by Jeffrey Lent
“Yup. That sounds fine. Are you taking em over or are we going to share?”
“You don’t know much about cats, do you Hewitt?”
“I always thought I knew all I needed too.”
“Well, you don’t. We don’t share. They’re the ones do the picking.”
THEY SPENT AN afternoon at the big swimming hole on the White River near Stockbridge but there were too many people. So they enlisted Walter and left his jeep in Sharon and rented tubes and floated one long afternoon of riverdream, their faces, shoulders and knees being burnt deep and painful except for Walter who wore sunscreen as a mask, his dark eyes and hair glistening within the thick layer. Jessica told him he looked like a woman at a spa but Walter just raised one smeared eyebrow and said, “I’ve been burned before.”
Roger hired Jessica again, this time for a longer job, helping to tear down a nearly collapsed immense dairy barn up in Chelsea. He’d pick her up in the gray dawn and often it would be close to dusk when he dropped her off again. It wasn’t as nasty as the first job but offered challenges she accepted as if she were going back to school. The third day on the job she arrived home outfitted with a first quality leather toolbelt, complete with a tape measure, a cat’s paw pry bar and a solid Estwing hammer. And a decent pair of steel-shanked work boots. The barn was a wealth of material. Old long boards a foot and a half wide, planks in the same dimensions but three and some few four inches thick. And the structural beams. She sat over dinner one evening and described to Hewitt the ten-by-ten beams found, each cut from a single tree. Thirty-eight feet long. She liked the work. She found she was without fear and could scamper along a hayloft beam thirty feet above the ground to pry loose the three old spikes holding a much more recent support pole. She was awed by the fact that the entire frame was held together with wooden pegs, trunnels, and explained needlessly to a silent Hewitt that the word came from jamming together the old words tree nails. Which, she said, after all is what such a massive peg is.
Twice during this time she did not come home until very late. She’d gone out with the guys to the Switching Crew, a bar in Royalton that long ago had been a freight and passenger depot. This information volunteered in the early morning as she was making a sandwich for her lunch, ready for Roger. It was all she said but it was clear to Hewitt one of the young men who worked for Roger was involved. Well, he thought, watching her big-booted stride down the drive toward the road, lunch sack in hand, toolbelt low on her hips, pulled down on her right side by the weight of the hammer, that was probably a good thing.
He refused, even secretly, to take responsibility for how she was getting along. Partly because her accounts of her past, splintered as they were, suggested she’d coped well for lengthy periods before. And partly because he suspected that the sheer drive of the physical work might be slopping water over whatever snippets of fire nipped at her heels.
And so they went along.
THEY RETAMED THE two young cats quickly. Jessica knew to leave them be at first except for strategic tins of sardines and tuna—forbidding Hewitt to buy canned cat food, only dry mix, using the treats to draw them forth. Within days Rufus and Tom had begun to test their new home, the new people, darting from furniture, a rolling ball of tussle in the corner of the living room. Quickly enough they seemed to have forgotten what they had witnessed or more likely in the way of cats were content in the here and now. In any event, each would lie sprawled on a lap and bat with their paws at hands and, if ignored, would rise and slide up a torso to rub their fine delicate skulls against the sides of their person’s face. And, as Jessica had known, as if through some hidden lottery Tom clearly preferred her company and Rufus liked both equally, often ending up on Hewitt’s lap by default.
HE HAD WORK to do. A fireplace screen but the fireplace was a giant from the earliest, oldest house all the way to Plymouth, five feet tall and eight feet long. A rare survivor from when it was both furnace and cooking facility and all the house could boast. A pair of hitching posts for a horse farm in Strafford, with the exact height from bare ground scribbled on an index card, the rest of the design up to him—the sort of job he loved. All in all he was doing well and the winter was already as full as he usually wanted. But this year he was curious to see what he could actually produce. To be a full-time working smith. To see how it felt. He’d never done it. In the early years because he wasn’t ready, then because he didn’t care and finally because he gained the mastery to easily say no. But now he was after something new.
