The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  How, he wonders, have I traveled so far from that night?

  The boy enters the cave carrying a jacket full of mussels, loose smile tugging at his lips, proud of what he’s accomplished.

  “You’ve been busy,” Easley says, glancing up to where the waterfall used to be. “You’ll make someone a fine little wife one day.”

  The boy consolidates his load in one arm, freeing the other hand to offer a single-finger salute.

  There will be no fire this night. Even the gray light is in short supply, and there is no time to mount a search for fuel. The wind is picking up. They observe and acknowledge all this without words. They have already begun to develop a vocabulary of glances and gestures.

  They crack mussels and eat, listening to the wind whip the shore. Neither is satisfied, having consumed only enough to dull the hunger. The raw, rubbery flesh has already begun to repel them. In this low moment, Easley must find a way to embolden both himself and the boy.

  Tomorrow, Easley says, we’ll build a proper fire pit. They will cook their food on smaller, hotter fires that require less fuel. The warm rocks will retain heat, some of which will even find its way back to their bunk. Maybe they should rig hammocks. From this cave, they will hide from and observe the enemy until such time as they can signal for rescue from the bombing sorties, or join up with the invasion that’s sure to come. The Japanese have already been here for ten months. How much longer do you suppose Uncle Sam will allow such an affront to continue?

  The boy nods. For the moment, he seems resigned to reason over rank and protocol. Easley is pleased, because they must come to agreement on each and every decision. They must be of one mind. The peace between them is their only security.

  THAT NIGHT, up in the nest, the boy pulls the parachute to his chin. “Storm’s blowin’ in,” he observes. Easley listens to the fury of the williwaw, the signature gale of the Aleutians. It accelerates down cold mountain slopes to the sea. Here, the wind becomes an avalanche, a full stampede of sound and sensation that strips the moisture from your eyes, bullies and casts you to the ground. He too pulls the silk close and marvels at their good fortune of having found shelter in time. As the wind shoves its way across the land, only a slight breeze reaches his cheeks.

  “What’s the first thing you want to do when we get out of here?” the boy asks. His back is pressed into Easley’s.

  “First thing?” Easley sighs. “Sit down to a steak and chocolate cake. You?”

  “Shower. Plate of ribs. Get drunk and drive around in my truck with the heat blowin’ full . . . Man, I’d love to go for a drive.”

  “Got someone waiting for you?”

  “My dog Queenie. She’s an old bitch now, but she’ll knock me over just the same.” The boy rolls over on his back. “What happened to that lucky girl of yours?”

  Easley no longer feels any anger—toward the boy for having asked, toward Helen or himself. He considers telling him everything, but the boy speaks first.

  “If you’re not of a mind to discuss such things, then don’t. I don’t mean to pry.”

  “It’s all right.”

  A loud crack and crash thunders down the shore, where an outsized wave impales itself on the point. They pause and listen to the violence.

  “I think we ought’a have a rule around here,” the boy continues. “Let’s drop the bull and answer questions straight. No tall tales or secrets. No dickin’ around. Way I figure it, we owe it to each other. We might as well be the last two men on earth. So let’s do each other the honor of being straight with one another.”

  “Sounds fair to me.”

  “Think we’ll ever get home?”

  “Might take a while.” It is as close to the truth as Easley can get.

  “Part of me has plans for tomorrow,” the boy replies. “Ideas about how we can get meat and wood. Make things better ’til they come for us. Then part of me feels like a ghost. Like we’re already hauntin’ this place and we don’t even know we’re dead.”

  “Listen. We’re both strong. We’ll find better food. The weather will improve. We’re already into spring . . . You had a rule. Now I’ve got one. I say we each get one shot at this. One chance to complain. The other listens, tells him he’s being a crybaby, then we get back to business. This is your chance to whine, so you’d better make it count.”

  The boy’s chuckle turns into a cough, then silence.

