Two Rivers

by T. Greenwood

  Because the fair had been postponed, all of Betsy’s plans for the protest were put on hold. Brooder still came by in the afternoons, but the rain forced them inside. Most days I’d come home after work and find them sitting at the kitchen table, stuffing envelopes or making fliers. “Hey, Montgomery,” Brooder would say. He’d taken to saluting me, a gesture I found both silly and disconcerting. I answered with a nod. Betsy always had something warm on the stove top: lentil soup, minestrone, beef stew. She made decadent desserts: cheesecake, chocolate mousse cake, bread pudding. The three of us ate together most nights and then Brooder would head back home.

  Betsy was so big now she couldn’t see her feet anymore. The baby pushed and rolled, making waves underneath her skin. I watched her, fascinated. Spoke to the baby by pressing my lips to her belly button. Betsy had a blouse she loved to wear then. It was purple, thin cotton with embroidery and tiny little mirrors sewn into the fabric. When I lay my head on her stomach to listen for the baby, I could see our whole world reflected in them.

  “What is she telling you today?” Betsy asked. She was convinced that the baby was a girl.

  “That it’s going to stop raining soon.”

  A drop of water plunked into the pot at the foot of our bed.

  “That she won’t come out until it stops,” I said.

  “Smart girl. I wouldn’t either.” Betsy smiled.

  But August came and went, and still, it rained. Children returned to school in a daily parade of shiny yellow slickers and rubber boots past our house to the bus stop. I walked to work each day (leaving Betsy the car in case of lightning), my hood pulled tightly over my head. I’d given up on my umbrella after only a couple of weeks. It was a short walk to the station, which was always warm and dry inside.

  Finally, in late September, the rain began to lessen. It didn’t cease exactly, but the storms became less frequent, less severe. Signs went up announcing that the county fair would, indeed, be held. Come hell or high water. And all of Two Rivers rejoiced, Betsy most of all.

  The fairgrounds were flooded, but the midway moved in anyway, erecting roller coasters, haunted houses, a Tilt-a-Whirl. This deviation, this marvelous delay, seemed to have the entire town buzzing with anticipation. And on opening day, the sun miraculously appeared.

  I got the call from the University of Southern Maine offering me the job in Portland just as I was leaving work early to meet Betsy to help out with the protest.

  “We’d love to have you,” the woman said. “Please let us know as soon as possible.”

  I clutched the phone feeling like I might burst. “Thank you, thank you,” I said. “I just need to talk to my wife.”

  I raced home, the sun warm on my face for the first time in over a month, rehearsing exactly how I would tell Betsy. I could barely wait to see the expression on her face, but I wanted to do it right. I wanted it to be special. I’d have to wait until after the protest. I didn’t want anything to spoil this moment, to steal this wonderful thunder.

  Since high school, Ray and Rosemary, Betsy and I would go to the fair on opening day. We’d wander around the midway, Ray and I slamming hammers, shooting clowns full of water, and tossing baseballs onto the tops of milk bottles in an attempt to win stuffed poodles or bears for the girls. Chivalry and bravado at its finest. We’d ride the Himalaya and the Cobra, leaving Rosemary (who got motion sickness even on the carousel) to watch from behind the chain-link fence. Later we’d get French fries doused in malt vinegar, fried dough dripping in maple syrup, and go to the grandstand to watch the Demolition Derby.

  The protest was supposed to start at dusk. Betsy had planned on a candlelight vigil. Her friend Sara was going to read the names of all of the soldiers from Vermont who had died in the war, and Brooder was going to play guitar and sing some of his songs. We decided to go early, hang out for a while before the protest. Brooder came with us, and we met Ray and Rosemary at the 4-H exhibits. In the children’s petting barn, Brooder teased a turkey with a long piece of straw, and Betsy and I watched a mother sow and her baby curled into each other in the corner of their pen. Smiling. Betsy squeezed my hand, ran her hand across her stomach. I thought about Old Man Keller’s pig, about Brooder’s shotgun. It still raised the hair on the back of my neck. Rosemary had pushed J.P.’s stroller close to a pen with a few goats and a lamb inside. A goat stuck his nose through the fence to see J.P., who squealed, startling the pigs from their slumber. We bought homemade maple ice cream, which we ate as we watched the cows line up for the cavalcade. Brooder popped the last of his cone in his mouth and said, “Let’s hit the rides!”

  Everyone in town knew what happened to Brooder, but it didn’t stop the stares. While half of his face was completely normal, the other half was distorted. Like looking into a fun house mirror. People gawked.

  “That was so rude,” Betsy whispered after one woman gasped and pointed at Brooder as if he were one of the freaks escaped from the sideshows.

  Brooder, who was fully aware of the extra attention he was getting, did not let it go unchecked. “Beautiful, isn’t it?” he asked the lady loudly.

  “I don’t know what you…” the woman stuttered.

  “This weather we’re having, beautiful, isn’t it?” He laughed loudly.

  The woman scurried away.

