Once We Had a Country

by Robert Mcgill

  Just as she’s about to re-enter the farmhouse, the camper comes up the driveway behind her and Fletcher steps out, back from his trip to the St. Catharines mall. She descends the porch stairs to greet him.

  “You’ll never guess who we have for a neighbour,” she says.

  “Frank the repairman,” he replies. She can’t believe it. “How did you know?”

  “I just saw him pulling out of the lane next door.”

  Then Maggie tells him about her encounter with the girls. He nods as if none of it surprises him.

  “The daughter must have inherited her manners from the old man,” he says. “I bet he doesn’t know she and her friends are smoking dope, though.”

  “You think I should have done something about them?”

  “Nah, you did plenty.” She doesn’t know how he can have such certainty, but it’s a comfort. “Let’s get inside,” he says, kissing her on the forehead. He unloads a large cardboard box from the camper. “I want to show you what I bought.”

  Fletcher opens it in the living room to reveal a silver television set, the shape of an egg and mounted on a stubby tripod. He says it’s one of the newest models from Japan. Juxtaposed with the room’s worn-out furniture, the television looks like an alien invader. Maggie thinks about asking how he plans to pay for the thing, but she decides not to risk ruining the moment. He calls in Brid and Pauline to see the set too, and they all wait on the couch while he fiddles with the rabbit ears, coaxing ghostly images from static.

  The rest of June passes by on television. During the day they occupy themselves with cutting away the dead limbs of cherry trees and planting vegetables in a corner of the backyard, and on weekends they drive the countryside in search of lawn sales from which to furnish the house and barracks, but the evenings are spent in front of the little metal spaceship with its screen aglow. Whether they watch the local channel or the ones from Buffalo, it doesn’t matter, it all seems to be about America: the Libertarian Party convention, Angela Davis’s acquittal, the break-in at Democratic offices. Their country has moved on without them, but television lets them peek back in at their leisure.

  Whenever Maggie tries to read the copy of Middlemarch she picked up at a yard sale, the sound and images from the TV keep tempting her eyes from the page. It’s better when everyone gathers in the playroom to watch the latest film she’s shot. Those nights they eat bowls of popcorn, and Fletcher makes shadow puppets between the reels. Maggie hasn’t yet figured out how to match the film with the audiotapes she’s recorded, so the four of them take turns doing each other’s voices. Afterward, Brid and Fletcher compliment her camerawork, and Maggie’s relieved, because each day she picks up the camera expecting one of them will say it’s a frivolous thing to do. She wonders how long they’ll let her get away with it.

  Often, after dinner, Fletcher spends long hours in the kitchen with the telephone receiver cradled under his chin, bribing and cajoling friends into coming up. None of them arrives, and there’s no sign of Wale. Still, Brid and Pauline remain at the farm, and nobody mentions Brid’s threat to leave. No one asks Maggie about her father, either. She hasn’t heard from him again, and she should be glad, but she finds herself contemplating a call to Gran, just to make sure he’s all right. She never did send a reply to Gran’s letter.

  In the last week of June, they watch on television as Hurricane Agnes arrives in America. The storm rains and rains over Pennsylvania until rivers break their banks, levees are overtopped, and thousands flee their homes. Maggie takes in the images, hears the statistics about the dead and displaced, then goes about her business in the orchard sunshine. But that night the storm escapes the television set. Suddenly it’s outside the house, rattling the gutters, still raging after many inland miles, vengeful over a crime no one remembers committing. Lakeshore towns nearby are flooded, while the slimy creek at the back of the property swells into gouts of dirty water. The farmhouse roof springs a dozen leaks, everyone scurries for pots and buckets, and hourly Maggie makes the rounds to empty them. When the power goes out, they play cribbage and crazy eights by candlelight. The next morning Maggie stands at the bedroom window, still in her nightgown, and films the wind as it presses the cherry trees toward the ground. By the time the storm has passed, countless branches lie strewn about the orchard, a new multitude of automobile parts spread among them. The outhouse has been flattened, and the vegetables Maggie planted are drowned. It should be considered a disaster. Yet when the rain abates and she steps outside to film the ruins, she does so gladly.

