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Steal the North: A Novel

Page 9

by Heather B Bergstrom


  Eager to change the subject, I ask when and where the faith healing is to take place. Her tone turns somber real quickly. She says at a lake in ten days at Dry Falls State Park. Beth showed her on a map.

  I’m thankful the ceremony isn’t being held at the mineral lake. I returned there once when I was about five months pregnant. Dad hadn’t noticed my belly yet because of my baggy dresses. But he soon would. Jamie had already dumped me, but I still had hope he’d come around after I gave birth. I didn’t swim. I took off my dress—no one was there—and rubbed the black mud on my cantaloupe belly. I believed in the healing powers of that lake. I knew Dad had waited too long to take Mom there. What he should’ve done was driven her to the fucking hospital, where a doctor could’ve given her some morphine and thus some dignity and reprieve her last week on earth. Amen. Mom had been impressed, as had her logger father, with Dad’s skill and fearlessness as a feller. Even on the steepest incline, Dad could get a tree to fall onto the face of the hill instead of rolling down it. Mom’s family wasn’t as impressed with the fearless way Dad stole their daughter away. But to be perfectly honest, it was Mom, the mess hall waitress and foreman’s daughter, who started the flirtation by putting extra apples into Dad’s lunch pail before the crews left in the morning. I inherited some of my dad’s tenacity, which scared him, I’ve come to realize. Why couldn’t he have driven Mom boldly to the hospital? She bobbed away from him that day in the lake. I cheered silently from the shore. He almost drowned trying to reach her. Then he made me help drag her, moaning in agony, from the water.

  “I’m really scared, Mom,” Emmy says now. “What if the ceremony doesn’t work because I’m not a Christian?”

  “Did you tell Beth you were?”

  “Sort of.”

  Just as my inherited tenacity scared my dad, Emmy’s spiritual longing has always worried me, and reminded me painfully of my little sister. I don’t know how many times I’ve found my daughter in the religious and New Age sections of used bookstores. Because I want her firmly rooted in this world, I never offer to buy her spiritual guidebooks. And Emmy, being Emmy, under my scowl, has never asked. She faithfully spends her allowance in the snake oil shop below our apartment.

  “Beth wasn’t supposed to ask you.”

  “She couldn’t help it. So much depends”—she lowers her voice as if someone might hear her—“on this healing.”

  “Well, at least you’re a virgin. Not that it matters. Don’t be scared.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But what, honey?”

  She doesn’t respond.

  “Maybe you can come home early,” I suggest. “Right after the ceremony.” I’d promised myself for Beth’s sake that I wouldn’t suggest this, that I’d wait for Emmy to ask.

  “Hold on, Mom.” She puts her hand over the receiver, and it sounds like she’s talking to someone. I don’t think she heard my suggestion. I swear I hear a muffled male voice.

  “Is someone there?” I ask.

  “Who? Aunt Beth and Uncle Matt are at church.” Emmy suddenly tries to stifle a giggle. What the heck is going on? “I have to go,” she says. I don’t want to hang up yet, but Emmy says she’s making a cake for Beth and doesn’t want it to burn. “Today’s her birthday, remember?”

  I swallow. Actually I’d forgotten. How alarming. I mean, if Emmy had asked me Beth’s birth date, I could’ve named the month, day, and year, but I’d long ago quit associating the calendar date with Beth. It was too upsetting. “That’s why I called,” I lie, “to remind you.”

  “Will you be calling back later, then, to talk to her?”

  I’ve talked to Beth on the phone six or seven times since that initial phone call that shook me to my core. Seven times: that’s not even once for every two years we went without speaking. I’m scared of the number of miscarriages she’s suffered. I didn’t ask specifics after she told me she has never seen a doctor, and won’t. Although it made my knees weak, I had to change the subject so I wouldn’t inadvertently belittle her beliefs. I also didn’t ask specifics about Dad’s death. I’d sensed it years ago. Why hadn’t I sensed Beth’s losses? Maybe I had. Maybe my wisdom teeth shifted and tried to emerge each time she was pregnant, as they had shifted for the very first time while I was pregnant with Emmy. I regret asking my sister if Jamie ever came looking for me. The fact that he never did makes me feel worthless, despite my degrees. It also makes me feel overly protective of Emmy and all around more defensive. Same old shit. In the shorter phone calls that followed, Beth’s voice often faltered. Her sadness is palpable. The guilt could swallow me, if I let it. Bethany has Matt. I’ve reminded myself of that fact often over the years. And now, despite her devastating losses, she still has Matt.

