After River

by Donna Milner

  Vern pointed out not long ago that my staying power in marriage seems to be ten years. We were in our basement getting ready for a yard sale when he made the observation. I looked up from the cardboard box I was filling with books. ‘Where did that come from?’ I asked.

  ‘Just a thought,’ he said as he closed one of my photograph albums and replaced it on the shelf.

  ‘You might be right,’ I answered and lifted the box of books. ‘That’s about the time it takes to reach the line.’

  ‘The line?’

  ‘Every relationship has a line. The moment you step over it, love begins to diminish.’

  Vern raised an eyebrow. ‘What about unconditional love?’ he asked.

  ‘Sure, until you cross that line.’ ‘I don’t have a line, Natalie.’

  ‘Everyone has a line. Some are just closer than others.’

  I found my family’s line when I was seventeen.

  Two backpackers interrupt my musing. They throw their bags on the ground beside the next picnic table. The young man sits and leans backward against the tabletop, dreadlocks, nose ring, earrings and all. He stretches his legs and turns his face to the autumn sun. His female companion, wearing a matching army fatigue jacket and baggy pants, joins him. The uniform of rebel youth. They think it’s new.

  The girl glances at the newspaper stand and shakes her head. ‘It’s Vietnam all over again,’ she says.

  I study the faces of two American soldiers staring out from the front page of the Vancouver Sun and wonder sadly when the casualties of this war will stop having names and become part of a body count.

  While the two backpackers debate America’s involvement in Iraq – another war based on lies – I want to tell them that it’s not quite the same, one difference being that the soldiers serving in Iraq and Afghanistan are there by choice. No draft or conscription has forced them to choose between armed combat or fleeing their country. Yet.

  And that freedom to choose is in large part thanks to young men like River Jordan who defied the system back then. Still, the current events are so confusing. It’s a changed world. And harder to hang on to the simplistic ’60’s belief that, ‘if there were no soldiers there would be no wars.’

  Chapter Twenty

  ‘IT’S AN ILL wind that blows no good,’ Mom was fond of saying. But I wonder what she would have called the winds that blew River Jordan into our lives.

  ‘The winds of discontent,’ River called them one night when the conversation turned to the protests sweeping through the university and college campuses of America. He told us that for him, those winds began in Washington D.C. the year before.

  ‘On November 2, 1965,’ he said, ‘beneath Defense Secretary Robert McNamara’s Pentagon window, a young Quaker pacifist, Norman Morrison, doused himself in gasoline. Then he lit a match.

  ‘A split second before he exploded into flames,’ River went on, his voice growing quieter, ‘he handed his one-year-old daughter to a bystander.’

  I gave an involuntary shudder as the image of a human fireball flashed through my mind.

  River looked up and his eyes met mine. ‘When I heard the news in my dorm room at Montana State University,’ he said, ‘I felt that same shudder in my soul.’ He reached into his jean pocket. ‘The next day I found this article on the front page of the New York Times’ He pulled a folded newspaper clipping from his wallet.

  As he passed it to Boyer I caught the headline; ‘Vietnam Foe Burns To Death.’

  ‘It was the word “foe” that caught me,’ River said. ‘How easily they used that word. I knew it wasn’t meant that way, but to me if felt as if to be in opposition to the war made him the enemy.’

  While Boyer read, my father cleared his throat and pushed his chair back. He left the table and slipped out the door as the article was passed around. When it reached me I read the fading words.

  The protester’s widow has issued this statement: ‘Norman Morrison has given his life today to express his concern over the great loss of life and human suffering caused by the war in Vietnam. He was protesting our government’s deep military involvement in this war. He felt that all citizens must speak their convictions about our country’s action.

  ‘Norman Morrison woke me up,’ River said after the article was back in his wallet. ‘I couldn’t ignore what was happening any longer. I wasn’t willing to make his sacrifice but I could stand up and be counted.’

  He told us that after he left university he began marching in protests, attending rallies and sit-ins across the country. ‘I believed I was exercising my democratic right to protest,’ he said. ‘But with the National Guard and the police attacking demonstrators, the streets and campuses of America don’t look very democratic right now.’ He sighed then added, ‘Even the student movement is becoming militant. When my draft card came it was an easy decision to burn it.’