  Instead of winning stuffed animals or goldfish for our girls, Ray spent almost ten dollars playing Skee-Ball before he won a stuffed giraffe, which he gave to J.P. And the pink teddy bear I won fishing plastic rings out of a pool was just the right size for a baby. We played Bingo at the Bingo tent, watched J.P. ride around and around in a miniature fire engine, and got corn on the cob and hot dogs smothered in mustard and sauerkraut at the Grange booth. By the time we finished eating, it was beginning to get dark. The sky was starting to feel heavy again. Swollen.

  “We’re gonna take J.P. home,” Rosemary said. He had fallen asleep in the stroller. His mouth was ringed in pink—though it was impossible to tell whether it was from the cotton candy he’d had or the cherry snowcone he’d nursed until it melted. “Good luck with the protest. Stay out of trouble,” Rosemary said, shaking her finger and smiling at Brooder.

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said.

  After they left, Brooder smacked my arm. “How about a few spins on the Himalaya?”

  “Don’t we need to get over to the recruiting tent?” I asked Betsy.

  “Go!” Betsy said. “You guys can meet me there in a minute. I have to find Sara anyway; she’s got the candles and paper plates.”

  “I’ll come with you,” I said to Betsy.

  “Pussy,” Brooder said.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  Brooder crossed his arms.

  “Fine,” I said. “We’ll ride the Himalaya.”

  Brooder and I walked silently across the midway, which was littered with a day’s worth of carnival debris, past the carousel and Ferris wheel, past the carnies trying to convince us to put our money down on the impossible carnival games. I noticed that Brooder walked faster now, like someone was following him. Even with my long strides, it was hard to keep up. At the Himalaya, Brooder said, “Let’s rock ’n roll!” Music was thumping, the air vibrating with it. We had to wait for the ride to stop and everybody who was already on it to get off. When it was our turn, the guy running the ride opened up the entrance gate to let us in. He was tall, broad, and his skin was the blue black of a night sky. I felt my back tense despite myself.

  Brooder ran up th
e metal ramp to the first cart, which was painted to look like a sleigh. He leapt in, pulling me in after him, and lowered the bar across our laps. After everyone else had boarded the ride, the carny locked up the gate and went into the glass booth where the controls were. I watched him. And I thought about my mother. I couldn’t help it. I wondered what she must have thought as they attacked her. I wondered if she felt angry. If she fought back. I thought about his hands, and I thought about the hands of the men who killed my mother.

  The music was loud, rolling under our seats. Brooder pulled off his baseball cap, swung it up over his head and hooted. Inside the glass booth, the carny leaned into a microphone and said in a slow, low voice, “Hold on, folks, y’all are in for the ride of your life.”

  As we got off the ride, I cracked my neck to first one side, then the next, waiting for my equilibrium to return before I followed Brooder back down the metal ramp to the exit. The carny was waiting at the exit gate for us.

  “Y’all have a good night,” he said, opening up the metal gate. I made myself look at him and nodded. His eyes were large, soft. He had a dimple in his cheek—he was probably my age, younger, but he had a face like a kid.

  “Yeah, you too,” I said.

  I looked around, the lights leaving trails when I turned my head. I looked back at the ride, watched the Himalaya guy usher in the next group of riders. I watched him run a white handkerchief across his forehead, stuff it in his back pocket.

  “We should get back to Betsy,” I said.

  “It bother you?” Brooder asked. For a minute I thought he meant the carny. But how could he know that I felt wound up like a spring?

  “What’s that?” I asked.

  “Me and Betsy. Hanging out, this protest shit? ’Cause you know, I’d never…” he said.

  “Oh, no,” I said, shaking my head. “It’s cool. It’s fine. You guys are friends . I respect that.” I wanted to get out of this conversation quickly. I looked toward the recruiting tent. I could see a bunch of hippie kids hanging around. A few old guys watching from the beer tent.

  Betsy was handing out candles. “How was it?” she asked.

  “Fucking fast!” Brooder hooted.

  “Shhh,” Betsy said, and Brooder looked at her meekly. “Sara’s got your guitar,” she said.

  Brooder shoved his hands in his pockets and walked over to Sara, who had his guitar case slung over her shoulder.

  “Hi,” I said.

  “Hi.” She smiled, her face glowing in the neon lights coming from the grandstand. I hadn’t seen her this happy in a long time. She kissed me quickly and then handed me a candle. “I gotta go speak,” she said. “I’ll meet you right back here after.”

  “We are here tonight because our government believes that it is okay to send off children to war. Boys off to war. Most of them are not even twenty years old. I am here tonight, because I do not believe in the murder of children.” Betsy stood on the milk crate podium, her hair loose around her shoulders. She cradled her belly with her hand and held the bullhorn in the other. In that moment, even with the distant sounds of the rides and the girlie shows, with the cheering of the crowd, with the revving engines and smashing cars in the Demolition Derby, I could only hear Betsy, her voice strong and clear, unwavering as she continued. “Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, ‘The real and lasting victories are those of peace, and not of war.’”

  My heart swelled.

