After River

by Donna Milner

  Everyone wanted to spend time around our family back then. Like Mom, I took pride in the fact that others seemed to envy our lives. I had yet to hear the saying, ‘Those the gods would destroy they first make proud.’

  After River arrived the visitors intensified. As word spread, a steady stream of the curious, young and old alike, dropped by to check out our new hired hand. And without even trying, in his quiet gentle way, River charmed them all. He seemed unaware of his effect on people. He treated everyone with an old fashioned respect. All men were, ‘sir’, and all women, ‘ma’am’. And from the first day, to my joy, he never shortened my name or called me anything except Natalie.

  Whenever River spoke to anyone his eyes held theirs with a soft intensity. They never flickered with boredom or darted around to check out the surrounding action. It was so easy for me to believe I was the most important thing in the world when he looked at me.

  Easy to see the best of myself reflected back in those eyes. By August I was completely infatuated with River. I am certain everyone was. Except Dad.

  He was not rude exactly, but he held something back. Mom, of course, treated River with the same hospitality she shared with anyone who showed up at our door. Maybe more. Did she really laugh more when he was around? Did she really seem younger, prettier? If I thought she did, surely my father must have noticed. Was it possible he was jealous? I know I was.

  After the first night’s initiation, it was obvious Morgan and Carl were, according to Dad, smitten. The growing length of their hair during the following months did nothing to help our father warm to River.

  ‘You both need to get your ears lowered,’ he told the two of them at breakfast one morning. ‘You’re starting to look like a couple of wacko beatniks.’

  ‘That’s hippies, Dad,’ Carl laughed, ‘hippies.’

  That summer, instead of playing 45s out in the sunroom, or cruising the streets of town after the evening milking, Morgan and Carl and their entourage began spending time at night in the room above the dairy. My father shook his head and cringed the first time the two of them came down the stairs wearing muted tie-dyed shirts.

  Confused by my feelings, I kept my distance and watched. At first anyway.

  One afternoon, a few weeks after River arrived, I climbed out of my bedroom window to sit on the roof above the porch. Morgan and Carl had gone off riding horses with their friends. Mom and Boyer were in town.

  I sat down in the shade to read. A few minutes later I heard the clanging of a wrench against concrete followed by my father’s groan.

  ‘Every time the sun shines upside down!’ Dad’s voice bellowed out from the machine shop.

  I smiled to myself. This expression of my father’s was the closest I ever heard him come to cursing.

  ‘The tractor must be fighting back,’ River’s voice called out from the yard.

  I looked down, startled to see him there. Just as I once was aware of the location and number of every candy or sweet in the house, these days I was usually aware of River’s whereabouts. I was surprised I had not sensed his presence.

  I gave a startled laugh. ‘You’ve heard Dad’s idea of swearing?’

  ‘A time or two.’ River stopped at the gate and smiled up at me. It was impossible not to smile back.

  ‘What’re you reading?’ he asked.

  I held the book up and turned it to face him. ‘Sometimes a Great Notion.’

  ‘Seems you’ve always got your nose in a book,’ he said. ‘You must haunt the library.’

  ‘Yeah, Boyer’s library,’ I laughed. ‘Boyer’s?’

  ‘Come on up, I’ll show you,’ I offered.

  ‘Shall I climb the roof to prove my devotion?’ he asked with a mock-serious voice.

  ‘The stairs are fine,’ I blushed.

  We met in the upstairs hallway and I led him up to the attic room thrilled at being alone with him. River stood in the doorway and whistled. ‘Man, I see what you mean.’

  Books filled every available surface and space in Boyer’s room.

  They lined shelves, covered his desk and the window seat. They filled boxes under the bed and were stacked against the walls all the way up to the edge of the sloped ceiling.

  ‘Do you think he will mind if I look through them?’ River asked, a note of awe in his voice.

  ‘He won’t mind at all,’ Boyer’s voice answered from the stairway behind us.

  Up until then Boyer had treated River with the same polite indifference he treated anyone but family. But as he came up the stairs that afternoon I saw a look of acceptance as he ushered River into his sanctuary.

  ‘Cool.’ River pushed back his hair as he surveyed Boyer’s collection. ‘Did you raid a second-hand bookstore or something?’