  The table was silent. Neither Morgan nor Carl, or any of their friends, had a witty comeback for River’s quiet words that day.

  It was obvious from the first that he was different from the usual strays who found their way out to our farm. Like Boyer, River had no need to fill the empty spaces in conversation with words. His quiet maturity made the constant bantering between all the town kids who crowded around our table seem like mindless chatter.

  Indirectly, I guess, all those young people could be held responsible for everything that happened after River. If they hadn’t crowded Jake out, River would never have come to us.

  Like each person in our family, while Jake lived with us he had his customary place at mealtime. He sat on the opposite end of the table from Dad, beside Boyer. Guests either squeezed in on the bench with Morgan and Carl or pulled extra chairs up beside Mom and me. If anyone dared sit in Jake’s chair, he grabbed his plate and filled it up before slamming out the door.

  Mom blamed our expanding circle of friends for his leaving. ‘Poor old Jake,’ she said after, ‘he just couldn’t tolerate all those young people.’

  Whatever the reason, out of the blue one day, Jake packed up and said, ‘Well, guess it’s time for me to move on,’ as if he had been there for a few weeks instead of over twenty years. Then he surprised all of us, and the entire town I’m sure, by moving in with Widow Beckett. On the day he left, he and the widow, who had never been known to even talk to each other, much less have a relationship, were married at the town’s courthouse. We saw little of either of them after that. On the following Monday, Ma Cooper arrived as usual, for ironing day. She appeared stunned and, for once, at a loss for words.

  The loss of her sidekick didn’t slow Ma Cooper down for long though. She continued her weekly updates of the local goings-on in our little town each Monday. Her stories were even more embellished when she had an audience. I think she enjoyed shocking the girls who filled our kitchen then as much as Morgan and Carl enjoyed teasing them.

  One Monday afternoon, not long after River arrived, Elizabeth-Ann and I sat at the kitchen table helping Mom can peaches. Our hands were wrinkled and stained orange from peeling and pitting. Every once in a while Elizabeth-Ann let out a shriek at the sight of a slithering earwig side-winding its way out of the pits of the overripe fruit. The air in the kitchen was heavy with the aroma of baking bread and boiling syrup. Steam hissed from the large blue canning pot as it bubbled and rocked on the stove.

  Ma Cooper stood at the ironing board, the loose white flesh of her huge bare arms swayed in rhythm with her heavy-handed ironing.

  ‘It’s not decent the way some of those girls are strutting around town,’ she said as she pulled a blue smock middy from the board and hung it up.

  We all knew ‘those’ girls were the very ones whose uniforms she was working up a sweat ironing. Like Mom she was a hardworking member of the Catholic Ladies Auxiliary. Her deeds may have been charitable, but her comments about the girls from Our Lady of Compassion seldom were.

  Everyone in town knew that the school for girls next to St Helena’s Hospital was really a home for unwed m
others run by the Catholic Church. ‘City girls,’ Ma went on. ‘Their families send their bad girls up here when they get caught. Guess they think we don’t care here in the sticks!’

  I had often heard Ma and other women from the church complain about the idea of these girls walking around town and the influence they might have on their own daughters. But Mom was always ready to defend them.

  ‘They’re just kids who’ve made a mistake,’ she said. ‘Kids who deserve our “compassionate understanding”,’ she reminded Ma.

  Every week Dad donated milk to the home. And Mom always seemed to find extra eggs or cream to send along with him. Once, when I was young, while Dad was making a delivery, I peeked in through a hole in the thick hedge. The way Ma Cooper talked about those girls, I expected them to have horns. The ones behind the hedge didn’t look much different from the teenage girls in our town, with the exception that they all seemed to have various sizes of watermelons tucked beneath their identical blue smocks. They were not weeping or praying, as Ma Cooper seemed to think they should be, but talking and laughing with each other as they lounged on the lawn in the morning sunshine.

  ‘Bold as brass,’ Ma went on as she ironed. ‘I saw two of them walk into the post office on Saturday. Those girls have no shame.’