THE EVENINGS JESSICA got home early they would now sit up in the garden as the heat of the day drained and drink a beer before going down to the house for supper. The days were hot and dry but the sun was dropping earlier each evening. August was approaching. He received an invitation to Nort and Amber Snow’s annual summer party, held in early August because too many people went away to their camps toward the end of the month for summer’s last pause and also, although not everyone knew it, because Norton’s birthday fell somewhere in there, the exact date never revealed. It was a party for the town and not for himself, an impulse Hewitt understood and respected. The invitation read To Hewitt and Friend. Which didn’t surprise Hewitt, in fact pissed him off a little bit because if Amber didn’t already know there were easily a half-dozen people she could’ve asked who knew Jessica as Jessica. Then he calmed, thinking this might be Amber’s idea of tact, worrying that Hewitt and Jessica might suggest what she was unsure of. What in fact Hewitt guessed with the exception of Walter most everyone was wondering. He’d spread enough information so the tittle-tattle tongues had some information to work with. There would be at least a couple of women at the party who catching Jessica alone would be direct in their interrogation. And she was reluctant enough about going as it was.
“Shoot, girl. You already know half the people’ll be there.”
“You say. Maybe it’s the other half I’m worried about. Or maybe it’s the half know me I’m worried about.”
“Now what the hell does that mean?”
“You know as well as I, Hewitt Pearce. There is nothing like a party for someone or another to let loose whatever little bit’s been itching away at them.”
He paused over that, taking a long swallow of beer. “Yup. But those types, most of em anyway, all you have to do is nod and smile. It’d be one of the older ones would presume on you so. People get to a certain age they think they can stick their nose in anywhere like it’s a God given right, delivered to em in the mail. I don’t think you have a thing to worry about.”
She considered this. And then said, “I don’t have any choice but to go, do I?”
“Yup. I’m happy to say you’re sick in bed with the summer flu.”
“And that won’t fool even the fools.”
He grinned at her. “We don’t have any fools in Lympus. Just the righteous and the strange. And then the ones you think are most boring and normal until you find out about the man who prefers panty hose to longjohns or the woman who taught school for forty-five years and lived all that time with her female cousin except for the little snag that they weren’t ever related.” He paused and laughed. “Sort of like you and me, but also not. See what I mean?”
“Hold on,” she said, leaning forward in her lawn chair. “Who’s the man wears panty hose?”
“Not telling.”
“Summer too? Does he go back to boxers or whatever or does he switch to panties?”
“Don’t know.”
“Come on, Hewitt.”
He stood up. It was almost cool, the sun down, bats streaming from the barn. “Let’s go dig up some supper. And no, I’ve got no idea what he does in the summer. I never asked him.”
Eight
He settled on the Strafford job, a pair of horse hitching posts. Anne Corning, the woman with the farm, was a casual social friend, told him what she wanted was something all his own and she didn’t care when. Hewitt admired Anne. Of others importing studs from Germany or Holland and breeding them to importe
d mares to drop foals worth twenty thousand dollars when they hit the ground, she was stubbornly scornful. Anne kept three blooded Thoroughbred studs from Kentucky and near twenty big grade Belgian and Percheron brood mares and had a reputation for producing some of the finest hunters in New England. If one of her foals worked out as a dressage prospect that was fine with her but not a goal. Not one of her horses could be registered. But once ridden most of her customers couldn’t care less. And for those that did she was happy to provide referrals to other stables. As she told Hewitt, “You can’t ride paper although that doesn’t stop jackasses from trying.”
Hitching posts. There were a couple of basic designs for such things but both were cast and ugly besides, so other than being models for what he wouldn’t do were worthless. He sketched, floating ideas right off the front of his brain without pausing to consider them. It was an interesting exercise and was going to take a while to work out.