  HOURS LATER, Easley jerks awake. The wind seems to have died down entirely. Morning can’t be far. Out past the beach, over the boom and hiss of breakers, he hears the burble of an outboard motor and the slap of a hull passing through the chop. He props himself up on an elbow and peers out into the gloom. A strong beam of light sweeps across the beach. It flashes past the very mouth of the cave but does not linger. Rescue launch from a U.S. Navy vessel? This first hopeful thought quickly fades. Such a small craft could only have come from the island itself.

  A moment later, the sounds and light are gone. The boy does not stir. Easley lies back down beside him.

  TWO

  SHE IS SINKING—THROUGH HER CLOTHING, THE COT, the floor. Her mind says she’s safe, lying in the clinic, but her gut tells a different tale. It’s the blood, of course. Lightly pulsing out the vein in tune with the rhythm of her heart. She has an overwhelming sense of déjà vu, and connectedness—knowing that her very life is being pooled and preserved, to be used by someone else, far away. Flowing first into that glass jar, then the veins of someone who needs it even more. Sinking, dripping out and down.

  She stops herself from imagining it will ever flow directly into his body. He would have to be gravely injured for that to occur. And he is not injured. No, she imagines it flowing into the arm of the soldier who fought to protect him, to protect us all.

  The nurse is all of eighteen, seven years Helen’s junior. The girl’s head eclipses the light overhead as she hovers, tending the flow. Her confidence affords her a kind of beauty. If only Helen had had some greater sense of direction in school, perhaps she too could have been a nurse. So necessary these days. A nurturing role to be sure, but one that affords a woman real independence. When Helen was a girl, she conceived many possible futures for herself. Early on, it was dancing in the ballet or playing viola with the orchestra. Then, more practically, she imagined a career as a teacher of English literature or French. Now, of course, she sees how her father, her brothers, then John had always been her shelter and shield. She remained untested. But in this dim new world of missing men, she knows her test has come.

  Does she feel faint? The nurse wants to know.

  “This is my first time,” Helen says. “First time in this clinic, first time I’ve given blood. But I’m sure I’ve been in this position before. I remember you asking that question.”

  “It’s not uncommon. You blank out for a second or two, but since you’re already lying down, you hardly notice. When you come to, the last thing you remember always seems extra important.”

  “No. I’m sure—”

  “We’re all done.” The nurse removes the needle and presses with an index finger. “But I’d lie there awhile, if I were you. Get your bearings, then go get yourself something to eat. The world will sort itself out again after a little sugar and starch.”

  SHE GLANCES OVER the top of her menu as he straddles a stool at the counter. He has his back to her. Marking territory, he tosses his hat on the seat beside him, rights the cup on his saucer, nods to the waitress for coffee. The unexpected surge of hope at the sight of him takes Helen by surprise. She holds her menu higher, settles back into the booth, unsure how to proceed.

  Tom Sorenson seems physically unsuited to his chosen profession. Helen observes his meaty hand encircling the cup with blunt, mechanic’s fingers. She’d always had trouble imagining they could coax a living from the keys of a Smith-Corona. His neck is a broad trunk growing out of low, longshoreman’s shoulders. Deep farmer’s tan, entirely out of season. Helen stands and straightens her blouse before walking over and
placing her palm on his back.

  “Helen! Well . . . I’ll be.”

  He embraces her with genuine affection, then holds her at arm’s length. “You look great,” he says, taking in the sweep of her.

  These days, Helen finds it hard to keep up appearances. And yet today, her hair is curled and set. Red lipstick bright against powdered skin.

  “Tom . . . I don’t know where to begin.”

  “With me moving over to your booth.”

  Helen does not know him well, but his connection to John affords them a familiarity that transcends the handful of conversations they’ve had, the few dinner parties they’ve both attended. He is a colleague of John’s, someone John admires, a friend with whom he shares a professional rivalry. Last night, when she came across his byline in the Post-Intelligencer, a story about Tacoma’s McChord Field, she knew he must be back in town. She walked to his office directly from the clinic. She’d just missed him, the receptionist said. He was out to lunch, but he has his usual spots.