  ‘Now, Ma,’ Mom said while she opened the oven to retrieve a batch of bread, ‘they need fresh air and exercise as much as anyone else. Maybe more.’

  Just as Ma’s mouth began to form a reply, the screen door screeched open. Without entering the kitchen River leaned in and placed a brown grocery bag on the corner of the counter. ‘Here’s your lids for the mason jars, Nettie,’ he said. His smile took everyone in, then the screen door closed behind him.

  ‘Thanks for picking them up,’ Mom called after him as she placed a steaming loaf on the sideboard. She removed her mitts then picked up the bag as she gazed out the screen door.

  ‘That young man is too handsome for his own good,’ Ma Cooper sniffed as soon as River was out of earshot. ‘He reminds me of the hired man who worked for old Angus and Manny years ago.’

  Mom and I rolled our eyes at each other. We knew there would be no stopping Ma. She would tell the story of my grandparents and the farm hand yet again.

  ‘That fella was a hard worker too, but, oh, he had an eye for Manny,’ she told us. ‘Guess he figured he was too handsome for anyone to resist. Wouldn’t stop pestering your grandmother whenever they were alone. She never told Angus ‘cause she was afraid to lose the help. She figured she could handle him herself. But he kept at her, making rude suggestions that drove your gramma crazy. Then one day when your grandpa was out delivering the milk, that cocky young man came into the kitchen while Manny was alone. She was standing here chopping meat at this very table.’

  Mom breathed an exaggerated sigh as she sliced peaches into jars. We’d both heard this story before and knew where it was going, but Ma was telling it for the new ears in the room.

  ‘He started teasing Manny that they could have some fun while Angus was away,’ Ma went on. ‘Your gramma told him to git and just ignored him. She kept working. Next thing she knew he was standing right beside her whispering, “I got something for ya, Manny.” Before she knew it he’d unbuttoned his pants, flapped his pecker right out there onto the table, saying, proud as punch, “How’d ya like that?” as if it was some gift he was presenting!’ Ma stopped for only a moment to catch her breath and retrieve another uniform from the basket.

  Elizabeth-Ann stopped peeling fruit and stared open-mouthed at Ma.

  ‘Well, Manny, she kept on chopping that meat, staring straight ahead.’ Ma Cooper pantomimed the motions on the ironing board, ‘Chop, chop, chop and then, WHAM! The cleaver flew to the side and clean took off half of his … his … well, you know what.’

  Elizabeth-Ann gasped. She looked from Ma, to me, then to Mom who shrugged her shoulders to confirm that as far as she knew, the story was true. Elizabeth-Ann thought for a moment, then in a hushed voice asked, ‘Did he die? What happened to the … to the … to it? Could they sew it back on?’

  Ma Cooper brushed the questions away, a satisfied smile creasing her face. ‘Don’t know,’ she shrugged. ‘He just disappeared. Was never heard from again.’

  I shivered. Once again the story left me with the image of a faceless man running out of our kitchen door and down the road clutching the remaining stub of his blood-spurting penis. Only this time the image had a face. The face of Mr Ryan.

  Ma Cooper unplugged the iron. ‘Can’t help but notice that Gus takes this here young man on the milk round with him every day,’ she said in a coy voice. ‘Maybe he’s afraid to leave him alone with you, Nettie.’

  Mom blushed, then gave a short laugh and said, ‘There’s no such thing as alone on this farm.’

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DURING THE TIME he was with us River never sought anyone’s company; neither did he avoid it. He seemed as comfortable left alone or spending time with whoever showed up in his room above the dairy.

  Once Boyer started spending his evenings there I tagged along. I sat at the chrome table in the corner and listened as Boyer read the poetry of Dylan Thomas, or River played the guitar and sang mournful Bob Dylan songs. The more I saw them together the more I saw how similar they were in their quiet accepting ways. I watched from the sidelines with a growing envy over the time they spent together. I wasn’t quite sure if the twinge of resentment I felt was directed at Boyer or River.