  “Maybe I’ll call,” I say to Emmy.

  “Maybe? She’s your only sister.”

  Oh, my sister.

  * * *

  I start sleeping in Emmy’s bed, regardless of the back pain it gives me. Emmy’s mattress is a piece of crap. I purchased it years ago at a Punjabi furniture store that used to be a gas station and is now a sari boutique. Emmy’s never complained about her mattress. I’ll price new ones. I washed all the bedding in my bedroom because it smelled like Spencer’s soap and cologne, also a trace of sawdust. Now it just smells lonely. Spencer and I haven’t spoken since our fight. I fear my confession got to him and he’s never going to call. I wouldn’t blame him. Although I keep myself in shape, he could get far younger women than me, and less fucked up.

  The origami mobiles and chains of paper animals and birds hanging in Emmy’s room also make me lonely. Worse, they force me to realize, not for the first time but never so poignantly, just how lonesome—safe but lonesome—Emmy’s childhood has been. I think of Laura Wingfield and her glass menagerie, which, maybe not so ironically, is one of Emmy’s favorite plays. But Emmy isn’t crippled like Laura, at least not physically. Not emotionally either. Maybe a little. Have I oversheltered her? When I left Moses Lake, Beth begged me to keep Emmy close under my wing. At least I buy her cute clothes—too much, in a lame attempt to make up for Beth and me having to wear those hideous dresses as teenagers. Baptists are obsessed with women not wearing “that which pertaineth unto a man.” They’d be mortified by Twelfth Night, which must be why it’s my favorite play. Actually it’s the melancholy tone and the siblings tragically separated by the sea. “I had a sister,” Sebastian laments.

  I wish Spencer would call. I miss him. I keep checking my answering machine. I’ve spent most of my life missing loved ones. Half my childhood I missed my mom. Then Jamie. Then Beth. Now Emmy and Spencer. I feel tired and restless at the same time. The last three nights I’ve had to force myself to stay put in Emmy’s bed—not get up, dress up, and go visit a honky-tonk bar, or maybe drop by one of those sports bars Spencer likes. I need a man for a night who won’t hesitate to punish me a bit for having been a hooker, a bitch, a female. No, I don’t. I don’t. Why is Spencer so fucking kind? Sexy and kind? He’d be more than willing to buy Emmy a new bed. But I’ve never let him spend much money on us, other than the two times he put my car in the shop, for which I tried to reimburse him with checks he never cashed. I don’t want to feel obliged to a man, as I did with the married professor, or to become financially dependent in the least. Spencer even offered me a job once, as the secretary for his company: health insurance, steady hours. I told him that I love teaching too much to give it up, and I do. By teaching junior college, I help kids and adults who, like me, screwed up but are trying again. A giant stuffed dog, with a name tag “Tangles,” keeps watch over Emmy’s room. Spencer bought it for her on her thirteenth birthday. Why, why, why didn’t I accept that man’s marriage proposal two years ago? On top of wanting to play hard to get, I was terrified. Like Tess, I knew I couldn’t marry a man who didn’t know my past, and I wasn’t ready yet to divulge it.

  I planned to get out of the apartment today, nice and early
, take a weekend drive by myself into the Sierras, get away from my silent phone, the city, and the valley heat for a day. But I just don’t have the ambition. I’m in my car too much during the week, and I don’t mind the heat, even without air conditioning. It melts the memories of my last winter up north. And I like Sacramento—not necessarily downtown with the capitol, windowless government buildings, married lobbyists, and convention centers, but midtown, with its sycamore-lined streets, funky shops, and the diverse restaurants that Emmy and I rarely have the funds to eat in. I walk to Emmy’s favorite coffee shop with a stack of student papers. I’ve never fallen so far behind with grading. I’ll hit one of the many farmers’ markets on my way home. I’ve lived in California now for almost as many years as I lived in Washington, but I’m still amazed by the variety of produce available. And by the mixed ethnicities of the people selling them and of my students.

