pass. She listened to the British announcer reporting the collapse of a bridge in Dubai. She thought of her letter and reached into her pocket, afraid she might forget her errand and turn around at the four-way stop. She rubbed her fingers along the edge of the envelope, feeling the stamps. She’d had to lick four of them to make enough postage. Almost a half-dollar to mail a letter to the President.
She continued on, past City Hall with its wooden sign hanging by only one hook so the words Lookout Mountain, Ga. had to be read sideways. She passed the Fairy Bakery with its morning smells of cinnamon rolls and coffee. The bakery had opened in September and some mornings the line came out the door.
At the McFarland intersection, in front of the gas station, she had to stop to rest. There was a bench in the tiny center island, placed there by the Fairyland Garden Club. Violas had been planted around the bench and Eva accidentally crushed two of them beneath her shoe. She sat down, folding her hands around her knees. Only a quarter-mile, Miss Eva. How are you going to make it all the way into Tennessee? Little black spots dotted the outside edges of her vision. She swiped at them with her hand.
Coming toward her, crossing Lula Lake from Oberon Road, was the new family—the professor’s wife and her two children. Eva had seen them before. They were late for school but the mother did not seem in a hurry. The boy had hair like a mushroom cap and carried a long stick. The girl’s brown hair was pulled into pigtails and she wore a skirt with stockings. The mother watched the boy, who, when they reached the island, pointed the stick at Eva and pretended to fire. The mother said something and Eva pushed back an earphone.
“Sorry to interrupt. We’ve seen you out walking.” She put her hands on the tops of the children’s heads. “This is Myra and Grady. I’m Jocelyn Corley.” She held out a hand. She seemed eager to be touched.
Eva took her hand and looked up. The woman had a scarf tied around her neck. Sarkozy, Eva heard in one ear, like President Bush, is a teetotaler. He enjoys mountain biking. He and Bush are discussing a Franco-American holiday in honor of Lafayette.
“We’ve been so charmed, seeing you out here every day,” the mother said. “We even made up a limerick about it. We thought, with your permission, we could send it to the Mountain Mirror.”
“Let’s hear it then,” Eva said. She was annoyed by this distraction from her errand and by the fact that these new folks had already formed opinions about her. Again she reached to feel for the letter in her pocket. In one ear Sarkozy was speaking. France was there for the United States at the beginning. United States was there for France during the wars in Europe. We must remind our people of this.
The little girl stepped behind her mother, shy; but Jocelyn and the boy recited:
“There once was a woman named Bock,
who every day went for a walk.
Rain or snow,
still she would go,
each step like the tick of a clock.”
“Carrying a dirty sock,” said the boy. “Looking for a cool rock.”
“He comes up with alternate endings,” the mother said.
“What’s on your Ipod?” the girl asked. When Eva didn’t answer the girl pointed to her hip.
“Oh. It’s a radio.” She lifted the corner of her sweater so the girl could see the cassette player. “I’ve got my news program on. The war.”
The boy sat down on the bench and unzipped his backpack. “Are you for blue or gray?”
Eva wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. The spots were elongating, drifting toward the center of her vision.
“Watch this,” said the boy, pulling something from his bag. It was a large magnolia seedpod. He turned it over in his hand. “Incoming!” he said. He plunked the seedpod down onto the bed of violas and made a crackling noise inside his mouth.
Eva removed her headphones. “Where did you learn that?”
“Since we moved here he’s become obsessed with weapons,” the mother said. “All this Civil War history everywhere.”
For a moment Eva thought she might reach out and shake the boy by the shoulders. In the name of what? But then she could not remember what her question meant.
Now the mother was smiling; she was taking the children away. As they crossed McFarland the boy looked back and waved.
Eva lifted her chin and put her headphones back on.
On she went, past the Mountain Market with its green awning and smells of pipe tobacco and lard from the deep fryer, past the Garden Walk Inn with its trellised porch and dollhouse mailbox. And now began the stretch of large homes set back from the road. Two more blocks and she would reach the four-way stop. This was still familiar ground. But Eva was beginning to worry.
In the first place, she realized, now that she was near the border, she could not remember if the post office in Tennessee was actually on Lula La
ke Road. She thought there might be a turn somewhere. In the second place—whether from excitement or just the anticipation of the extra length of her walk—her heart was clattering beneath her sweater like teeth in the cold. She turned off the radio, though she left the headphones on to discourage talkers. She put her hand into her pocket and rubbed the letter between her thumb and forefinger. The black spots floated up, and up, in front of her.