  Her best hope now sits across the table from her, sputtering news through bites of ham sandwich. He had been thrown out of Alaska with John on that second trip—only he had the good sense not to return. He is fresh back from a three-month tour in the South Pacific, filing reports from Hawaii. The war, he says, is an institution they should all start getting used to.

  Helen listens politely to his news with a discreet eye on her wristwatch. For the past few years, she has worked downtown at a clothing store to help save for a down payment on a modest house. She’s late already, her coworker trapped and unable to escape for lunch until she returns. Interrupting a man telling war stories isn’t something one does lightly, but she cannot miss this opportunity.

  She reaches out and spreads a hand flat on the table. “And what have you heard about John?”

  His posture sags. He rubs his napkin across his lips. “That’s exactly what I was going to ask you.”

  “I haven’t heard from him in three months.” Helen withdraws her hand. “He was going to try and get back into Alaska again and I—”

  “Again? Couple of the guys were talking about going back up. I thought it was just a lot of talk.”

  “John went.”

  This news has him reeling. He utterly fails to mask his surprise.

  “Do you know where he might be?” There is the flush of anger and shame in revealing that she doesn’t know where her husband is, that she is more or less abandoned.

  “Haven’t spoken to him since we got tossed out in July.” Tom chews the last of his sandwich, awkwardly rearranging his silverware. He shakes his head in awe. “Son of a bitch . . .”

  She recognizes the primary male instinct: competitive. Even among friends, concern comes in a distant second. He picks up his cup, which she can see is empty. He takes a sip of air just the same.

  “Tom, I’m sorry. I’m so late for work. It was wonderful seeing you.”

  Helen reaches for her purse, but he’s already grabbed the bill. She nods her appreciation and slides out of the booth.

  “I spoke with his editor at the National Geographic, newspaper editors here in Seattle, other reporters. I have called photographers and the wire services. I’ve tried everything I can think of. I don’t know where else to turn.” She stands with arms folded tight, then thinks to give him her card. “If you could make a few inquiries, I’d be—”

  “Happy to. I’ll call you before the end of the week.”

  Helen embraces him lightly, then turns to go. He stands staring as she rushes past the happy diners, out into the open air.

  It’s raining again. Helen marches down the sidewalk alongside the buildings, under the shelter of awnings and eaves. She moves as fast as her narrow skirt and shoes will permit. She had invested far too much hope in this meeting with Tom Sorenson. She recites a silent Our Father and Hail Mary, then composes a fresh take on her well-worn prayer for the safe return of her husband. She is interrupted by the sight of a man walking directly toward her. She continues her course, unaltered, until they come to a halt. Helen stares him down until he yields the covered half of the sidewalk and steps out into the rain.

  AFTER WORK, she turns up the path to their front door, which is lined with white crocuses and unopened daffodils. The lawn shows wear from the winter past but is greening up with the longer days. She will hire a kid from the neighborhood to mow it when the time comes, or she will do it herself and ignore any pitying stares. The place is not much in the great scheme of things, but it is their first home.

  A discreet shoulder check—the houses across the street are quiet, the street empty—then Helen approaches the front door, key out and ready. She unlocks the door, slips inside, and locks it again all in under three seconds. It is a precise, choreographed maneuver. She recently read in a magazine that a single woman is at her most vulnerable upon arrival or departure, especially from home. Inside she hangs her coat, tucks away her shoes in silence.

  In three days, her father will arrive for Sunday dinner. All week she looks forward to these visits, which have become essential to her peace of mind. No one else has stepped through this door since John left in January.

  The living room is compulsively cleaned and ordered. Magazines stacked, books shelved, dust wiped away. The only thing out of place is the small green edition of The Sorrows of Young Werther, which remains on the floor near the wall where she pitched it. The story of a young man’s hopeless, extravagant, wholly self-destructive love. Helen had foolishly hoped that Goethe’s tale of someone more sorrowful than herself might offer some commiseration or relief.

