The Wind Is Not a River

by Brian Payton

  Easley’s plane landed just after noon and he was taken directly to the hospital for an assessment. They weren’t quite able to mask their response at seeing what was once his knee. Although far from any front line, Easley expected the staff would have developed a more practiced bedside manner this deep into the war. The doctor has given him three days—seventy-two hours—to rest up before surgery. Time enough, they hope, for the antibiotics to take effect and the recent swelling to subside. Sorenson tossed his newspaper aside and grabbed Easley’s hand as soon as he rolled into the waiting room. He went to the trouble of purchasing Easley a new suit of clothes. A spare set of Sorenson’s own would have been too short in the legs and sleeves, too baggy everywhere else. For Easley, this generosity called to mind when the two of them first tried to sneak back into the Aleutians. Sorenson did not hesitate to share his food, booze, or leads when all were becoming scarce. Stood firm beside him on Kodiak when four merchant seamen were spoiling for a fight. What Sorenson sees in him, Easley does not know. But the sight of him, and the new pills the doctor supplied, have Easley feeling revived. Good enough to see him through a shower and shave without undue pain. Easley imagines himself looking about as presentable as one could hope.

  Sorenson called ahead to let Helen know that Christmas has come early. He said she cried out for joy when he promised they would be by her house directly. Easley has a clear picture of how this reunion ought to be. He has composed the scene in his mind, worked it through time and again. He will reenter her life as complete a man as possible. He will stand before her again—see, hear, and touch her again—in her childhood home, not some emasculating hospital room.

  “There are a few things you need to know,” Sorenson explains. “She followed every lead, hounded every writer and editor in town. When that didn’t work, she made her way up north. Followed you right out to the Aleutians . . . I’m telling you, she doesn’t take no for an answer. She’d make a better reporter than the two of us combined.”

  Easley is told how Helen remade herself in order to pursue her goal. How she chose to leave her ailing father behind. How she worked her way out to Adak with a troupe from the USO, learned he had assumed his brother’s identity. How his plane was seen shot down near Attu and yet still she believed. How, in the end, a source she discovered here at home gave her a tip about a man found alone on Attu. How that tip led her to call a high-ranking officer she met on Adak, how Adak led to Anchorage—

  “The hospital at Fort Richardson?”

  Sorenson turns to face him. “She called there pretending to be a reporter from the Post-Intelligencer.”

  Easley sits with the thought for a moment or two, then slowly shakes his head.

  “Said she wanted to confirm the rumors of a man who survived being shot down over Japanese-occupied Attu.” Sorenson clearly delights recounting the tale. “A man who ‘outlasted the invaders.’ But by the time she had connected the dots, your plane was in the air.”

  Easley stares out the window, tries to imagine it, but comes up only with the image of Helen’s mouth set in determination, her small fists clenched at her sides. During his ordeal, he had tried so often to conjure soothing images of her waiting for him, safe at home. Tried to draw comfort from such wishful thinking. Faced with the account Sorenson now provides, it is clear he has almost everything to learn about the woman who shares his name.

  A few blocks more and they will take a right at her family’s parish church, travel west, under the shade of those old maple trees, pull up to the curb with the passenger’s side facing the house. Easley will open the door, hoist himself up with as much grace as he can manage. Helen will see him achieve his natural height, stand on his one good leg without help from anyone. Then he will take up the crutches. He will hide nothing from her, but he is intent on showing her all that he can still accomplish.

  When Easley pictures her now, and reflects on what he will say, he feels both a profound fragility and an abiding sense of peace. The reasons he had for leaving her side seem far away, smaller somehow, betraying their relative worth. He thinks only of her touch and companionship, and how—starved of these—he became a man he does not know.

  Sorenson now affords him time to prepare in silence. Bright sunlight through the side window sets Easley’s pale arm aglow. He folds his hands in his lap, watches buildings float past, notices how the shop fronts jostle for position. And everywhere he looks people are walking, daydreaming, greeting one another—more or less at ease.