Midafternoon he heard the Volkswagen pull out. He kept working until he had a heap of scrap paper on the floor to burn off in the forge and nothing to show for the effort, except half a dozen ideas discarded, which meant he was that much closer to something that would work. It was enough for the day. He left the forge and walked to the house, wondering vaguely about something to eat and if it was too early for a beer. In the kitchen he discovered it was past six, as well as a note on the table.
Gone to see Roger about some work. I might go shoot some pool or something. Be back tonight sometime. Probably. Jess
He smiled and wondered if she’d prefer to be called Jess, walking toward the fridge for a beer and to peer inside and think about dinner. Then with as little thought as changing his mind and deciding on water he turned and went to sit at the telephone table and called directory assistance, jotted down the number and dialed. The phone was already ringing when he considered the possibility one of her children might answer and almost hung up but for the idea she’d somehow know who the caller had been.
She said, “Hello?”
“Emily, it’s Hewitt. I was just calling to see how you’re doing.”
A silence and then, “I’m well enough, thank you. I’m surprised you called.”
She was neutral, nigh flat. He said, “If this is a bad time, if you’re eating dinner or whatever, you can hang up. Okay? But honest to God I hadn’t thought about this at all but I came in from working and simply walked over and called you. I only wanted to say hello and let you know I think about you and hope you’re doing all right.”
“Is that so?”
“Well, Emily, it pretty much is.”
“What am I going to do about you, Hewitt?”
“Not a thing. Not anything at all. But I guess I wanted to let you know I’m here. Meaning if you ever need an ear, just someone to blow off steam to, you can call me. I’m not going to show up on your doorstep again. No need to worry about that. And I won’t call again. But there’s one thing I’d like to say, if you’d give me the chance.”
A longer pause and then she said, “What?”
“I want to be exactly clear, here, Emily. I don’t want or expect you to forgive me. Nothing I can say will change what I did. I know that. But every day of my life the fact that I hit you, that I struck you, has eaten at me something wicked. As it should. And I only want to say I’m sorry. Sorry for all the pain I caused you, sorry for not figuring things out sooner, sorry for what I did. Nothing can change it, but there you go. I wanted you to know.”
She said, “It was a long time ago, Hewitt. I’ve got to go.”
The line went dead.
He got a beer and then returned it to the fridge. He made a quick jog down cellar and pulled out a ten-year-old California cabernet—something he’d bought a case of and was ordinary at the time although he’d sensed promise. He had no idea if it was a good label or year but had enjoyed the couple of bottles sampled from the case years past. Upstairs he pulled the cork and carried the bottle and a glass out to the stone bench in the garden, poured a glass and let it rest. It was strange but he was exhilarated. He tried the wine and it was fine and would get better. If nothing else, forgetting the earlier episodes of the summer, her blasting phone call, even her abrupt hang-up this evening, he’d finally done what he’d wanted to do. And he’d done it well, as well as he could. He’d finally closed as much as could be the circular everlasting wound opened in himself all those years ago. He’d said what could be said.
At dusk he carried the half-finished wine down to the house. Jessica wasn’t back and he hadn’t expected her and somewhat to his surprise the house exuded a tranquility—some extension of his mood certainly but also the solitude was welcome. Enough evening air came through the windows so the house was comfortable, pleasant but not hot as it had been the past weeks. As he walked through turning on select lights the pools below the lamps enhanced the mood. Both cats trailed him, one or the other twining about a leg whenever he paused. In the living room he considered music but could think of nothing and let it go. Walking back to the kitchen and the wine he understood that part of the attraction of the quiet was its temporality; the house even in hush was suffused with the presence of Jessica.
He was pouring wine and jumped when the gong of the phone sounded, imploding his mind with all the distinction of a late evening phone call—too late to be a client or even the few friends who might call. He overfilled the glass as he turned and reached to sweep up the receiver, knowing it was trouble of some sort.
“Lo?”
“Jesus Christ I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“Emily?”