  A few days later, George Ray turns up at the door carrying a battered suitcase. Everyone files onto the porch to meet him, Fletcher pumping his hand energetically, Brid giving him a pasted-on smile that makes her reservations clear. Pauline hides behind her mother’s knees and refuses to say hello, while Maggie hangs back and listens to Fletcher talk about the damage from the hurricane.

  “George Ray, what would you like for dinner?” Maggie asks after a time. For some reason the question seems to fluster him.

  “That’s kind of you,” he says, not meeting her eyes, “but I won’t be able to join you tonight.”

  “He’s going to live in the barracks,” Fletcher explains, then starts down the stairs as if to flee any questions. “Come on, George Ray, let’s get you moved in.”

  “He isn’t staying in the house?” says Brid.

  “It was something he decided,” replies Fletcher defensively.

  “Don’t worry,” says George Ray, smiling at Brid and then at Maggie. “It’s better for me this way.”

  Brid bites her lip and says nothing more, but at dinner, when George Ray stays true to his word and doesn’t join them, she demands that Fletcher explain what’s going on.

  He shrugs. “A religious thing, maybe? Honestly, it was his idea.”

  “Well, it looks terrible, him out there and all the white folks in here.”

  “Who cares how it looks?” he says, tossing his fork onto his plate. “There’s nobody here to see it. Let’s just be glad we have him.”

  The rest of the meal passes in silence. After Pauline has been put to bed, the top story on the TV news is Nixon’s announcement that no more draftees will be sent to Vietnam. Maggie lets out a cheer, but Fletcher and Brid stare at the screen with ashen faces.

  “That’s great, isn’t it?” says Maggie, confused.

  “It’s awful,” replies Fletcher. “It means no one else is coming up here.”

  “Of course they’ll come,” Maggie says.

  “Nope, we’re screwed,” says Brid. She stands with the pillow she’s been clutching, then tosses it into Fletcher’s lap.

  “But things down south are getting worse,” insists Maggie. “People know that.”

  “Sleep well, you two,” says Brid, disappearing into the hall. “Don’t run off and leave the country before I’m up to join you.”

  3

  Gordon hurries through the jungle with Yia Pao’s baby boy wailing in his arms, Xang eight months old and too heavy to let Gordon run very long while carrying him. The trail has grown slick with rain. Again and again Gordon falls, taking the earth hard with his shoulder because he can’t let go of the child. When his red bandana slips from his neck and drops to the ground, he doesn’t even notice.

  There’s no one at the waterfall when he gets there, just the stream of water pouring onto ledge rock. Then someone calls his name, barely loud enough to be heard above the cataract, and he sees Yia Pao step out from a hidden place behind the falls. Gordon goes to him and pushes the crying baby into his arms before bending over at the waist to take deep gulps of air.

  “I won’t forget this,” says Yia Pao. He draws Xang close and tries to soothe him. “Did anyone see you?”

  Gordon stands straight and shakes his head.

  “Your neck,” says Yia Pao.

  Gordon frowns and reaches up to touch the thick white scar along his throat. “From the war,” he says. When he sees Yia Pao’s bemusement, he adds, “The on
e against Hitler.” He tucks his chin toward his collar but isn’t quite able to hide the scar from sight.

  “I must leave,” says Yia Pao, and Gordon puts a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

  “Go with God,” he says. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he asks, “Why are they after you?”

  Instead of answering, Yia Pao draws back. An expression of terror has overtaken him. Gordon has only a moment to turn and glimpse the men in the distance before Yia Pao is pulling him toward the waterfall, into the dark place behind the rushing water.

  The chamber is narrow, a wedge of wet air between the falls and a rock face tufted with moss. The light that filters through the water seems to be in motion, running down their clothes and faces.

  “Did they see us?” Gordon whispers, but his words are lost in the tumult. Yia Pao is busy with Xang, trying to hush his crying, rocking him almost violently.