  In their bedroom, she changes out of her work clothes, hanging her sweater in the closet next to John’s ironed shirts. Each day she resists the urge to arrange his jumble of shoes on the floor. That’s the way he always leaves them.

  Over the bed hangs a crucifix, the same one that once hung above her mother’s childhood bed in France. On the night table, an enormous abalone shell catches the light with its mother-of-pearl. John picked it off the beach on his first trip to the Aleutians Islands. It now cradles her earrings and necklaces.

  Framed photos crowd the vanity. The largest is the portrait of her young mother. A war bride from Normandy, yet her complexion has an almost Latin hue. Eyes so dark the pupil seems lost in the iris. A proud, open smile of strait ivory. She’s two months past nineteen. Then Helen and her brothers at Helen’s confirmation (she appears as a doll between junior wrestlers), John and his brother at a baseball game, and a portrait of herself and John on their wedding day. But her favorite shot of the two of them, the one she keeps closest to the bed, was taken by a passing stranger on the shore of Vancouver Island, on her first trip north when John “introduced” her to Canada. They hold on to each other and look in opposite directions, smiling as if they’ve just shared an off-color joke. She realizes she has no proper photo of her father, the only member of her family still present in her life. This is an oversight she has long pledged to rectify.

  A second, smaller bedroom became his office despite their family plans. After he left, she thoroughly searched his files for clues as to where he was headed, although she feared she already knew. Now, she rarely opens the door. His makeshift desk is mostly bare, save the handsome toy bidarka, the traditional Aleutian kayak. He had placed it on the mantel. She can no longer bear to see it.

  There was a time when Helen felt she could sense her unborn children. She could not discern whether they were boys or girls—the shape of faces or the color of hair—but they were a distinct presence to her all the same. Despite passionate, and then increasingly determined attempts, they had so far failed to bring them into being. He said they just needed to give it more time. Looking back, the pressure she brought to bear on them both no doubt encouraged his attraction to work.

  In three years of marriage, John had told Helen he loved her perhaps a half dozen times. On each occasion, the noise in her head would suddenly cease, leaving her profoundly centered and serene. Before he
left, hearing those words seemed more important to her than anything else. More important than those things he took such care in providing: a home, companionship, security, a future they could build and share. These were the ways he spoke to her. She had not yet learned to hear him.

  And then his brother died.

  Following the news of Warren’s death, John’s silence was the sinkhole that appeared at the corner of their lives. She tried her best to pretend it wasn’t there. His selfish, self-destructive grief. It ended up cracking the foundation, threatening to pull everything down. Work took him away for weeks on end, and he was distant when he returned. He let his sorrow consume them.

  The wind kicked up the night he left, the house creaked like an old ship at sea. They were on the couch, covered in an old wool blanket, when he announced that he’d be leaving again. It felt like she was falling. She fought the urge to reach out and hold on to him. He had no choice, he said, only duty. He must document some part of the war that claimed his brother, the part that seemed to have fallen into his lap. If someone isn’t there to observe and record, capture it on the page, it will be as if it never happened. The sacrifices made on our behalf must be known before they can be remembered, he said. She replied that his family has already given enough. His duty was not to his dead brother, but to the living—to her and their life together. In a desperate attempt to make him understand, she said the words for which she continues to pay.

  If you leave now, don’t bother coming back. Because I won’t be here if you do.

  He put his finger to her lips.

  The house was cold. He unbuttoned her blouse anyway. He moved his hands down her skin, then pushed the blanket away. Fumbled with his belt in the dim lamplight, his face hard and set. She lay pinned on her back in the crook of the couch as he lowered himself onto her. This had nothing to do with making a child. This was for them. And yet, he avoided her eyes even as she gazed into his. She felt the abandonment again, the passion he kept hidden inside. They moved to the bed and slept back to back. By morning, he was gone.