  Helen, he knows, would offer up a prayer in this moment. Once upon a time, he too would have been so inclined. And he feels a rush of gratitude unlike anything he has felt before. He is grateful for the continued safety and security of this city and the entire Pacific coast. For the silent and sturdy friend beside him. For the knowledge that Helen awaits his arrival in that big, empty house. And yet he feels no urge to thank what he once imagined was God. To do so would mean holding this same being responsible for allowing his brother to die—for Karl, the Greek, the litter bearer, Sergeant Major Uben Kubota, everyone else who lost their lives on Attu. For the disappeared Aleuts. But there is nowhere else to lay the blame, no one else to thank. No need to look beyond ourselves to find the responsible party. And yet his gratitude continues to expand. It is unfocused, sweeping, reaching out to everyone, every thing.

  Sorenson turns the steering wheel and guides the car to the curb. He shuts off the engine. Easley turns to him and sees that his eyes are shy and brimming. Easley offers his hand, the two men shake, then he opens the door. But the house is shut, there are no signs of life.

  Sorenson plants a cigarette between his lips. “She’s probably shaving her legs.” He pats his pockets for a lighter, glances up—then quickly removes his hat.

  Easley sees the front door draw in and the screen push out all in a single gesture.

  As Helen clears the shade of the porch, the sunlight illuminates the auburn curls about her neck and shoulders.

  Easley braces himself, shifts forward in his seat, left hand on dashboard, right hand on doorframe. He plants his right foot on the pavement just before the curb. He shifts his hips, pushes up and away, but she is on him before he has found his balance. Her arms reach out for him, her eyes never leave his face. Her forward motion meets his ascent and suddenly he’s tipping back. Seeing the trouble, Sorenson lunges across the seat like a goalie. He gives a steady shove to Easley’s rump to keep them from falling in. Helen is forced to bend her knees and splay her legs in a most unladylike fashion. And then she has him in her arms.

  John feels thin and frail. Sunken chest, withered arms, sharp shoulder blades. Tom assured her that he had gained back some of the fifty pounds he lost on the island. But it’s not nearly enough. It is as if she holds an older version of her husband, one who has lived twice his chronological years. And yet his arms, hands, his body respond as before. The sent of wool and tobacco, the slight tang of sweat—he even smells the same. As she reconciles the past and present, he kisses her lips, her cheeks, her forehead. He kisses the palms of each hand. They begin to totter again, hang on to each other like a pair of drunks. They laugh with awkward relief.

  Tom offers up the crutches, then reaches back for a tattered knapsack. John sets the pace across the path and through the yard then, remarkably, up four stairs to the porch. Helen holds open the screen as he bounds inside.

  Tom rests the bag on the porch. In want of some closing observance, he offers Helen a hug.

  “Iced tea?”

  He shakes his head, then retreats down the stairs with the promise to return Friday morning to drive them to the hospital. He jogs back to the car.

  John sits poised on the couch, crutches laid discreetly aside. He won’t take his eyes off her. She stands before him, unsure what comes next, awaiting some kind of lead or cue.

  “You went looking for me.”

  She nods, feels her face tighten with remembered grief. He reaches out a hand. She steps forward to take it.

  “Yo
u love me.”

  Again, she nods helplessly.

  “As I love you,” he says.

  He pulls her close, caresses her hips, searching, as if to confirm that they are both really here. Next, he extends his hand down and around the back of her right leg, pulling in at the knee. He draws his hands down, strokes her calf, then tugs the shoe away. He gestures for her left leg then removes the other shoe. She stands barefoot before him.

  She opens her blouse, gathers him in.

  He falls into her with the realization that this is the center, the place to rebuild his life, the only real beginning or end. This is a truth he does not believe, but embodies. This is the faith he will keep. And so here he gives thanks.

  She holds his head between her hands and feels electric life within. She cannot contain her gratitude to the Lord, his Blessed Mother, the Holy Spirit for bringing him home to her. He is her living proof. Her faith, her hope, her questions satisfied. Is it right to pray at a moment like this? This is the finest, most heartfelt prayer of thanksgiving she will ever give.

