by Jeffrey Lent
Julie said, “Jessica says you two are related someway.”
Hewitt grinned. Maybe a bit larger then called for but he felt like it. “That’s right,” he said. “It’s one of those just barely connect the dots sort of things.” He glanced at Jessica and did not grin but smiled at her and hoped she saw the difference. He went on. “Yup, her family and mine go back, Christ over half a century now. To my dad. Yet we never laid eyes on each other or even knew about it all until a few weeks ago. Hey, Julie, it’s good to see you. Life is full of surprises.”
Jessica stood up. Hewitt knew she’d understood the subtext of this conversation, most likely before he even walked in the door. She said, “Might be I should leave you all alone.”
Hewitt looked at her. “Why?” he asked, his timbre plain: he wanted her to stay. She was where she belonged. She studied him and sat again.
Julie drank some beer and looked at Hewitt. She said, “I’ve got some steel in the back of my truck I’m having a hard time working with. You want to walk out and take a look at it?”
“Why sure.” He moved forward and prodded among the packages on the table. Then turned to Jessica and said, “Can you start a fire in the grill?” What they called a grill was a stonework firebox with a chimney that burned hardwood. It took at least an hour of feeding in the held-back apple sticks to get a bed of coals large and hot enough to cook over. Jessica said, “A course. It’s the same wood in the shed you used the other night, right?”
“That’s it.”
She nodded and said, “Go on. I can make a fire.”
As Hewitt suspected there was no steel in the back of Julie’s truck. He walked on down the stairs of the forge. The big doors were open and light appeared to strike the sky and reverse and fill the room. Julie was right behind him. At the bottom of the stairs he turned and reached for her but she pushed him back and came down so they were both on the same level. She was in gray Carhartts, steel-tipped boots and an old T-shirt once maroon now washed to near pink. Her honey sun-streaked hair was pulled back into the long single braid she’d worn ever since he’d known her. Her face beginning to show lines along her jaw and bird tracks running from her eyes toward her temples. Those eyes green as waterglass. Stark upon him.
She said, “You want to fill me in here? Couple three weeks ago you nearly fucked up my life by calling me in the middle of the night. And Hewitt, you did not sound good.”
“I wasn’t good.”
“Shut up. I worried over you and worked my schedule so without being too obvious I could get away for a few days down this way, earning enough money in the deal so Charlie knew it wasn’t bullshit. It’s very important to me that Charlie trust me. We fit just fine, Charlie and I do. Except on this one thing. A long time ago I knew I could never go through life loving only one person. But there’s a cost Hewitt. The only way I can explain it is deceit’s not a pretty thing but it’s less ugly then the alternatives. But that phone call, that was downright stupid and sloppy. I expect better from you, Hewitt.”
“You deserve better. It won’t happen again.”
“You want to tell me what brought on that brain fart of yours?”
“No.” He held her gaze and then said, “Maybe sometime.”
She eyed him, her mouth a tight screw. Then she nodded and said, “So are you fucking her or is her story true?”
He paused long enough so her eyes settled on his and held there, waiting. He said, “It’s true.”
“About your father?”
“And then some. Quite a bit. Oh, hell, Julie.”
And he told her of Emily and where and why his phone call to her had come from. As best he knew. It was not a long telling but by the end he was sweating and had stepped back to sit on the big anvil, his feet planted apart and his hands on his knees, his elbows feeling like rusting joints. When he was done they stood looking at each other in long silence. After a bit Julie came to him and ran her hand over his head slowly in small gentle circles until he brought his hand up and lightly held her forearm. They remained that way. He could feel the muscles in her forearm and the improbably soft skin over those muscles and the fine hair of her arm.
Finally she said, “Let’s go see if there’s a cooking fire ready yet. And drink some of that wine.”
