We Hope for Better Things

by Erin Bartels

thirty-four

  Lapeer County, November

  I could feel my redemption in the journalistic community slipping out of my hands like autumn slipping into winter.

  The night Tyrese had dinner at the farmhouse, I’d retrieved the camera bag from the armoire, moved Nora’s plate out of the way, and placed it on the table in front of her. I could see immediately that she recognized it. For a long moment, she didn’t touch it. Then she tugged lightly at the leather strap and it snapped open. She reached in and pulled out a black and silver Nikon manual-focus camera. Though I’d worried what to tell her about how I came into possession of her husband’s property without implicating Mr. Rich—there was no explanation I could fathom that wouldn’t somehow come back around to him—she was so absorbed by the object itself that I felt it best to leave her alone and answer her questions later.

  But later never came. The next morning she acted as though nothing out of the ordinary had occurred, and I found myself wondering if she just didn’t remember or if she was deliberately avoiding the subject.

  Now the camera was returned to its rightful owner, but I’d gotten almost nowhere when it came to learning more about Nora and William’s life together, however short it may have been. Was she ready to see a box of photos William had taken of the Detroit riots? I didn’t want to go through this awkwardness again. Maybe I should just tell Mr. Rich I was ready to give her the photos now and get it over with. But then, if she just put them away in her room and refused to talk about them like she had the camera, would I ever get a chance to write the story that might save my career? It just didn’t work without the photos. Without this story, there was no reason to think I’d have a chance at what few journalism jobs might come available in Detroit. And I had no desire to live and work anywhere else.

  Days later, November blew into our midst like a beast, with howling winds, stinging rain, and more news of unrest an hour south. September and October had been so pleasant and mild that I’d all but forgotten that time for the garden was running short. Then one cold Sunday morning when I went out to inspect it, every leaf, twig, and thorn was coated in fine frost. A glance at the field of wildflowers, which had been so recently bedecked in goldenrod, asters, and teasel, revealed the same. The stiff brown remains of summer’s lusty beauty sparkled in frosted brilliance.

  When I returned to the house, Nora still hadn’t come out for breakfast. She’d been holed up in her room for days, emerging to eat or use the bathroom, but for little else. The stream of alterations customers, fairly steady since I’d arrived in August, had slowed to a trickle despite the upcoming holidays. The phone continued to ring, and I overheard Nora putting off would-be customers. Her big project, whatever it was, consumed her.

  With no Nora to talk to, no garden to tend, no judge to expose, no amazing story about racism and love and riots to write, I began to think that maybe I needed to go back to school or join the Peace Corps or hike the Appalachian Trail. Something to give me direction, put me on a path that would lead toward some purpose, some end bigger than just this day-to-day living with no prospects in sight.

  Dad’s cousin Barb had been worried over nothing. Nora didn’t need help living on her own, and she didn’t belong in a nursing home. So she got a little confused once in a while. She didn’t pose a danger to herself or anyone else. She was perfectly content with her life and didn’t need me interfering.

  And Mr. Rich? Maybe he needed to do his own dirty work. Maybe he needed to man up, get his butt up to Lapeer, and give those photos to Nora himself.

  Maybe I needed to move out, get back to the city. But the moment the thought occurred to me, my heart felt sick. What was there in Detroit for me anymore? Nothing but dead ends and burned bridges. And no Tyrese.

  “Where’s this going?” I asked him on the phone one evening in late November as I watched the first snowfall. “Should I stick around here? Am I supposed to live with Nora the rest of my life? Am I ever going to get another job in journalism?”

  What I really wanted to ask was whether we were doing anything beyond killing time. But somehow I just couldn’t. It sounded so presumptuous.

  “I don’t have any answers for you, Elizabeth. You’ve got to do what’s right for you. It’s your life.”

  Was it? It didn’t feel like it. My life was in Detroit. This was someone else’s life out here. Someone else’s house. Someone else’s garden.

  “Tyrese, I have no idea what I’m still doing here. I’m thinking of getting back to Detroit.”