  TWENTY-FIVE

  HELEN HAS BEEN HUMMING IN THE KITCHEN SINCE early afternoon. The weather’s so inviting she decides they’ll eat outside. With warm temperatures and abundant light, the days seem almost endless now, easily able to contain both their indolence and ambition. Her first instinct is to ask John to fetch the card table and take it out back, but she manages to catch herself in time.

  He sits with her in the kitchen, watching her go about final preparations. After this meal, he will be forced to fast before tomorrow’s surgery. From the icebox she pulls deviled eggs. She peeks inside the oven to check the onions browning atop the roast. He swirls the ice cubes in his whiskey as she moves between cupboard and pantry, gathering plates and bowls. He takes as much pleasure and nourishment observing her as he will from the resulting meal. He downs the last of his drink, then picks up his crutches.

  Helen unfurls a tablecloth beneath the lone apple tree, the tree her father planted the day after she was born. As she unfolds the chairs, he makes his way out to her, past the clothesline and across the open lawn. He takes his seat and watches as she brings him a bowl of bright red cherries, a plate of salad greens. He hasn’t the heart to tell her that the sight and smell of such a feast is mostly lost on him. His appetite seems to have gone AWOL these past few days and he scrambles for ways to explain. She’s even made a cake. She wipes her hands on aproned hips, saunters back across the yard. She returns with two glasses of lemonade. It is all so beautiful.

  Go easy, he says as she starts to fill his plate. It must be the long journey, he explains. The pills, the unaccustomed heat. He makes no mention of what’s been tying him up inside.

  At last Helen sits beside him. A breeze has begun to stir. The old Douglas fir in the neighbor’s yard gently sweeps the sky. She glances up at the young green fruit overhead and imagines the many fine pies and crisps to come. John leans forward and takes up his knife and fork.

  Since his return two days ago, he has avoided discussing plans for the future. Helen can only guess how hard it must be for him to think past the operation, convalescence, learning to live without his leg. Is he anxious about how they will make ends meet? To ease his mind and encourage him, she offers up a few of her own designs.

  “The house is ours for as long as we want. Dad has no plans for coming home.” She looks to the window above. “We’ll set up an office in Frank and Patrick’s old room. There’s plenty of light up there. We’ll get you a proper desk, facing the window. You can look out at the trees while you write. Of course, I’ve thought about the stairs, but I’ve seen how you can get around. Unless you’re thinking of going full-time at one of the papers. A columnist, or editor. Something here in town . . . And in a couple of weeks, I’ll get a job. Things are so different now. There’s much more women can do. That is, unless I become too pregnant to work.”

  Easley smiles at this unfolding panorama, wipes his mouth, drinks her in. But he cannot take up her dreams and help color them in. Not until she is made aware of the kind of man who now sits before her, the man who shares her bed.

  To prepare himself for the road ahead, he starts down a gentler path. He recounts the telephone conversation he had with his mother, and his request that she wait a few days before coming down. “She insists we take Warren’s savings,” he explains. “Money he’d been setting aside for a piece of land. You know how she can be. Given the state we’re in, I couldn’t think of a reasonable objection.” Saying it out loud like this, he is struck by the fact that his brother still retains the power to reach into their lives.

  From his lap, Easley produces a packet and hands it to Helen. She lifts her napkin to her lips, then takes a look inside. There are dozens of letters, envelopes unsealed, dates and times inscribed where the return address should be, her name written on the front of each one.

  “Save them for later. After the operation. After you’ve gotten used to me and I start getting on your nerves again.”

