Travis fumbled for the blanket but couldn’t find it.
“Oh, hell,” he mumbled and pushed me back onto a pile of wet life preservers where I waited for him to descend upon me.
We were alone on the lake, and it filled me with wonder. I had never felt so connected to anyone or anything as I felt that moment with Travis and the rain and the lake. I knew the truth about our shared bloodline, and it didn’t matter. It was something tangible that would hold me until I made my decision. I needed to be held and comforted, and not just by Travis.
“GOD!” I screamed, and the Goddess of the Lake rocked us both, like twins in a cradle.
I WAS QUIET on the return ride to the dock. Travis honored the silence. He had always respected everything about me. Was I worthy of such reverence? At the dock, I jumped out and helped to tie the boat. My legs were wobbly after the turbulent ride, and I struggled to find my equilibrium.
“When can I see you again?” Travis asked.
“I haven’t decided,” I answered. Decided what? I didn’t know.
Travis looked up at me from his boat. “Bryce wants you back.” He said it quietly as a statement, devoid of emotion. “That’s why he hasn’t left yet.”
I looked away from Travis to the horizon. I crossed my arms in front of me to ward off the imminent chill.
Travis slumped wearily in his seat. “Every day I see his car there…” His voice trailed off behind his palms. I stared at him.
“Travis, this is the last thing I wanted.”
Releasing his face from his hands, he looked directly into my eyes. “BJ, don’t ask me to step aside. I can’t be that strong.”
“I can’t be that strong either.”
“Let me come home with you. I’ll be beside you. We’ll tell him together.”
I focused again on the horizon. “No, I have to do it. I owe him that much. I’ll tell him. I’ll tell Bryce tonight.”
♦ 50 ♦
MY SKIN TINGLED traitorously when I climbed into bed. I had taken a warm bath and was now wishing for a drink of herbal tea, but I didn’t want to risk it. A cup of tea would involve another encounter with Bryce who still sat at the kitchen table. My homecoming had been awkward, not as I had planned. I could not slip inside unnoticed. I did not have time to gather my thoughts or change my clothes. When I came in the back door, Bryce was pacing in the near dark. Obviously worried, he gripped his cell phone in one hand. The sight of me abated his fears, but did nothing for his anger. I turned on the light.
“Bryce, are you okay?” I asked.
In the harsh lighting of the kitchen, I noticed how wet and muddy I actually was. The muscles of Bryce’s face clenched into a tangled expression when he saw my disheveled appearance. He turned away from me to take a cleansing breath and run his free hand through his hair.
“You’d better kiss Sam good night. He is worried about you.”
He would not even look at me. I knew he was trying to quell his own inner storm.
“Bryce?”
“Just go to our son.”
Glad for an excuse to delay our conversation, I made my exit.
I tiptoed up to Sam’s room after a short detour to the wash basket where I found a towel to dry my face and a denim shirt to replace my muddy sweater. At first I thought Sam was asleep, but he sat up in bed as soon as my shadow crossed his doorway.
“Where were you? Daddy and I drove around looking for you,” he said. “We went by the lake, but you weren’t there.”
I held my breath, waiting for Sam to mention seeing Travis’s truck. Just because he had not remarked on it now, did not mean he had not pointed it out to Bryce.
“Mommy, where were you?”
“Mommy was taking a rain walk to clear all the spider webs from her head.”
“Silly, Mommy. You don’t have spiders in your head.”
Projecting my own chill onto his sweating form, I pulled the covers up to his neck. He threw the covers back.
“Can you read me a story?”
“One short story.”
Sam pulled I’ll Love You Forever out from under his pillow. He had been waiting for me.
“Oh, bud, you know I can’t read that book. It always makes Mommy cry.”
“Please? You haven’t read it to me all summer.”
All summer. My boy had been away from me for so long; I could not deny him. I read the story about a boy growing up and moving away from his mother, and I cried like I always did. Sam dried my eyes with a hug, but the tears continued on the inside.