  By default, Elizabeth-Ann, instead of Boyer, was now my best friend. We became co-conspirators, plotting ways for the four of us to be together. One night, we pushed our way, uninvited, into Boyer’s new Ford Edsel, as he and River headed into the Roxy Theatre on Main Street. In the rear-view mirror I saw Boyer’s indulgent half-smile as we made ourselves comfortable in the back seat. I knew my brother would deny me nothing back then.

  Inside the darkened theatre we followed him and River to the middle seats of the back row. Before Elizabeth-Ann climbed over their knees to sit on the other side of Boyer, she nudged me to sit down beside River. Not nearly as bold as her, I plunked down and stared straight ahead, but not before catching the amused smiles on both my brother and River’s faces. Elizabeth-Ann and I could pretend all we wanted that this was a date, but it was obvious it was not. Still, I enjoyed the looks of envy when our high-school friends waved hello.

  The movie was Cool Hand Luke. Morgan and Carl had seen it three times before they convinced Boyer and River to go. I don’t remember much about the story – I was too aware of the closeness of River’s body to concentrate on the show – but I do remember thinking how much he resembled Paul Newman. Morgan and Carl thought so too. They talked about the movie and for weeks after, compared River to Cool Hand Luke. Mom chased them out of her kitchen one afternoon when she caught them about to boil up dozens of her eggs to see if River could beat Cool Hand Luke’s record.

  If either Boyer or River minded the two of us shadowing them, neither of them let on. Like everyone else we were always welcomed when we showed up in River or Boyer’s rooms.

  Folk songs, poetry and talk of world events, would only hold Morgan and Carl’s attention for so long though, before they headed back to the house to dance to rock and roll 45s out in the sunroom. On many evenings Elizabeth-Ann and I had to choose between following the gang to the sunroom, or out to the lake, or staying to listen to poetry and songs of protest that we didn’t quite understand. For me there was no contest.

  Every summer my parents held a barbecue at the farm on the Labour Day weekend. Half the town showed up. Mom loved those get-togethers. I’m sure it was the highlight of her year, and as close to a family picnic as she could get. She worked for days preparing. Everyone who helped with the haying was rewarded with thick steaks, endless potato salad, Mom’s fresh baked bread and platters of steaming hot corn-on-the-cob drenched in her fresh-churned butter. And, of course, huckleberry everything – pies, tarts, and cobblers. Mom hardly sat down the entire day. S
he kept plates full, and drinks refilled, while my father and the men played horseshoes and the women sat in gossip circles on the lawn. I noticed she danced expertly around, or ignored, any questions and references to River being family.

  With all the extra hands, the evening milking was done early, leaving my brothers and their friends free to head out to the small lake by the old miner’s cabin. It was their concession to River’s presence. Before he came, on hot summer evenings we all piled into the back of the pick-up truck and headed down to Blue Lake, ten minutes on the States side of the border. Both the American and Canadian Customs officers were so used to seeing one of my brothers at the wheel of the old blue farm truck loaded with teenagers, that they usually nodded us through. We stopped going down after River came.

  As we all headed up the road to the lake that day, I turned to wave at Mom. She sat in the shade by the side of the house, between Dr Mumford and Father Mac. I noticed the expression in her eyes as she watched us walk away. I knew that look, the look of an uninvited child, left behind to endure the droning conversation of adults, while everyone rushed off to play. It made me want to stop and call out, ‘come on with us’. But, of course, I did not. I turned and joined the laughing crowd of young people hurrying up the road with towels and bathing suits hanging from their shoulders.

  It was not much of a lake, more of a pond, but large enough for swimming. Lily pads and weeds floated around the muddy edges.

  Years before, Morgan and Carl had built a wooden raft. As kids we used long poles to push it around the lake. That summer someone anchored it in the middle.

  Everyone took turns changing in the abandoned log cabin by the lake. The old miner’s shack had been there long before our grandfather homesteaded this land. When we were children, Morgan and Carl and I used it for a playhouse, dragging out bits and pieces of old furniture. If I had paid attention, I might have noticed Boyer checking out the cabin. But I was too busy being aware of River’s every move to notice Boyer’s interest in the old shack.