  Spencer is waiting on the outside steps that lead up to my apartment—my breath catches—when I return with a dull headache instead of produce and, instead of graded papers, the strong desire to drink a bottle of cheap wine and crawl self-piteously into Emmy’s shitty bed for the remainder of the day.

  “I’m sorry, Kate,” he says right away, “for the comment about your furniture.”

  “No biggie.”

  “It is a biggie. I had no right to insult your stuff. I’m sorry.”

  “My stuff forgives you.” I invite him inside.

  He still hasn’t hugged me. Maybe he only stopped by to make a formal good-bye.

  “Good,” he says, sitting down on the couch. I point the floor fan toward him and turn it up to high. He works outside in the heat most days, but inside, he likes to be cool. I offer him a beer, but he shakes his head. I’m heated from my walk. I sit in the wicker chair. “Good,” he repeats. “Because I want you to bring it all with you.”

  “Bring what—where?”

  “Your furniture. You can bring it all to the house I’m building us.”

  I wish I were sitting on something more solid than wicker. What did he just say?

  “I’ve been building it for almost a year. My brother’s been helping. I had our entire crew there last month.”

  “What are you talking about?” He’s more wound up than he gets on his rare days off when he accidentally drinks a work morning amount of coffee. He also seems more confident than usual. Which, I have to admit, is incredibly attractive.

  “I built us a house, Kate. With a big room for Emmy. And an office for you, so you won’t have to keep all your books in the living room.” He’s talking fast. “And there’s air conditioning.” He wipes his brow.

  “Seriously, Spencer.” It takes me a minute. “What are you talking about?”

  “But you have to marry me first. Or agree to marry me before we move in. We can surprise Emmy when she gets back from Washington.”

  I want to get up and pace—match his energy, which I usually can—but right now I simply can’t budge.

  “Oh, and I bought us tickets to Europe. We leave right after your summer session.” He just keeps going. “I’d planned to propose marriage to you in Paris. In a museum or someplace romantic.” Spencer isn’t into museums, plays, or readings. He likes ball games, sports bars, and hardware stores. “But I can’t wait. I can’t fucking sleep.”

  I never thought I’d see Europe. Sure, Emmy and I talk about going there. I collect maps. But just getting to California was enough for me.

  “You’re crazy,” I say.

  “So are you.”

  “Well, yes.”

  “Why did you call twice last night and then hang up?” he asks. “I knew it was you. And the night before and the night—”

  “I get the point.”

  “I don’t care about your past, Kate. I only care about now.”

  I’ve rarely cried in front of Spencer. But last night I dreamed I was back in that truck stop, and when I woke up, my teeth throbbed. I wanted Spencer to rub my back. I thought I was more capable of being alone. I should’ve made some girlfriends. The few times in college that I invited a fellow female student over to study, Emmy looked sad and left out. I wonder if Beth has girlfriends at the church.

  “Let’s give Emmy a real home her last year before college,” he says.

  “Emmy has a real home right here.” Why can’t I stop crying?

  “You’re right. That came out wrong. I’m sorry.” I can tell he’s sincere. He talks slower. “I want to be your husband and Emmy’s dad. It’s all I’ve wanted since I first met you.”

  He’s proved as much, no matter my insecurities and bullshit.

  “You’ve worked hard for years,” he says. “You’ve taken great care of Emmy. Let me take care of you now. Both of you.”

  “I like my books in the living room.”

  He laughs, tenderly. “I’ll add bookshelves.”

  “Why me, Spencer?”

  “You and Emmy—you’re different. Maybe because of where you guys were born. I don’t know. There’s something—”

  “I’m not special. I’m ruined.”