I avoided Bryce. He couldn’t see me like this, and I definitely could not initiate the conversation we needed to have. Instead, I walked stealthily to my bathroom. I turned on the hot water and peeled off my clothes. As the water ran, I looked at my reflection in the mirror on the opposite wall. The signs were all there on my skin, the roadmap of my affair with Travis. The red abrasions did nothing to mask my glow. Critical of this woman I faced, I touched my arms and my breasts, and then I traced one nipple. I pinched it hard between my fingers, to the point of pain. Before tonight, I had been within my rights to take a lover. I was hurting nobody. That changed this evening. Now I was the one to tear the family apart. Bryce had taken everything from me now, even the role of martyr. He had turned the tables on me. Why do I have to be the villain in our marriage? I turned away from my likeness and the new labels that formed in my mind.
I used the time in the bath to think. I wanted Travis, in spite of all I knew. Then why did I suddenly feel sympathy toward Bryce? Was there mutuality in our affairs? I knew now what it must have been like for him to experience the thrill of new love after all the months of neglect in our marriage. Who was I kidding? Beyond neglect, we had actually put effort into its ruin. I could not lie to myself anymore. Bryce was right to flee when he did, though he was wrong to come back.
Travis touched something in me that Bryce never could. Travis and I knew each other the way poets know their own words. Like poets and words, our coming together was predestined. I lowered my head until I sank beneath the surface of the water. The warm water washed me in calm nothingness. Only when my lungs started to burn did I rise to the surface to breathe.
After my bath, I retraced my steps to check on Sam. He slept soundly. I brushed my lips on his flushed cheeks. It hardly seemed fair when I looked at his sleeping form. I had to make decisions for both of us. For the moment, we subsisted in Nonna’s house, sleeping with the questions, waking with secrets. I decided to put off talking to Bryce. Let morning come—and with it, some clarity.
Once in my bedroom, I tried to settle into bed, but I was too restless. I sat up, took out the sketch pad I kept by my bedside in case inspiration came in the form of a dream. I opened to a blank page, and the marks came easily. Dark somersaults of charcoal jumped from the soft pencil. I didn’t even recognize my own hand. At least now, I gave my subconscious mind a chance to tackle the problem. Swirling, stabbing gestures filled the page. I drew figures and shadows. I forgot about my mental fatigue and drew, as if in a trance. An hour passed, or two. I didn’t censor myself.
Only the familiar creaking sound broke me from my trance. The noise told me that Bryce had already reached the top stair. I bit my lip. It was too late to turn off my light. He knew I was awake in my room. There was a pause as I felt his presence standing on the other side of the door. Please, don’t open the door. Go into your room, Bryce. Don’t do this to me. I was afraid not only that Bryce would want to discuss what happened this evening but also that he would try to seduce his way back into the marriage. While I didn’t want him in my bed, part of me knew that even with everything we had been through, I was still vulnerable to him. Given the choice to open up to Bryce in conversation or to bed him, I’d have picked the latter. Ridiculous as it may seem, I was afraid I’d return to my husband solely so I wouldn’t have to verbally desecrate my relationship with Travis by discussing it with Bryce. To tell Bryce about Travis and me would contaminate our love in a way that was unfair.
I heard Bryce fumble with the door to his room. The latch clicked, and I exhaled. For the moment my indecision was safe. I put my sketchbook down and tried to remain still.
Through the thin walls, I heard Bryce shift in his bed. As I listened for sounds of him, I knew the opposite was also true; he was listening for me. I needed distance, and I felt sure that Bryce would not follow me. I picked up Nonna’s notebooks and carried both of them to the living room in the front of the house. The streetlights shone bright through the window, but the moon hid behind the clouds. I turned on the small lamp on the end table. Nonna’s revelations couldn’t hurt me anymore.
♦ 51 ♦
June 13, 1991
None of our friends has ever asked Lena and me to recount our love story. Maybe it doesn’t matter, but in the silence of our story, I have lost many of the details, which is just as well. You had a difficult enough time living with the generalities of our love without mentioning the specifics.