Past Elfin, past Robin Hood Trail. She had to stop three times to steady herself for passing cars, all of which slowed and crossed the double yellow line into the opposite lane. She saw Megan Compson wave from inside her silver van. Eva walked on, trying not to bend her knees too much. Beside the road were smears of color, red and yellow, purple and orange; twiggy bushes and small trees with dead brown leaves under them; low stone walls and white fences with latched gates. Vines with chalky periwinkle berries dragged at her sleeve and pant legs. The sun laid orange slats of light across rooftops. Dogs strolled out from porches and sniffed at her legs; the ones that barked she held off with her umbrella.
She rounded the last curve and saw the single pulsing red light above the intersection of Lula Lake and Lee Avenue. She could not remember why she was supposed to cross rather than turn around. Something about solemn duty and the government.
She reached the intersection and stood, breathing. Her lips felt dry. Beside her was a wrought-iron sign with arrows and words: lookout mountain bird sanctuary. point park, cravens house, ruby falls. Another sign, shaped like a choo-choo train, read take scenic highway down to historic chattanooga!
Something about the government. Something about a funeral. The post office. She was going to tell President Johnson how she felt about things in North . . . She reached into her pocket and her heart rattled beneath her ribs. Surely the post office would not be in the direction of all those damned tourist traps. She turned onto Lee.
After walking thirty yards Eva realized she had made a mistake. The road curved and began to climb a hill. She had not planned on climbing any hills. She turned to go back to the intersection and the asphalt rushed up toward her. She would have fallen were it not for the umbrella, which she threw out in front of her and held on to with both hands—she had to lean back and squat to avoid falling. There was nothing for it but to continue uphill, and to do so she was forced to lean forward and bend her knees, using her umbrella like a cane. She was considerably irked by the black spots, which moved around and around in the trees on either side of her. Pinestraw blanketed the pavement beneath her; it was slippery and she moved toward the center of the road. Why wasn’t she on Lula Lake Road? Why wasn’t she on her way home? The sun was already above the tops of the tallest pines.
The hill became steeper; now if she stopped at all she would not be able to hold her balance. Eva made up her mind to signal the next car that drove past and request a ride back home. No, that wasn’t right. She was supposed to mail a letter. She would request a ride to the post office, and then home. She removed her headphones and left them hanging in an arc about her neck.
Ahead of her was a sharp blind curve. If she didn’t cross the street she might be struck by an oncoming vehicle. Eva listened for cars; hearing nothing, with slow steps she crossed to the right side of the road.
Where the pavement ended, there was a steep drop-off. Below, fifty yards down the rocky hillside, Eva could see a track. A woman was running laps. Next to the track was a baseball diamond, the grass still green. Silver bleachers gleamed on either side of the baselines; beyond the field was a playground with swings and picnic tables. The Commons, on the Tennessee/Georgia border grass stains on his pants. The smell of leather oil and sweat. Watch this hit, I’ll fly it to the moon. Crepe myrtle blossoms in a jar on the kitchen table . . . and now a black dog was bounding up the hillside. Eva saw him for only a second before he reached her. She did not have time to steady herself. She hit at him with her umbrella, then lost her balance and fell. Her thin body hurtled down the side of the hill toward the baseball field until she struck the trunk of a maple tree with her left hip bone.
She lay on her side among rocks and fallen leaves. For a space of time—seconds? hours?—she thought she had finished with her walk and was now resting in her own bed, and for this she felt an overwhelming gratitude. Interrupting her sleep was a dog’s bark, abrupt like the scrape of a chair being pushed back from a table. A leaf blower droned, a bird sang. The sifting of leaves, then a quick panting, very close to her ear.
She opened her eyes. The black dog was in front of her; she saw his paws, toes spread on the uneven rocky hillside, cluster of silver tags hanging from a purple collar. He barked and Eva threw an arm over the ear that was facing upward.
The sleeve of her sweater was torn and pocked with hitchhiker burrs. She noticed her earphones were gone. The dog stopped barking and began to sniff around her face. Warm tongue on her cheek. The dog whimpered and backed away, then disappeared down the hillside.
The trunk before her was twisted about with a vine of bright pink leaves. In her confusion, Eva thought they were hands clamoring to reach the top branches, each leaf five fingers pressing into the bark, staking its claim. She rolled her head and saw that the vine ended halfway up the trunk; at the top of the tree the branches were thin and white, with only a few yellow leaves still attached. Through the branches the sky was an exhilarating blue.