IT WAS AN interesting evening. Julie and Jessica talked mostly to each other, the sort of small probing gentle talk that women undertake with each other and not once mentioning Hewitt who busied himself preparing the food. Then inside to eat with the second bottle of wine and Jessica announced suddenly, “I was a vegetarian until I met Hewitt.”
Julie carefully maneuvered her grease-smudged wineglass down to the table and said, “He does that to people.”
Hewitt sat and watched these two women laughing. Understanding as a great gulp of wine that they were not laughing at him but at all of life and the unpredictable slam one person brings to another and where that may lead and how no one ever knows until it happens. And he was filled with sadness. Within minutes he was not back all the way but returned enough to smile at the platter of ends of blackened food and faces and hands charred and slippery and the buoyant heat of the wine mixing evenly with the warm night and he made a note to himself that perhaps he should drink more wine and less beer.
Julie stood up. She said, “Jessica? Would you be happy to pile all this shit in the sink and then finish this bottle of wine?”
Jessica was steady, her eyes red splotches. She said, “I do believe I could manage that. Although I’m not sure I need the wine.”
Julie said, “Of course you do. Because you’re going to want to go sit on the screen porch or in the garden or wherever you want. But I’m going to take this man upstairs and he’s not even going to have a chance to wash his hands.”
Hewitt said, “Hey now.”
Jessica said, “Do it.”
* * *
TWENTY MINUTES LATER sleek in the goldenrod light of midsummer evening Julie said, “What’s the matter?”
Entwined side by side, her leg brown as the rest of her lifted over him. Through clenched teeth he said, “Nothing,” and thrust harder and turned his mouth to her breast and then slipped out of her. He lay still a moment and rolled on to his back, one hand resting on her breastbone, the other crooked at the elbow so his palm was under his head. They lay silent, Hewitt feeling the harsh rise and fall of her chest measured against his own even breathing. Then he stood from the bed and walked to the window and looked up the hillside, his penis slick and slack. Through the open window came evening birdsong: meadowlarks, orioles, different warblers from the woods or orchard. And through the house, seeping up through floors and walls, beams and joists, floorboards, plaster and lath came his old vinyl thump Let It Bleed.
From the bed Julie said, “Hey, baby, it’s okay. We can slow down.”
When he didn’t respond she said, “Why don’t you come back over here?”
He inhaled and his shoulders lifted, then fell as he let out the silent sigh. He wanted to get dressed but turned and went back to the bed and slipped down beside her, lying on his back with his ankles crossed. He reached to draw her close. She stiffened before she relented but wouldn’t rest her head on his chest, instead propping up on one elbow to look him face to face.
“Is it because Jessica’s downstairs?”
Hewitt waited, feeling the flush of a great unexpected peace come over him, buoyed by the glow and his own certainty but was in no hurry to speak, knowing once he did there was no reversal. So instead of answering her, he gently pushed her elbow away and pulled her down tight against him and held her a long moment, both breathing together, his arms around her familiar back and as he held her he felt something give way in her and she relaxed against him and they held each other.
Without letting go he said, “No. It has nothing to do with Jessica. Nothing at all.”
“Well, if it’s not little babycakes, what is it then?”
He said, “Julie, I care for you a lot. You know I do.
But—”
She reared up away from him and said, “You sonofabitch you bastard,” and began to pummel his chest, swatting also at his head. She had strong arms and the blows hit hard so he wrapped his head with one arm as he reached and felt and then his other hand rested against her chest and he pushed hard, not a blow but straight-arming her away long enough so he could scramble from the bed. She was up and after him and he danced backward as he grabbed his pants with one hand and an old cane-seated chair with the other, the wood light and easily lifted and held between them as he struggled into his pants, dancing, the chair bobbing and he almost laughed, the cruel absurdity combined with the ridiculous fear that she might splinter the ancient chair. Then he spun quickly away and settled the chair against the wall, snagged the button on his jeans and turned to face her, ready to bearhug her and tackle her back to the bed if that’s what it took. But she was standing center of the room, upright, bold, naked and defiant, her sneer aimed at him. He thought a laugh might be hidden there but wasn’t sure. He kept his ground and said, “Can we just settle down and talk like normal people?”