  ‘Something.’ Boyer sat down at his desk, leaned back and folded his arms. ‘Most of these are from an old high school teacher of mine. Thanks to her, I get the rejects from the town’s library.’

  ‘Some teacher,’ River murmured. He picked up one book after another then asked, ‘You mind if I borrow a few?’

  ‘Any time.’

  I leaned against the doorway and watched them discuss different books. Up until then I never knew Boyer to have any outside friends. I mentally patted myself on the back for bringing them together, and I tried to ignore the sudden pinch of envy I felt.

  A few days later I heard their voices out in the sunroom after lunch. I went out to find them searching through the record albums.

  ‘You’re sure this will work?’ Boyer asked.

  ‘Worked for my grandfather’s cows.’

  Later the two of them headed into town in Boyer’s Edsel. They returned with a battered old portable record player from the second-hand store and carried it into the barn.

  That night I listened from my perch on the roof as the strains of a Mozart concerto carried up with the sounds of the evening milking. My father scoffed at River and Boyer’s project, but before long he had to admit to a significant increase in milk production.

  The long hot summer of 1966 produced a bumper hay crop. My favourite memory is of my father and brothers working in the fields. I carry a mental picture of them drenched in the golden glow of the late summer sun. I keep this precious gem hidden deep in the dark closet of my mind, behind all of life’s stored clutter. I take it out rarely, cautiously. Like a fragile object stored in opaque tissue, I unwrap it with slow trepidation. I turn it this way and that, trying to see more, to see beyond the faded edges of memory.

  There must have been others in the field, there were always extra hands around at haying time, yet whenever I allow this image to surface I see only the faces of my brothers, my father. And River.

  One day in the middle of August, in the thickness of the afternoon heat, I carried ice-cold lemonade out to the back hayfield. With Elizabeth-Ann tagging along at my side, I made my way down the dirt road.

  I hugged the sloshing jug close to my chest. Condensation ran down the cold glass and dropped like tears into the dust whirling at my feet.

  I heard my brothers before I spotted them. Morgan and Carl’s voices carried out over the mechanical drone of the tractor and the clanking of the hay wagon. They called out to each other, teasing and laughing, mocking the backbreaking work. River’s voice joined in, floating like a song on the summer breeze.

  Elizabeth-Ann and I paused at the edge of the hay meadow in waist-high grass. The sweet aroma of drying alfalfa filled my nostrils. Out in the field my father drove the tractor, pulling the hay wagon along neat rows of baled hay. With his right hand on the steering wheel, he peered over his left shoulder at Morgan and Carl pitching bales.

  Boyer and River, both stripped to the waist, stacked the heavy bales on the deck of the wagon. Rivulets of sweat streaked through the fine hay dust covering their naked torsos. Their heads turned, as first one, then the other caught sight of us. I smiled at the relief in their eyes. The noise of the tractor engine wound down. The droning buzz of insects filled the sudden stillness of t
he dust-and-heat-rippled air. I hurried across the dried stubble of the mown field, ignoring the harsh prickles jabbing the bottom of my tennis shoes.

  Delivering Mom’s thirst-quenching lemonade on these hot summer afternoons was a chore I never tired of. I enjoyed it even more when any of my friends – in particular Elizabeth-Ann – came with me. I secretly relished the envy I saw in her eyes as I passed cold drinks to waiting hands.

  ‘Thank you, sunshine,’ Dad said, turning off the tractor and reaching for his tin cup.

  ‘Ah, sweet Natalie, the lifesaver,’ River said. He sat down on the back of the hay wagon and wiped the sweat from his brow with his leather glove. The he held up his arms to strum an invisible guitar and began singing ‘Aura Lee’, an old American Civil War song with the same melody as ‘Love Me Tender’. And as he crooned, he substituted my name for Aura Lee.

  As the black bird in the spring,

  ‘neath the willow tree,

  sat and piped I heard him sing,

  sing of Natalie.

  Natalie, Natalie. Maid with auburn hair,

  sunshine came along with thee, like swallows in the air.

  And the magic of my name filled the meadow and warmed me beyond anything the afternoon sun ever could.