Lena and I lived together platonically for the first year. The war brought shortages of men, meat, bread, milk, stockings. We had to live where we could find abundance. We moved to the farm where I became a plane spotter. Whenever an airplane flew overhead I would identify it and record the time in a small notebook I kept in the bread drawer. It was my personal contribution to the war effort.
Lena got a job in town at a silk mill. She worked on the third floor where she and other young women actually roller-skated, if you can imagine that. The room where she worked had wooden floors and two long tables where the women laid out parachutes. Skating back and forth across the floor, they folded the silk parachutes into packs for our soldiers.
That was not Lena’s only contribution to the cause of patriotism. She carved out a victory garden at Mulberry Farm, and she helped to find a family who was willing to cultivate our barren fields.
In Lena I saw a goddess of fertility. When she was nearby, all life seemed to thrive. The baby in my lap learned to sit and clap her hands. Then she learned to walk and call me Mama. The few farm animals we had grew fat. Even my own body, willowy until then, favored a new succulence.
Lena felt safe with me, and with her I did not feel I was betraying my husband’s memory. I won’t trouble you with first kisses and embraces except to say that as the more experienced of the two of us, I maintained a level of reticence. I didn’t want to scare Lena. She needed to be sure. Even when she was, we kept everything in the present tense. These were uncertain times. We did not know what the future would bring.
I suppose Lena fought her instinct to vilify our union. If she was taught that playing cards and fornication were such crimes, what was this love? I didn’t carry these associations. If the lake had been a little bluer, the air a little saltier, I would have sworn I was renewing my barefoot youth by the Aegean Sea.
We could not have continued living this idyllic way forever; I realize that now. These were times of war, and we had little right to our strange happiness. There had to be an end for our free fall of love. In the world of dreams, we might have landed lightly on a cloud or a pillow and gone our separate ways. In reality, the fall was not gentle. A jarring event forced us to put a box around the things we felt, to tie our emotions with string and address our intentions.
In August of 1944, Lena received a letter from Hank. I was the one who pulled it from our mailbox and put it in my apron pocket. I didn’t show it to Lena for three days. I considered throwing it away, but I just couldn’t make myself do it. I carried the sealed envelope with me that whole time and let it burn its white heat through the thin fabric of my pocket. Every time I let my fingertips graze it, I felt a hot spark. Finally, when I couldn’t stand the scorching any longer, I turned the letter over to Lena so I could watch her destroy it. When she opened the seal, she read the letter and didn’t say a word. I searched every trash can for days, hoping to find the torn remains of the epistle. After almost a week and still no commentary from Lena about the letter, I repealed my fears.
We were in the habit of going to Charlie’s grave each week with fresh flowers. I liked the ritual. Every Saturday night, after dinner, Lena would walk me through her gardens and show me what was sprouting or blooming or dying off. As we walked and talked, I would pick two bunches of flowers, one for the cemetery and one for the kitchen. Then on Sunday after the late service, Lena would hold your fat little hand, while I puttered around the gravesite, brushing away the dead grass and putting fresh water into the staked vase.
The Sunday after the letter came, however, Lena did not want to accompany me to the graveyard.
“I don’t think my presence is appropriate,” she said.
Because I had never forced her to go, her resistance scared me. Did it have to do with the letter? My fears returned. I tried to reassure her.
“Nonsense, Charlie liked you. He was so happy I had made a friend. I am sure he is glad I have you and the baby now.” I squeezed her hand and smiled.
“Is he glad you have me, or is he just happy I’m not a man to toy with his memory?”
“What are you saying?”
“Nothing.”
“No, you said it. What did you mean?”
“Forget it, Anja. I’m just cranky, a little tired I guess. I stayed up past midnight with canning the last of the pickles. I think I’d like to rest after church.”