“Go ahead, normal person. Go ahead. I want to hear it straight from your mouth.”
“Aw, Jules.”
“Don’t fucking aw me.”
“It’s hard for me too, you know.”
“It didn’t seem so hard.”
“Do you have to be nasty about this?”
“It just came to you midpoke, is that what you’re saying?”
“Julie. Shut the fuck up.”
“I’ll tell you what. You talk and I’ll get dressed. I feel like an idiot standing here, hung out to dry.”
He briefly wanted to stop—to go back to her and gather her and kiss all of her, to travel her body with his mouth and hands and feel her come to and then under him, to ride her sweet lusty generosity once more, or not only once more but to take it back, all the way back to the ground they’d gained and maintained for more years then he could count. But she was already pulling the ragged T-shirt on and he knew he’d taken it this far and had to go the rest of the way—that she already knew the pith if not the words of him.
He said, “I guess I already told you. Down in the forge. About Emily. You know it didn’t go very well. But—”
“Hey, Hewitt, save it, okay, man? I got the picture. No more friendly pokes with Julie. Because if you’re pure then maybe God will notice and give you marks for good behavior.”
“Come on, Julie.”
“I’ll come on. I’ll come right the fuck on. Hewitt, you’re one serious head case.” She lifted a hand to stop him. “A lot of people might disapprove of what I do but at least I’m fucking alive. But you, you might as well eat mothballs or something. I’m sorry, I’m genuinely sorry for you. Although you’ll be fine. You’ve got your little foundling, your little pint of pain from the old days that will never come again but you can latch on to her and do the good Samaritan shit, however that works, and if you don’t watch it you’ll turn right into a fucking saint. Saint Hewitt of the Long Lost. But you know what, buddy? It doesn’t mean diddly-shit to me. So just go fuck yourself Hewitt.”
He was short of breath. Then, tone quiet but deadly he said, “Julie? Get out of here.”
“Oh poor Hewitt. Snared like a rabbit by his one and only true love. What horseshit!”
“Get out.”
“Fuck you! Oh shit this is so stupid I can’t believe it. Listen Hewitt. If you ever, and I mean ever, call me again I’ll drive down here and use your head as a fucking anvil. You got that? Dickhead.” She turned and stalked out of the room and down the stairs.
He stood a long moment. It was silent below. No music, no voices. He heard the slap of the screen door and then her truck start up. She idled a moment and then backed around hard and ground gears and popped the clutch. He walked over to the window but by the time he got there she was already gone from sight. He watched out the window and then in a low voice said, “It wasn’t like I had it planned.”
HE HEARD THE popping of the needle on the turntable and went down and lifted the arm and replaced the album in its sleeve, knelt to slide it away and paused, then pulled free another record and put it on. Walked to the kitchen just as Hank yelped I’ll never get out of the world alive. The sink was piled with dishes and he thought about going to look for Jessica but stopped—he had no desire to explain anything she’d overheard or Julie’s departure. He turned back to the sink and washed the dishes, dried them and then scrubbed the countertops and range and scoured the sink. Murphy-soaped the kitchen table. When he was done it was near dusk and he walked out on to the porch. The Volkswagen was gone. He wondered if she’d left during or after the aborted passion from above, then recalled the stylus on the turntable and decided it was before. In her shoes he’d have done the same thing. She had plenty of places to go, people to visit. He wasn’t certain but thought she’d made friends with one of the young guys who worked for Roger. He stood watching as fireflies came out dancing and winking in the flower beds and smiled into the night, hoping she was having a better time than he was. And then thought, I’m fine. I’m just fine. And walked out barefoot in the dark to the mailbox and collected several days’ worth of mail and brought it back into the house, leafed through it on the kitchen table but there was nothing of interest or pressing need. He snagged a beer and went down the hall, wanting to hear the other side of the Hank Williams record.