  Feigning annoyance, but secretly thrilled, I passed him a drink. He gave a mock bow of his head then raised his tin cup in a toast to me.

  I dipped another cup into the jug and Boyer jumped down from the wagon to get his drink.

  ‘This deserves a hug,’ he said and pulled me into his arms in a bear hug, deliberately smearing my T-shirt with his muddy sweat.

  I giggled and shrieked while I tried to wiggle away, fully aware of the frown that crossed Elizabeth-Ann’s face.

  Afterward, as we walked side by side back to the house, she said casually, ‘Wow, that River sure is mint.’

  I stopped abruptly and scowled at her.

  Elizabeth-Ann was beautiful. I was not. If she set her sights on River, how could he resist? ‘I like him,’ I said, a note of warning on the edge of my confession.

  ‘Oh,’ she answered, then shrugged. ‘Okay. You get River. I get Boyer.’

  She had made no secret of her attraction to Boyer. I knew she believed it was just a matter of time before he noticed her. In the beginning of our friendship I fought the stay-away-from-my-brother thoughts that welled up each time she spoke about him. Still, I felt a relief as she put her arm around my shoulder and marched back to the house with me, our childish bargain sealed. Besides, somehow I knew that Elizabeth-Ann’s affection for my brother would not be reciprocated.

  My relief turned out to be short-lived that summer afternoon. Just as we arrived at the gate, a black Lincoln Continental pulled into the yard.

  ‘What’s he doing here?’ Elizabeth-Ann moaned as she saw her father’s car.

  Mr Ryan had never been out to our farm that I knew of. I hurried up the porch steps as the car door opened.

  Mom stood at the open screen door wiping her flour-dredged hands on her apron. ‘Well, Gerald, to what do we owe this honour?’ she called out as I brushed by her. ‘We can’t vote in a town election, you know.’

  I stood behind Mom for a moment and looked over her shoulder.

  ‘Oh, no, I’m not campaigning Nettie.’ Mr Ryan puffed up the porch steps. ‘Just thought I’d drop by and see what the big attraction is. Seems my daughter here,’ he smiled up at Elizabeth-Ann, ‘spends more time at your place than at home these days.’

  Elizabeth-Ann rolled her eyes and stepped past Mom and followed me as I fled up the stairs. In the upstairs hallway I slid down and sat by the open floor grate. Downstairs, I heard Mr Ryan settle in a chair and accept the lemonade Mom offered.

  ‘Thought I’d take the opportunity to come out and meet this new fellow I’ve heard so much about,’ he said between slow gulps. Although I couldn’t see his face, I heard the smirk in his voice.

  Mom’s rolling pin slammed down rhythmically on the table as she worked the pie dough. ‘Well, then I guess you’ll have to wait until dinner time later tonight,’ she said using the smooth, polite voice she reserved for bankers and inspectors from the Milk Board. ‘They’ll be haying until the last minute.’

  ‘Why, Nettie, is that a dinner invitation?’

  ‘There’s always room at my table,’ Mom replied.

  I cringed.

  ‘That’s hospitable of you,’ Mr Ryan crooned, ‘and I would love to stay, but I’ll have to take a rain check. We’re having guests to dinner ourselves this evening.’

  I breathed a sigh of relief until I heard him say. ‘I hear this young fellow’s American. A hippie. Maybe a draft dodger. What did you say his name was?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ Mom replied. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, I’m just thinking, as mayor, that it’s my duty to run a check on him. Make sure he’s here legally. Maybe make some inquiries with the FBI. We should be certain he’s legit, not running from the law or anything like that. For your family’s own protection and the town’s.’

  ‘Oh, there’s no need to bother yourself with that,’ Mom said, perhaps a little too sweetly. ‘I can vouch for him. He’s family. Richard’s my cousin’s boy from Montana. Now, you wouldn’t want to interfere with family, would you?’

  Family? Her cousin’s boy? I put my hand to my mouth and choked back the giggle I felt bubbling up.

  Elizabeth-Ann mouthed, ‘Is that true?’

  I shrugged my shoulders and she clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle her own giggles.

  We stayed upstairs while the overly polite conversation droned on in the kitchen. Finally Mr Ryan called up for Elizabeth-Ann. She rolled her eyes again. Before she left she whispered, ‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell.’