  When the cheering subsided, Sara took the bullhorn from Betsy and helped her down off the milk crate. Brooder started to strum softly on the guitar, and Sara read the list of names. Afterward, for a moment, there was a sort of quiet.

  When Brooder began to sing the songs he had written, I knew right away that the songs weren’t just for peace. They were for Betsy. Every single one was a love song. They were beautiful. It was poetry. As Betsy made her way back to me, I wanted to hold her. To rock her in my arms. To feel our baby beneath her skin. I loved her more than anything in that moment. More than life. It seemed to me for the first time that someone understood how I felt about Betsy. Brooder smiled at me and kept singing.

  “I love you,” I said to Betsy, but before she had time to answer, a voice hollered out from the beer tent, “hey, man, what happened to your face?” Brooder stopped singing, peered out into the crowd.

  After a minute, he started strumming again. Picking up where he’d left off.

  “I said, what happened to your face, hippie freak?” The voice was louder this time. I scanned the crowd, but couldn’t see where it had come from.

  Brooder set the guitar down, stood up.

  “Oh shit,” Betsy said, pulling away from me. Before I had a chance to stop her, she was moving back through the crowd toward Brooder.

  Beyond the grandstand, cars revved their engines, and the loudspeaker boomed and reverberated.

  “I’ll tell you what happened to my fucking face!” Brooder hollered, throwing his shoulders back. Puffing up his chest.

  Betsy had reached him and was tugging on his arm. I started to push my way through the crowd to get to her. By the time I got to her, Brooder had climbed up on the milk crate and was ripping off his jacket. And then he yanked his T-shirt over his head. The floodlight from the grandstand illuminated him like a spotlight. His torso was riddled with a series of red welts, skin rippled and twisted and scarred.

  “Fucking Charlie! That’s what happened to my fucking face! You asshole. I fought your fucking war.”

  “Please,” Betsy said, reaching for him; she was crying now.

  “Jesus,” I said.

  But then Brooder was charging into the crowd, which parted for him like water. He suddenly had the guy by his shirt collar. The crowd circled around them, spectators at a cock fight. I braced myself for the first blow, and then there it was: the awful crack of bone against bone. Brooder’s hair was flying madly; spit and blood splattered everywhere. I’d seen Brooder get into fights before, but never like this. He was like an animal. A wild, rabid animal.

  I watched in horror and disbelief as Betsy pulled away from me and went to him, screaming, “Stop it!”

  Brooder seemed oblivious to what was happening, oblivious even to her. He was dancing around the circle with his fists raised, like a boxer. Like he was in for the fight of his life. Betsy grabbed at his shirt, as if she could simply pull him away.

  “Betsy!” I said, pushing my way through the crowd. I knew I had to get her out of there before something terrible happened. I reached for her hand, and I half-expected she would pull away from me, intent as she was on stopping the fight. But when I touched her, she looked at me, stunned as if I’d woken her from sleep. Then she looked down at her stomach, cradled it with one hand, and closed her eyes. I put my arm around her, enveloping her, and steered her, the best I could, out of the mess. Once we were away from the crowd, she collapsed into my arms, crying big, awful sobs.

  Brooder threw one more punch, and the guy went from staggering to falling. Brooder spit a mouthful of blood onto the guy’s shirt and shook his hair out of his eyes. “I fought your fucking war,” he hissed again, and then he disappeared into the crowd.

  “Let’s just leave,” Betsy said, defeated, wiping her nose with the back of her hand.

  The first few drops of rain were cold, unexpected.

  “Oh, Jesus, I thought this was over ,�
� Betsy said. When thunder rumbled, she grabbed my hand. We ran, as quickly as we could with Betsy’s awkward gait, to the exit and into the parking lot. It took a few minutes before we found the DeSoto among the hundreds and hundreds of cars, and lightning streaked across the sky just as I was opening the passenger door. Inside the car, rain pelted at the glass, and Betsy wept.

  “We’ll be home in a few minutes,” I said. The fairgrounds were only a few miles away from our house.

  “No.” She shook her head. “Not until the storm is over.”

  I made my way through the rain, climbing into that unrelenting sky until we got to the top of the Heights. The heater blew warm air into the car, but Betsy shivered.

  “You want a blanket? I’ve got one in the back,” I said.

  Betsy shook her head. She leaned her head back and closed her eyes. She was quiet for a long time.

  “We did the right thing,” she said quietly.

  “What?”

  “The baby. This is the right thing. I truly, truly believe that.” Betsy put her face in her hands. Her shoulders trembled. I could hear her trying not to cry. Everything inside me ached.

  And then I remembered. In all the commotion, I had completely forgotten about the job. I had to tell her about the university, about Maine.

  “You know, after the baby comes…” I started.

  Thunder cracked.

  “I’m scared,” Betsy said.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’m here.”

  Betsy looked at me, desperate and sad. “Turn the headlights out? Let’s just watch the storm.”

  Acts of Contrition

  “Y ou okay dere?” Rene asked, leaning out of the window as I stood on the street below my apartment. “Maybe you best go lie down.”