AT MIDNIGHT HE was up among the apple trees. All he wanted was an immaculate Volkswagen chugging up the valley and into the yard. He was no longer certain why, except his chest hurt and he knew it would stop if she drove in. There was a sweep of loathing once more not for what had happened with Julie but how and that passed, because he’d treaded water enough times already to know there had been no malice, certainly no intention for the timing with Julie. His honesty with her was all it had been and nothing more. He’d worked hard already trying to determine if he could’ve done it differently but couldn’t see how. Even if he’d considered deceit his body hadn’t allowed it. After a time, suddenly tired all the way down to his toenails he rose and made his way down the hill. At the house he turned on the light over the stove for when Jessica did return and in the dark made his way upstairs and in the dark undressed and bent over his bed and in the starlight smoothed the sheets and climbed in, smelling the faint broth of sex and then pulled up the light blanket and lay for a bit with his head on the pillow. Way up on the hill, far along the ridgeline he heard a yelp and then an answer and a short trill of coyotes singing.
He was up early and didn’t need to check her room to know she wasn’t there but did anyway and at least the mounds and stacks of her clothing remained. He went to the forge and worked hard until late morning and when he came out he was soaked right through his jeans with sweat, his head a skullcap of wet hair and the Bug was in the yard. He stalked past the car, grouchy and glad she was back. He walked up the brook to the pool to swim and then had no choice but to pull back on his clammy jeans. The house was quiet as he made a sandwich of leftover lamb and eating it, walked through the lower house, finding her in one of the chairs in the red room, her feet curled under her, head fallen against one shoulder and a book tumbled in her lap. There was mustard and black grease on his hands. He leaned toward the book, a collection of poetry. It wasn’t one from the library off the living room. He was curious where she’d found it, who’d given or loaned it to her and for what purpose.
Too much thinking, he thought. Leave yourself alone.
He climbed the stairs in sockfeet. It was the middle of the day and hot but the shroud of fatigue from the night before was fully upon him. In the bathroom he scrubbed down, again with cold water. He crawled into bed, pulling the top sheet to cover his hips and groin. A fly trapped against the screen came floating and found him and twice he snapped up to slap at it. The sharp brush of wings and greenback as it droned away. Then he slept.
THAT EVENING OVER canned clam chowder and salad they were both punchy a
nd off-kilter. Hewitt thought perhaps there was some mild jealousy about but decided to downplay the mess with Julie.
He said, “You went to the bookstore?”
“Yup. I was feeling antsy and decided to get some books. I haven’t read much the last couple of years. And just so you know, last night I wandered around Hanover and got talking to some guys and ended up at a party out in the country somewhere and had a real good time.” She shot her eyes at him and back to her soup. “Don’t worry, no strange boy’s going to be mooning around here. I had fun and got what I needed. It’s been a while.”
“Sure.”
They ate a little more and then she said, “I like your friend Julie.”
Hewitt nodded. “It’s doubtful we’ll be seeing her again anytime real soon.”
She looked at him. “What happened?”
He looked away, out the window above the sink, over her head. He said, “It’s complicated.”
Jessica waited and when it was clear he wasn’t going to elaborate, stood and gathered her soup bowl on top of her salad plate, circling the table to not pass behind him. Hewitt sat and watched her small tight back as she washed her dishes and the pot used to heat the soup. He ate a crust of bread and drank from his beer. Then she turned from the sink and took up what was left of her beer, walked to the hall and stopped at the jamb and looked at him. She said, “I wonder if you ever stopped to count up the number of ways that woman Emily has fucked up your life.” And went down the dark hall.
Hewitt watched her go. Then, riled at this puncture of his privacy he called in a soft voice, “You don’t know anything about it.”
He couldn’t see her but her voice came floating back, soft and friendly to loving. “I know enough.”