  I waited until I heard Mr Ryan’s car drive away before I went down to the kitchen.

  I looked at Mom. I had never known my mother to tell a lie. I had no idea she was capable of even a little white lie. And this was a whopper. Somehow I expected her to look different. But she smiled innocently at me and continued filling the pie shells lined up on the table with huckleberries. I remained silent, but I wondered what penance she would have to do. Then I decided, that with all her praying she should have at least a few credits built up.

  Chapter Seventeen

  MOM AND I spent the next morning pulling weeds in the garden.

  Working out in the vegetable garden with my mother was another of my favourite chores. I loved the feel of the soil on my hands, the smell of the earth and the sun-warmed plants. I loved listening to the sound of my mother’s soft voice as we chatted across the rows.

  I glanced at her over the lacy carrot tops. Mom straightened up and placed her arms at her waist to stretch her back. She threw a handful of chickweed into an overflowing basket. Then she stood, picked up the basket and headed toward the chicken pen.

  ‘Nettie’s girls,’ everyone called her chickens. Her birds were something of a local phenomenon the way they kept laying, summer and winter. Everyone wanted to know her secret. A few jokingly offered to hire Mom to counsel their hens. They tried her trick of playing a radio in the coops night and day, added eggshells to their feed, but in the end they said, the only difference was Mom.

  Dad said the chickens – like everyone who knew her – were in love with Mom. He was certain they each produced an egg a day only to please her. And Mom’s egg money kept piling up.

  ‘Hello ladies,’ she called out as she approached the pen. The flock turned as one at the sound of her voice. The chickens ran beside her on the other side of the wire fence, their piston heads moving in unison. As soon as she stepped inside the pen they crowded around her legs, rubbed themselves against her boots, and jostled for position to be petted. She bent down and, being careful to give each one the same attention, ran her hands down their white-feathered backs as they crouched to the ground.

  Once, when I was very young, I made the mistake of trying to pet one of the birds. While Mom made clucking sounds and spread hand
fuls of grain in a wide arc to her brood, I bent down to stroke a white back. Before my fingers touched a feather a red-crowned head shot out. A globule of blood appeared where a razor sharp beak struck the back of my hand. Suddenly a flurry of beady-eyes and orange beaks swarmed me. I stumbled backwards, then ran screaming around the pen trying to escape the frenzied attack of beaks pecking at my bare legs.

  My mother scooped me up and held me on her hip. I wrapped my legs around her.

  ‘It’s all right, sweetheart,’ she assured me as I sobbed into her neck. ‘They just don’t know you.’

  It was a long time before I ventured back inside the pen. By then Boyer had added another ten-penny word to my vocabulary: alektorophobia.

  ‘Those birds don’t want anyone but your mom near them,’ Dad consoled me when he heard about my ordeal. ‘They think she’s their ruddy mother. I swear those chickens purr when she pets them.’

  After Mom scattered the weeds and vegetable tops for her ‘girls’ in the pen she returned to the garden. She grabbed two longhandled hoes and passed one to me.

  We worked side by side hilling potato plants. The midday sun warmed my back. My nostrils filled with the rich aroma of the freshly turned soil, and the heavy perfume wafting over from the rose garden.

  The rose garden was Mom’s domain. I used to think Mom insisted on tending it alone because it was my father’s wedding gift to her. Lately I noticed her weekly excursions looked more like a contest of wills than a labour of love. Sometimes I sat out on the sloped roof outside my window and watched her work below. She attacked the rose bushes with pruning shears, hedge clippers and even a hand saw. She could never keep ahead of the prolific runners and suckers. The bushes grew gnarled and tangled no matter how far back she cut them in the fall – so far sometimes that it looked impossible they would ever regenerate. Yet each spring new shoots sprouted and filled the garden with thick thorn-laden branches and rosebuds once again.

  ‘How come you never pick the roses, Mom?’ I asked. Just then I heard the milk truck pull up to the dairy.

  Mom leaned her hoe against the fence, ‘Roses die too quickly,’ she said. She opened the garden gate. ‘Besides, flowers in the house only make me think of funerals and death.’