  “You’re not ruined. Far from it.” He looks a little tired, suddenly. “You’re very alive, Kate. And you’re special to me.”

  “The Bible says a nonvirtuous woman is like rottenness in her husband’s bones.”

  He laughs again tenderly. “Since when do you quote the Bible?”

  Every day in my head—regrettably.

  “Come here, baby,” he says.

  I used to hate being called that by guys, but never by Spencer. I go to him.

  I sit down close beside him on the couch, but he doesn’t want to touch. He pulls a small velvet box out of his pocket. “I’m not going to get down on my knee,” he says. “Last time you rejected me before even seeing the ring.” He says his brother has never stopped giving him hell about that. “I’m going to leave this here on the coffee table.” He puts it down. “It’s a different ring, by the way.” He stands up. “I’ll give you a week to think about it. If you don’t call me, or if you call and hang up, then this is good-bye for good, Kate.” He means it. “But I hope you’ll still let me see Emmy—take her to games and stuff.” His voice falters for the first time. His love for Emmy has grown deep, or maybe it always has been.

  I stand up too, hoping he’ll at least hug me. I suddenly want him to hold me very badly—because I’m afraid I won’t call him. I’m afraid the part of me that’s still stuck back in that truck stop parking lot won’t let me call him. And then he won’t ever show up again on my steps. And when Emmy goes away to college, I’ll be all alone and miserable. Or else I’ll become too loose and split open with men. Spencer doesn’t hug me, but I can tell he wants to comfort me. I’ve so rarely let him. He touches the ends of my hair that I tugged at last time. “Know that I’ll always love you.” He can barely speak. “That I love you more.” He drops his hands, then squares his shoulders. “But I can’t do part time any longer.”

  He’s God about to spew me from his mouth.

  * * *

  The first weeks I started climbing into truckers’ cabs for money were by far the most shocking and degrading in my life. Prior to that, Jamie was the only boy I’d kissed, let alone slept with, and sex with him had been romantic, despite being tinged with fear that I was losing him to his father and the land. Jamie whispered his love while inside me and even more passionately afterward. Truckers slobbered on my neck, grunted vile and nasty things that I’d never heard before, and the physical pain was worse than giving birth. I do not exaggerate. I thought I was tough. I thought I’d made myself strong as a young girl so that all the Baptist crap about females being the “weaker vessel” and “in subjection to your own husbands” and “shame-faced” would never apply to me. To Jamie Kagen I submitted willingly and sweetly. In cramped cabs with truck drivers and their road smells, large hands, and male strength, I was utte
rly defenseless. After my seventh trick, the most holy of numbers, I drove straight home to Beth, instead of trying to calm my nerves first by drinking beside the lake. The truckers gave me alcohol, and so did the kind, pockmarked dishwasher in his BLACK SABBATH T-shirt. I needed my sister that day in a way I can’t explain. When I got to the trailer, I didn’t rush into her arms. I curled up on the sofa, trying to ignore the pangs between my legs, and watched her fold laundry.

  For three weeks she’d been questioning me: Why wasn’t I eating? How did I tear a second blouse? How had I gotten so much extra tip money? Was it a man, the same man, leaving me such big tips? Was he a kind man like Boaz had been to Ruth, letting her glean wheat in his fields? When Beth began to question me that particular day, I sat up, trying not to wince, and pulled more twenties from my apron pockets. Here, sister, are my sheaves of wheat, and the fields I’m gleaning aren’t Jamie’s.

  “I follow truckers out to their rigs,” I said.

  “What?” She stopped folding laundry.

  “I turn tricks.”

  “Tricks?”

  “Sex, Beth. I have sex with truckers.” I pushed up the sleeves on my white waitress blouse to show her the bruises on my upper arms. I didn’t show her the ones on my thighs.

  “Oh, Kate.” She looked horrified. “Kate, no.” She covered her mouth and shook her head. She kept shaking her head and staring at me. Then, with as much authority as she could muster, she said, “You’re never going back to that truck stop. Do you hear me? Matt and I can cover the rent.”

 

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