She remembered: She was going to the post office in Tennessee. She was going to deliver a letter to President Bush.
What foolishness! She should never have attempted such a thing. Twenty years she had stood up to speeding tourists, and all anyone would remember was that she had fallen off the side of the road because of a dog. And what did she know about the war? Listening to NPR had only given her ideas, had made her forget who she was. She was an eighty-nine-year-old pacifist who could not find her way to the post office. Who could not remember her own son.
What do you know about the decisions of our government? It was Hugh’s voice. He was standing in the driveway next to her; in her hand was the garden hose.
I know our son is dead. Cheated out of his birthright by his own country. I know the President is a liar.
Hugh slapped her across the face. She stumbled backward into the hydrangea bush. Your son died in the name of this country. And here you are, setting your goddamn table with goddamn linen napkins. She lay in the bush, looking up at the sky.
But something was not right with the sky. The black spots had returned and now swirled in front of the blue and branches and the yellow dangling leaves. Eva let her head roll back so she was again looking at the vine on the tree trunk and the black spots came with her, they went out to join the leaves, or the leaves peeled off and joined the spots, she couldn’t tell. They were coming together, the colors merging into a subdued gray, approaching her, arranging themselves in a dark processional.
In her mind, Eva righted herself to meet them.
The spots drifting toward her were soldiers in uniform. They were all identical—all her son. She cried out and tried to touch one of them but the sons did not look at her as they came on. As they neared, Eva saw Thomas’s face over and over again—his high cheekbones; the slight depression across the bridge of his nose, left there when he broke it against the handlebars of his two-wheel bicycle; the scar below the downy blond arch of his right eyebrow; the cowlick at the center of his part above his forehead. She used to wet down the cowlick Sunday mornings before church. His hair was soft and during the sermons she twirled it through her fingertips.
The faces came on. She could see the green and gold of Thomas’s eyes. None of them saw her. The sons drifted past and out of her vision in a regular, stolid rhythm.
“Look at me,” she said. “I want to ask you a question.”
One of them stopped and turned his head. His face remained expressionless and the others waited patiently behind. She understood that he was waiting for he
r to ask the question and it was terrible, this passionless waiting man who was her son, terrible that he did not recognize her. She felt certain that, were she able to kiss his cheek, she would remember how to feel sadness and grief, love and longing.
In his gray uniform the son continued to wait. Eva could bear it no longer. “In the name of what?” she cried out to the son in front of her. “Of what?” she asked the waiting ones behind him. The son smiled and for a moment Eva thought he would comfort her. She saw his lips move but no sound came out. The others smiled in exactly the same way as the first.
And then they were pulling back, all of them, one by one. With horror she realized they were leaving her and she felt at the very least she should say something to put Thomas at rest. But the sons were not at rest—they were only apart, winnowed from victories and failures. While she watched they withdrew into the sky, grown dark now. They began to circle above her with a hard, impartial energy, like the stars.
Now the dark sky and circling soldiers started to descend and she understood that the darkness would cover her like a hood. Eva saw the last gray soldier turn. This time it was Hugh Bock’s face before her and when he spoke it was only a whisper.
“Unanswerable,” he said. And the host of orbiting sons repeated the word until it became a kind of song, the sound of air moving in summer trees: Unanswerable, unanswerable.
Beneath them, Eva listened.
The dog was, in fact, a female retriever named Pearl. Her barking alerted her owner, Sharon Miller, who was running laps on the track at the Commons. Pearl led her up the hillside to Eva Bock’s body, her leg wrapped around the trunk of a tree. One of her shoes was missing and her thin foot in its dirty white stocking looked like a child’s. Her hair was spread out across the rocks and colored leaves in a way that would have been almost sensual had she been merely asleep. Her eyes were open, wide and antique, and there was a vertical gash shaped like a parallelogram from her temple to her jaw. The frail skin looked as if it had been freshly shucked. Sharon Miller could see the grayish skullbone. She vomited, then called 911 and the Lookout Mountain, Georgia City Hall. She also called her husband, who called Liza at the Mountain Mirror. Assuming Miss Eva had been, as long predicted, run off the road by a tourist, Liza posted the information on the Mountain Mirror’s website, so that, for a time after her death, the Lookout Mountain residents felt a sense of indignation at the license plates from anywhere but Georgia or Tennessee.
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