  He was quiet a moment. “Maybe you should.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s not like that. I love spending time with you and I want to see if this goes somewhere. I don’t want you to leave. Not at all. But the worst thing you can do is stay somewhere for someone else. I mean, I love my dad and I stayed in Lapeer for him, and now I’ve got the nursery and all, but . . . honestly, I never wanted to own a business. I wanted to work for the DNR. I wanted to be a scientist. I didn’t want to be a salesman who sometimes cuts lawns and plows driveways. And you don’t want to stay in Lapeer for me or even for Nora if what you really want to do is be a journalist. ’Cause you’ll never be happy that way. You’ve got to do what’s right for you.”

  He was right. The only problem was, I had no idea what that was.

  As the sun slipped down behind the tree line on the last night of November, I sat at one of my bedroom windows, looking down at the large stones that had appeared in the back field just two days earlier. They must have always been there, but it wasn’t until the rain and snow had pulled back the curtain of wildflowers that I could see them. Six dark gray stones, all of a similar size, evenly spaced, stretched in a line. How had something so obvious escaped my notice for three months?

  As evening faded and the stones merged with the darkness, I turned to find Matthew sprawled on my bed. His increasing friendliness toward me was the lone positive effect of Nora’s prolonged sessions in her workroom. Starved for attention, he had come to see me as a possible substitute in the affection department. It also helped that I seemed to be the only one remembering to feed him now.

  I stretched out next to him and stroked his fiery fur. Then I heard the rain start. It whispered at first, a soft, lulling sound. But it soon grew louder and more insistent, battering the house and streaking down the windowpanes in sheets. I tried not to think about the crumbling foundation of my life as I drifted off to sleep with Matthew tucked in the crook of my arm.

  When I woke the next morning the room was glowing. I pushed Matthew off my chest where he had relocated in the night, took a cat-free breath, and looked out the window. My whole world was encased in ice—every twig, every blade of grass, every dead flower. An unclouded sun rose over the frozen expanse and I squinted against the glare. Then I noticed I was shivering.

  Downstairs the thermostat in the hall read fifty-two degrees. I flicked the light switch on the wall. Nothing. The house was heated with gas, but the thermostat that told it when to turn on was electric, as was the fan that forced the warmed air through the ducts. No power meant no heat.

  “Nora?” I knocked on her bedroom door and peeked in. She popped her head out of her workroom. “Oh, there you are. The power is out.”

  “Yes, I know. Perhaps you’d be a dear and make a fire in the parlor for us. Or wherever you think you’ll be spending the most time today.”

  “Where are you going to be?” I asked, though I could easily have guessed.

  “I’ll be back here.”

  “How can you even see?”

  “There’s light from the window. I’ve just switched to the old treadle machine so I can keep working. Can’t waste a day.”

  “Couldn’t you just ask for an extension on that project? You’re running yourself ragged.”

  “No, I don’t think so. It’s something that needs to get done.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help? I’m concerned about you. You don’t seem like yourself lately.”

  “Nonsense.
I’m just fine.”

  Stubborn woman.

  “Aren’t you cold? I could help you move the sewing machine out to the parlor and we could sit there together in front of the fire.”

  “No, it’s much too heavy. You could make a fire in here, but then you better keep my bedroom door shut to keep the heat in. And it might be easier for you to heat your bedroom than the parlor with those tall ceilings.”

  “I could hang out in here,” I offered.

  She frowned. “You don’t want to be stuck in here with me. I’ll be no fun at all.”

  She wanted me gone. Just when I was actually needed.

  “I’ll get dressed and bring in some firewood,” I said.

  “Thank you, Elizabeth,” she said. “Oh, and I nearly forgot. Someone called for you yesterday.” She retrieved a piece of paper from the top of her dresser and held it out. “Some woman from some newspaper.”

  I scanned the note, my heart beating faster. Just a name—Caryn—and a number.