  He now reveals what’s been weighing him down ever since he believed he would survive. He tells her of Karl, and their time in the cave, hiding out from the enemy. How he left the boy alone in the dark and failed to find a splint in time. Waiting with a boulder above the entrance of the cave, lining it up with the skull of a Japanese officer. To his surprise, he finds these heavy words flow easily, as if he were describing episodes from someone else’s life. He pauses for a moment, sees her hands clenched around the packet of letters. He now tells her of the treasures he found buried in an old tea tin. How he would have lost what was left of his mind but for the picture of a young Aleut woman, her brief note, and the hope she afforded him.

  “I have a hard time explaining it, even to myself,” he says, “and I don’t expect you to understand. But you need to know that she was as real to me as my own life, or you sitting here with me.”

  Helen sees it written in the tightness of his jaw, the weary slope of his shoulders. The guilt of having let down a friend, of having killed an enemy. But then she loses her way. These two deaths seem like a prelude to the note and the photograph. She is unsure whether this will lead to some larger revelation, or is some kind of test. She is at a loss for how to proceed.

  “John. You’re talking about a picture. Like some pinup girl.”

  “That’s just what I’m trying to say. It wasn’t like that at all.”

  Helen takes a sip of lemonade, brushes the hair from her eyes.

  “She came to me in my darkest time. It was as though she chose to reveal herself to me. Helen . . . I loved that girl. And I felt her love for me. I would have given my life for her, but she saved me instead. I know this might sound like shell shock to you, but she is the reason I am back here today. Sitting beside the woman I have always loved.”

  “John—”

  “Her name is Tatiana. We’ve never met in person. The Japanese took her away before I arrived. She could be dead for all I know . . . As I hear myself saying these things, I can only imagine what you must think. But I need you to know, and I need you to forgive me.”

  Helen sets the napkin and letters aside, leans back in her chair. So much food for two people with so little appetite. She recalls the hangar on Adak, the unfinished stage, airman Perera driving nails into the floor. For her momentary lapse, she has already paid in full. It’s an event she sees no reason to relive or confess, to let confuse or spoil this day.

  In the end, what remains is the trust he must have in her. The faith she will accept, without understanding, that what they have between them cannot be diminished. He does not know the relief of confessing to a priest. Hers is the only absolution he seeks. She sees the weight of his burden and is instinctively moved to relieve him.

  “John, if I was left alone on an island, with a single picture? Who knows? I might have fallen for Herbert Hoover.”

  He takes this in, nods, looks down and away.

  Whether real, or imagined, whatever he did up there, and with whom, is
of no concern to her now. She has him here with her again. He is both changed and the same. On balance, she believes he is more than the man she knew before. She takes his hand and kisses it. He has been heard. It is time to forget. There is nothing to forgive.

  His stomach seems to have settled, his appetite has begun to stir. They eat in silence for a time. With the back of her hand, Helen gently diverts a pair of wasps from the remains of the roast. He asks about this spring’s salmon run and whether Joe had a chance to cast a line before he left the coast. She fills in the details of her father’s stroke, his fall from the ladder, his remarkable resilience. Easley rolls his eyes at the sudden concern of the prodigal sons. He takes comfort in these latest episodes, featuring familiar characters and themes. But mostly he loses himself in the rise and fall of her voice.

  * * *

  BEFORE THEY LEFT for the hospital this morning, Helen was struck by the urge to bring one of her father’s puzzles. The box at hand features a windmill at the end of a multicolored tulip field somewhere in Holland. Once settled in John’s room, she scattered the pieces on the table. She sits beside him on the bed. He establishes the borders first, she arranges flower fragments by color. They work together in contented silence—until he reaches over and cups her breast.

  The surgery is still two hours off. When the time comes, someone will be by to wheel him down. The doctor’s best guess is that, during the amputation, a bone fragment was missed and is now lodged inside the muscle. Under the circumstances, the field surgeons did the best they could. The doctor will seek out and remove the problem, then ensure the end of the femur is made round and smooth again. Following this, a fresh stretch of muscle and skin will be pulled down over the bone and stitched in place. Once the scar tissue forms and the muscle heals, it should be able to bear his weight again. Next up, a custom-fitted false leg. If all goes well, the patient could be walking by the end of summer.