  There are sounds from outside that could be men’s voices. Gordon tries to peer through the waterfall, but a moment later he recoils. On the other side is a human shape stepping onto the ledge rock. The cries of the baby have ceased. When Gordon looks, he sees that Yia Pao has slipped a hand over Xang’s mouth, and the child’s face is bright red.

  In the next second, something pokes through the waterfall at chest level. It’s the barrel of a rifle, and tied to it is Gordon’s bandana. After a time the barrel withdraws, and in its absence comes a face. It’s the face of a man, the skin pale, eyes closed, teeth bared. It’s the face of a corpse.

  The eyes pop open. They roll in their sockets until they fix upon Gordon. He can’t help himself. He screams and screams.

  “Peekaboo,” says the face. “I found you.” It licks its lips and grins.

  Maggie has just stepped out from the mud room to smoke a final cigarette before bed and watch the galaxy unfurl above her when faintly she hears a voice from the barracks. It sounds like the red-haired girl from next door. Maggie strains to listen and the voice promptly falls away. There are only the crickets chirring, the radio towers blinking on the horizon. She imagines the two girls out in the barracks with George Ray. He must be more than twice their age. He’s probably married. Maggie sets off across the lawn.

  Halfway there, she hesitates. No one has declared the barracks off limits since he moved in, but she’ll be invading his privacy. Even if the girls are there, it isn’t Maggie’s business. Then she pictures them at the barracks window, making snide comments as she stands in the middle of the grass. Continuing on, she knocks at the door. George Ray answers in his undershirt and jeans.

  “No cameras allowed in here,” he says, deadpan. She gives a nervous laugh and holds out her empty hands, palms up. Laughing along with her, he invites her in.

  Nobody’s sitting at the long dining table in the middle of the room. It holds only a single plate with a few chicken bones on it. Against the near wall are bunk beds, recently installed. There’s nobody in them either, and only one has been made up. Above it George Ray has tacked a Polaroid, while nearby a clothesline sags under the weight of underwear and socks. When he notices her looking in their direction, he rushes over to remove them.

  “Didn’t know there was inspection today,” he says.

  “Please, don’t go to any trouble,” she replies. It’s horrible of her to have been so suspicious. “I just came out to see how you’re managing.” She points at the Polaroid above his bunk. “Your family?” He says yes, and she crosses the room to see.

  The photo shows him standing in a suit against a backdrop of palm trees and washed-out sky. Beside him, a round-cheeked woman holds a baby and looks harried. A small boy is pulling at George Ray’s hand with all his might, as if trying to drag him out of the picture.

  “My daughter’s twelve now,” says George Ray. The information makes Maggie’s peering at the photo seem too intimate somehow, and she turns away to gaze at the back of the room. Against the wall are stacks of insulation. Near Fletcher’s weightlifting bench, a wide mirror rises from floor to ceiling. She takes herself in, notices the scar of thread on her top’s strap, her pale calves below her skirt, her thin-lobed ears peeking out from hair she hasn’t cut in months. George Ray looks at her in the mirror. He has a barrel chest along with thick limbs, and deep lines run in parentheses around his mouth. When his reflection waves to hers, she laughs.

  “Did Fletcher put the mirror there?” she says, and he nods. “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Keeps me company,” he says.

  She murmurs her understanding, but the mention of company reminds her of why she’s here and makes her feel guilty again.

  “I came out because I thought I heard a girl’s voice,” she admits. Somehow it’s easier confessing this to his reflection than directly to his face, but still it’s embarrassing.

  He frowns, then gestures toward the counter by the sink. There’s a portable radio sitting on it. “I was listening to that a minute ago. Perhaps—”

  Of course. Ridiculous. She’s an idiot to have made such a mistake.

  “I’m sorry,” she tells him. “It’s just because there are a couple of teenage girls next door. A while back they gave me a hard time. I thought they might be …” But she doesn’t know how to finish the sentence.

  “Bothering me?” he suggests, and she nods.

  “Paranoid, I know. I guess they rattled me more than I thought.”

  “No girls here. I’m a married man.”

  She remembers Brid’s interest in him the first time he visited the farm. “Is that why you wanted to be out here by yourself? Because you’re married?”