  “Shoot,” I said, trying not to sound upset. “Now I can’t call back until the power’s on.”

  “Sure you can. The phone still works.”

  “During an outage?”

  Nora nodded. “The phone lines are buried, so if it’s just the power supply to the house that was hit, the phones should be fine. Enough power comes through the copper wires. Go try it out.”

  I folded the note, trying not to appear too eager. “Just as soon as I get the fires going.”

  I layered leggings under my jeans and piled on shirts and a sweater and two pairs of socks, my mind running through wild tangents about who Caryn was and which newspaper she worked for and how she had gotten Nora’s number. The water that had been rushing out through the downspout when the rain began the night before had turned to a sheet of ice right outside the door. I skidded a moment, caught my balance, then shuffled over to the woodpile. After a dozen or so careful trips in and out, I had filled the north wall of the kitchen with wood. I made Nora’s fire and brought in wood for her to add to it as the day went on. Then I made several arduous trips up and down the back stairs with wood for my own fireplace.

  When I was gathering the last load from the woodpile, the breeze picked up and an ominous creaking sounded from above. I looked up to see the branches of the catalpa tree swaying and chafing like an enormous crystal chandelier. Somewhere in the woods, a tree gave up a branch, a shower of glass punctuated by a great crash. I slipped back inside, safe from the elements, and picked up the phone. I nearly cried for joy when I heard a dial tone.

  After two rings, a woman’s voice said, “You’ve reached the Beat.”

  “Hello, I’m returning a call from Caryn. This is Elizabeth Balsam.”

  “Elizabeth, hi! I’m so glad you called back. I’m Caryn, and I was calling you regarding a position we’re looking to fill. Have you heard of our publication?”

  Had I heard of it? Until I’d moved to the middle of nowhere, I’d devoured every issue of the trendy alternative newspaper.

  “I have.”

  “Great! Then you may know that we are in search of a new features editor. You came to the attention of our chief editor, Marshall Boon.”

  “Really?”

  “You sound surprised.”

  “Well, it’s just—” I stopped. Wouldn’t Marshall Boon have gotten wind of my disgrace? “I’m not at the Free Press anymore.”

  “And you’re just the kind of unconventional risk taker Mr. Boon likes on his team. He’d like you to come in for an interview. Are you available sometime before Christmas?”

  I was nothing but available.

  “Yes. Though, just curious—how did you get this number?”

  “It’s on your cell’s voicemail message.”

  Oh yeah.

  “How did you get that number?”

  “A friend of yours at the Free Press had it.”

  Desiree. She hadn’t forgotten about me.

  The details were settled in moments, and when I hung up the phone I couldn’t help but smile. Somewhere in Detroit there was an open desk—and somehow I had to be sure I was the one who filled it.

  It was dark outside by five o’clock. Nora and I ate our dinners by candlelight in our separate bedrooms. After dinner, I refreshed our stock of wood, then I lay on my bed in the flickering light of the fireplace I had thought I’d never use and began to strategize. I needed those photos. Now.

  By the time I blew out the candles, it was snowing.

  thirty-five

  Lapeer County, February 1965

  Mallory Balsam arrived at the farmhouse on a bright, bitterly cold February day. Nora heard the car drive up, the front door open and shut, some murmurings down the stairs, and then footsteps outside the bedroom door. She wished she could disappear, just sink into the mattress and suffocate. Then, at the sight of the mother she hadn’t seen in over a year, she overflowed into tears.

  Mallory held her for a long time, rocking her as she had long ago when her little girl had a bad dream. When Nora ran out of tears, Mallory stood up and held out her hands. “It’s time to take a shower,” she said.

  Nora slumped back on the bed she felt like she had been in for a lifetime. Every muscle was drained, every nerve ending dead.

  “Get up, Nora. It’s time to take a shower and do your hair and get dressed. Let’s go.”

  Nora blinked up at her mother. “Just leave me alone.”

  “I’m not leaving this room until you get out of bed.”

  Nora groaned but did as she was told.