“I didn’t want to talk about it Hewitt. So I hung up. Sides I was already late for Dad’s birthday party at the cottage, his seventy-fifth, a big deal and he’s starting to look his age but Christ he had all the kids, all the grandkids out fishing or sailing and the girls have a slumber party and John’s going home with his buddy Peter and I wasn’t in the best mood anyway when I got there. Then Elsa swooped in and cranked up the blender and yeah we managed to make nice while avoiding each other in between passes at the margaritas and I’m wandering around thinking There’s old Hewitt, bashing himself all around the barn for walloping me across the head twenty years ago and he doesn’t know shit. Hey, how you doing, Hewitt?”
“Had some margaritas?”
“This is not a courage call, okay?” She laughed without humor. “How bout you?”
“I’ve got a glass of wine.”
“Oh the drugs just aren’t as much fun as they used to be, are they?”
“You sound fine to me. I quit the hard booze a while back. I still smoke a little now and then.”
“Ah, Hewitt. Well, I have to take a pee test every couple of months. State law. I am not drunk but Hewitt the time has come to end your fantasy of me, of who you think I am. You don’t have the first idea. So let me enlighten you to the true Emily, the girl you once thought you loved. You ready?”
“You alluded to my not knowing shit.”
He heard her swallow. She said, “Sorry old pal. Some things die harder than others. Maybe I’m talking bout myself, maybe you. Sure I loved you Hewitt. But life goes on. And there we were that winter doing nothing living with a bunch of folks ten years older also doing nothing and it was time to change, time to grow up and you, you were happy as could be until you realized I wasn’t but that’s not how it works, Hewitt. I’d already gone ahead and contacted Cornell and they were happy to have me start in January and that’s what I wanted. Not to freeze my ass off in the big old house smoking dope and waiting tables and not coming back to Vermont with you and sitting on my ass while you got your life in order. Hewitt, I was gone, already gone long before I told you.”
“I figured that out.”
“No, you did not have shit figured out. Because you still don’t because you can’t but you’re going to now. Hewitt, you remember when you were sitting out in your car and I came and rescued you from freezing to death and I wanted for an hour or two not to let you go and th
en the next day you went on your way and six weeks later, two months later I’m a late freshman trying like crazy to catch up and there I am pregnant again.”
“Emily—” The faintest edge of the bombshell going off.
“I was too young, too young was all I could think, maybe it’s that age or maybe not thinking things through all the way, maybe the times, maybe I was fucking terrified, maybe I was just a selfish bitch but I wasn’t going to let that stop me. And I didn’t. So there you go Hewitt. But wait. It gets better. I closed that problem like a door, like nothing at all except not getting even further behind and went right straight along and I was golden, Hewitt, I was fucking golden. So golden the next year.” She paused and he heard her drink, Hewitt now the central explosion: another child, another, two of them. She raced ahead. “The next year I was taking premed courses and flying. And I went straight through until my first year of medical school I fell in love with Marty who was in his second year. I brought him home and we talked about a clinic together and he had the whole thing worked out in his head before I was done with my tour of the town. But then, you know, then Hewitt, at the beginning of my second year I forgot about my diaphragm one night—”
“You know what, Emily? I don’t want to hear about this.”
“You know what, Hewitt? Too bad. And there I was knocked up a third time and I sat down and it all rolled over me like a wave I never even saw coming. And Marty wanted me to abort. And God, it was hard, Hewitt. But you know what? I was done. I couldn’t do it again. We were already in off-campus housing and we got married and I quit school. And held up a household while he finished and had another baby while he was in residency and then we came back here and I was raising two babies while Marty was doing alone what I’d thought we’d do together. Understand, Hewitt, I love my kids and can’t imagine life without them. And so I held in there and when they were old enough I went back to school and got my master’s in psych and set up shop, trying to help people make sense of their lives. Hey, maybe it was what I was meant to do …” She laughed that caustic laugh again. “What am I saying? It’s what I do. But you see, you see Hewitt? You see how it started? It was accidents, Hewitt. It was accidents, and then, and then it wasn’t.”