The next week, over the Labor Day holiday, I traveled by train to visit my parents in Philadelphia. I took the baby. It was the first time we had been apart from Lena, but she insisted on staying behind to care for her burgeoning garden and the animals. She promised us a pantry shelf full of preserves upon our return.
The visit with my parents was not as I expected. They closed the bakery over Labor Day, and we enjoyed a grand picnic in Fairmont Park. It was a happy time, but I sensed a darkness over my family. My father’s wheezing concerned me, and my mother shrugged when I asked her about it.
“We are old,” she said. “When a new generation arrives, it is no longer our time.”
I told her she was being silly, but I could see the vibrancy slipping from her eyes. Only you could reverse the years. Every time she held you, Judy, I saw the twinkle of my mother’s prime returning to her. Then again, maybe it was only the reflection of your youth coloring her age-grayed eyes. I was so absorbed in my family reunion, I did not think about what was happening with Lena, two hours away on our farm. I had no idea of the devious forces that were playing havoc with my family life.
While I was picnicking with my parents, a large convertible pulled up to Mulberry Farm. A man with a stateside military uniform got out and opened the passenger door.
Hank Littlehail propped himself on crutches and hobbled to the back entrance of my house. Lena was inside ladling the last batch of peach jam into the hot, steamy jars. With only the screen door separating the two of them, Hank Littlehail did not bother to knock when he entered the kitchen. He stepped into our lives and removed his hat. I know that there was some shock involved in the meeting because Lena knocked over the jar she was filling. The gooey jam spilled to the floor where the stickiness would remain even after Lena had attempted to clean the mess. I know enough of the details to be able to connect the dots with my imagination.
“Hello, Lenie,” Hank said quietly.
Lena stood frozen, but her mind raced. Her first thoughts were to defend herself, but when she saw Hank’s leg, cut off below the thigh she stopped. This man could not hurt her any longer.
“War does terrible things to a man,” he said, covering her surprise.
“Yes, I suppose it does.” Lena caught herself staring and turned to look for a towel.
“What are you making?” he asked.
“Jam. I am using up the rest of the peaches.” Lena’s voice quivered only slightly. She hastily wiped the spill.
“It heartens a man to come home and smell the perfume of a good woman’s cooking. It’s a privilege worth fighting for.”
Lena didn’t comment. That day she was a goo
d woman, but the last time Hank had laid eyes upon her, he had called her a secondhand bitch,
I wish Lena had held on to those painful memories. I wish she had let them twist in her belly. I wish she had regurgitated them and spit them in Hank Littlehail’s face.
But not Lena. She had a soft heart and a will to please. She wanted redemption even though she had done nothing wrong. She wanted her daddy to come back from the dead, she wanted Reverend Platz to tell her she was a good girl, and she wanted Hank Littlehail to promise he’d love her forever.
Hank played with the brim of his hat.
“I expected you would have married while I was off fighting this war.” He felt Lena’s hesitancy and added, “You’re a beautiful woman, after all.”
Lena was silent, her eyes downcast.
“You’re not married, are you? I didn’t see a ring.”
“No, Hank. I didn’t marry.”
“No fellow?”
“No fellow.” Lena blushed when she thought of me, but Hank interpreted her reddening as a sign of chastity.
“Would you care to sit down?” Lena offered him the closest chair.
“No, Lenie. This is a short visit. I’ll say what I’ve come to say, and then I will leave you to finish out your task at hand.”
“Well, I’ll sit then.” She didn’t think her legs would hold her much longer.
“I don’t know how to say this, Lenie, so I’ll just come right out with it.” Hank kept his eyes lowered to the floor. “We both know that we’ve made some mistakes in the past. I’m not proud. But honestly, Lenie, none of that matters to me anymore. War changes your priorities.” He sighed and chose his words carefully.
“When I was over in that jungle and in that ditch, you were all I could think about. Just knowing that you were someplace in this world, a place I could return to, that thought kept me alive. I made a promise to myself that if I ever got out of that jungle, I would find you and ask you to marry me.”
Summers at Blue Lake Page 24