  Mallory sat on a low wooden stool in the bathroom as Nora washed away three days of dirt and sadness.

  “Time’s up.” Mallory turned off the water. She pulled back the shower curtain and handed Nora a towel. Then she left the room.

  For the hundredth time that day, Nora placed a hand over the spot where her baby should be. Empty. Like her heart. Had she somehow lost that too when she was laid upon the hospital bed and pieces of her very soul were being scraped from inside of her? William hadn’t stopped them. He hadn’t even been allowed in the room.

  Within an hour of her arrival, Mallory had Nora washed, dressed, and headed down the stairs to eat her first meal in days. Nora stared through her plate.

  Her mother put the eggs on top of the toast, cut everything into bite-sized pieces, and held a forkful up to Nora’s face. “You need to eat.”

  Nora took the fork and obediently put it into her mouth. Chewing felt impossible. She wasn’t hungry. Just empty. “I hate this.”

  Mallory put a hand on her daughter’s shoulder. “I know, honey.”

  “Why is this happening?”

  “It happens to a lot of women, Nora. There’s no reason for it.”

  The answer didn’t satisfy, but deep down, Nora knew that no answer would.

  “Come on, honey. Why don’t you show me to my room?”

  Mallory retrieved her suitcase from where William had left it in the front hall. Nora led her to the north bedroom.

  “My, my! What is this?” Mallory asked in genuine wonder.

  “It’s a crazy quilt. I found it in a trunk in the attic.”

  Mallory ran her hand over the multicolored embroidery. “It’s exquisite.”

  “I had to repair the seams in a few spots, but it looks to be in pretty good shape otherwise. I wish I knew who made it.”

  “You know who might know something about it? Your Great-Aunt Margaret. She lives in a nursing home in Detroit now, but she used to live here.”

  “Maybe I should visit her someday,” Nora said. “She might know about a lot of things in this house.”

  “I’d go sooner rather than later, if I were you. She’s in her nineties.”

  Mallory left the room and Nora let out a little sigh. The thought of going anywhere at all exhausted her.

  A moment later, her mother was back and fishing in her purse. “I could go with you,” Mallory offered as she copied an address out of a little book.

  “We
’ll see,” Nora said.

  “Okay. Let’s go get our coats.”

  “I said we’ll see.”

  “We’re not going to Detroit, Nora. We’re going to the store. You’re going to make your husband a real dinner tonight. Let’s go.”

  They came home with all they needed to make lasagna and set about the long process of readying the dish for baking. It was such an involved recipe for two women who were not natural cooks that for a time Nora forgot that she was not going to be a mother in June. But at the expression of surprise on William’s face as he walked through the door that evening to find Nora up and pulling a lasagna out of the oven, it all came crashing back.

  During dinner, William and Mallory carried the conversation, each trying to engage Nora and then settling for silence when she responded with answers consisting of no more than three words strung together. Nora excused herself and retired early, leaving her mother and her husband to clean up the dishes. She pulled on a clean nightgown and crawled beneath the fresh sheets her mother had put on the bed. The sun was setting later and later in the evenings. She watched through frosted windowpanes as it sank behind the bare trees. The sky turned orange, then pink, then gray.

  William came through the door, took off his clothes, and slipped into bed next to her. Nora tucked herself under his arm and laid her head on his chest. They exchanged “I love yous,” but inside, Nora felt keenly that it was not enough. Love had not insulated them from pain. It had not saved their baby. It could not fix this. It could not fix anything.

  Eventually William fell asleep, but for Nora the night was a long, lonely string of regrets and second guesses.

  The next morning after a hot breakfast, William left for the job he had gotten in Flint—the job that would pay for the baby they were not having—while Nora and her mother lingered over coffee and talked of safe, mundane things. The weather, the house, her brothers.

  “I’ll never understand why Warner moved to Indiana,” Mallory said. “There’s nothing there.”

  “Maybe that’s why he moved. For the most part I’ve been quite pleased with life out in the country.”