  “Perhaps,” he says. She can tell from his voice that she’s right. It seems a shame for him to keep them at a distance for such a reason.

  “Would you join us for dinner sometime?” she says. “Or to watch TV? Fletcher said he invited you to one of our home-movie nights—”

  “Thank you,” says George Ray. His tone is polite, unpromising.

  “You don’t get lonely out here?” When he doesn’t answer, she worries it’s too personal a question. “Sorry. I should go.” She retreats to the door. “You’re welcome any time.”

  Once she’s a few yards across the lawn, he calls to her from the doorway.

  “Maybe it was the fulfillment of a wish,” he says. She has to ask him what he means. “I mean, you thought you heard those teenagers because you worried about my loneliness. You imagined company for me.”

  The idea only makes her feel worse.

  “You mustn’t worry,” he says. “It’s nice out here. I’m learning.”

  “What are you learning?”

  “I’m learning how to be alone.”

  She goes back to the house feeling ashamed. From now on she’ll leave him to himself. But he didn’t seem upset by her presence. Why does she feel so guilty? Ahead of her in the house, a bedroom light turns on, and she sees Fletcher’s silhouette sail across the blinds.

  Maggie has almost reached the patch of grass illuminated by the mud room floodlight when something moves toward her from the darkness. It says her name and she gives a yelp, but it’s a voice she recognizes.

  “Wale,” she says. “You scared me to death.”

  “Who’s that guy you were visiting?” His voice is a low drawl. Though he stands only a few feet away, she can make out no more than his outline.

  “Long story,” she replies. Then she wonders how he knew there was a man out there at all. “Were you spying on us?”

  “Give me a break. I saw him through the window, that’s all.”

  “Have you been in the house yet?” she asks, and he shakes his head. “Where have you been the last three weeks?”

  “I had some trouble from the army.”

  “They caught you?” He starts to reply, but she interrupts him. “Wait, let’s get you inside. I know some people who are keen to see you.”

  As they walk toward the door, he grows more visible to her: his spark-plug frame, the nose that looks like it was broken long ago. On o
ne wrist he wears a silver watch that he holds to his ear, shakes vigorously, then holds up once more. It takes her a moment to realize his T-shirt and jeans are soaked through.

  “How’d you get so wet?”

  “I swam over from the States.”

  “Across the river?” She can’t believe it, but he nods.

  Holding open the mud room door for him, she tells him to go ahead. As he passes through the kitchen and down the hallway, she lingers, listening for what’s about to happen. A moment later she hears Brid’s shout of surprise from the living room, then Fletcher’s elated greeting from upstairs. On the other side of the mud room window, moths patter out their lives against the floodlight. Maggie switches it off just as the house is filled with the wailing of a bewildered, suddenly awoken little girl.

  The kitchen in morning light. Brid wears an apron over her bikini as she cooks bacon and pancakes, while Pauline sulks in her booster seat. She says she wants cereal like always, but Brid laughs and ignores her as if it’s a joke. Fletcher hunches over the table swallowing mouthfuls of food drenched in maple syrup, and Wale sits across from him with raccoon eyes of fatigue, wearing a tank top that reveals a scimitar tattooed on one arm and a coiled snake on the other. He seems less interested in his meal than in Maggie, who hovers around the table with the Super 8 camera clicking and humming in her hands.

  “You with the CIA?” he asks her.

  “Shush,” she says. “Pretend I’m not here.”

  “Yeah, don’t look at her,” Fletcher tells him. “It turns out more natural that way.”

  Brid leans over the table with the coffee pot in hand. “Come on, babe,” she urges when Wale declines a refill. “You didn’t get any more sleep than the rest of us.” Topping up his mug, she kisses him on the cheek.

  “You have to tell your story again for the camera,” Fletcher says to him, but he demurs. When his gaze returns to Maggie, she gestures for him to look away. Resignedly, he stares into his coffee. Pauline is still clamouring for cereal; Brid reminds her that bacon is one of her favourites. Then Wale says he’s not hungry and he wants to go sleep some more.