Evenfall

by Liz Michalski

  She’d prepared for this, too. She pulled the envelope from her purse and held it just out of reach. He signed and she passed it to him. He didn’t open it, just hefted it in his hand.

  “Ah, Gertie,” he said. “You never cease to surprise.”

  If she’d never answered Clara’s call that day in July, if she’d told the nurse at the duty desk to say she wasn’t there, who knows what might have happened? But she did. Now she can’t imagine life without Andie. She remembers, even now, the sweet, salty scent of her head after a day at play, the limp heaviness of her in sleep, the chubby folds at her elbows and knees.

  But she remembers, too, the fierce, hot covetousness, the pain of being close, but never close enough. She wonders if Richard ever felt this way. Clara—and Gert, too, if she’s honest—clutched Andie so tightly, he must have seen there was no room for him. By walking away, instead of staying and fighting for her, he simply declared the distance between them his choice.

  She sighs. There’s enough she’d do differently, God knows. But no amount of compunction will help the boy sitting in front of her, and it’s unlikely at this late date to help her niece. All she can do is go forward and fix what she can.

  “You think it’s time to give up,” she says. “Let me tell you. You think you won’t get over it, but you do. And somehow, the getting over it is worse.”

  The boy doesn’t say a word, just stares at her, then drains the teacup. He sets it down and wipes his mouth. “I’d better go check on the kid.”

  She wants to warn him to be careful, but there’s not much he can hit between here and the pasture. She stands instead, takes the tray away, and returns with the tea and electrolytes.

  He takes the bucket and glass jar from her. “Thanks. For the sandwich and all.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  He whistles once for the dog, and she bounds up from her corner. Gert watches them go. There’s more she could say, but it wouldn’t make a difference. When your heart is breaking, it’s a solitary pain, and words are just the background noise, a fuzzy interference that reaches you only sporadically. This much she remembers. This much she wishes she could forget.

  Frank

  ANDIE’S sitting on the front steps, a cup of coffee clasped in her hands. It’s early yet—the grass in the shade is dew-flecked—and the rough-hewn stone of the steps must feel cool against the back of her legs. Most days my niece runs about the front yard barefoot, heedless of the yellow jackets poised to sting or the splinters lurking just out of sight. Today, though, she has on sneakers, and keeps her feet tucked beneath her. She takes a sip of coffee and contemplates the lawn, where the reason for her caution rests.

  It’s a snapping turtle, about as wide around as a hubcap. Mud and a solitary leech mark its back. Behind it, a trail of flattened grass shows a path to the woods and, I suppose, the creek beyond, from whence it came. Now it waits, motionless, eyes trained on Andie, who stares back over the rim of her cup.

  The door behind her opens and Neal comes out. “Hey, babe,” he says, stooping to kiss the back of her neck. “Where’s the…” He catches sight of the turtle and his eyes widen. “Jesus Christ, what the hell is that?”

  “That,” she says, “is a turtle. Probably a snapper.”

  “What’s it doing here?”

  “I don’t know. Looking for a place to lay eggs, I guess.”

  “You mean it wants to make more of the ugly little fuckers?” He starts backing slowly down the side lawn, his eyes fixed on the turtle.

  “Where are you going?” Andie asks.

  “To get a shovel.”

  “A shovel?”

  “Yeah. To whack its head off with.”

  I decide it’s time to intervene. I conjure an image of the creek, cool and mossy, its water as inviting as I can manage, and mentally urge the turtle to return there. But the turtle resists. I can feel it, a hard, dark block of stone, a sense of age and weight and general annoyance. Instead of heading toward the creek, it turns toward the house and clicks its toothless jaws together. To Andie, it must look as if the creature is snapping at nonexistent flies, and she shifts uneasily in her seat, tucking her feet further beneath her.

  I probe at it, idly, and feel a strength that surprises me. I try to move it again, but it’s obstinate, so I try something else. I concentrate on seeing the creature, the way I see the glass of the windows or the wood of the door, and then the level below, and suddenly my view changes and I’m staring up at Andie’s feet. The angle is off: her feet are enormous, and the house behind her a giant’s. The house flickers, and then Andie is gone. A child runs across the lawn and a woman calls out the window to her. Clara. I let go of the turtle, and the world around me wavers, then snaps into focus again. “Leave it,” my niece is saying. “It’s not bothering anything.”

  “It’s bothering me,” Neal says. “At least let me move it back to the woods or the creek or wherever the hell it came from.”

  She shakes her head. “It’ll go when it’s ready. Just leave it alone.”

  Neal tiptoes slowly back to the house, giving the turtle a wide berth. He’s just passing in front of it when the turtle hisses and he jumps.

  “Jesus,” he says to Andie. “I can’t believe you’re defending this thing.”

  The turtle clacks its gums again. It ignores Neal the way a cat ignores a piece of food it’s discarded.

  How long do turtles live? I’ve no idea, but I’d guess this one to be ancient. Once more I slide into it, unfolding its memories as gently as I can. This time, the house flickers immediately, is replaced by the same house, subtly different. From the distance of the woods, I see a couple make their way up the steps, and recognize my younger self with Clara, the child Andie between us. The sky darkens, the sun goes down, and candlelight flickers on the porch. There’s a faint noise from across the yard, and the picture shifts, changes. A woman stands just on the edge of the side lawn. The trail to the cottage is behind her, but she makes no move to take it, just stands in the dark, looking up at the lights of the house, her yearning so great I can see it even through this imperfect view, see it the way I never could in life.

  The picture shudders, disappears. The connection breaks altogether and I’m back to myself again. The turtle has pulled into its shell. The ground vibrates, and Gert’s station wagon sputters up the driveway and stops in front of the house. As she steps out I’m struck, as always, by the sheer force of will at the heart of her beauty: the fierce, intelligent gray eyes; her strong mouth, thinner-lipped than it used to be; the sharp bones that jut just beneath the skin. She’s traded her standard khakis and white shirt for a dress in a smart black and white print, and when she stands in front of me she looks for all the world like my heart’s desire at eighteen.

  “Hi, Aunt Gert,” Andie says. “What’s up?”

  “Hey, Aunt Gert,” Neal echoes, and I see Gert’s struggle not to visibly recoil at such familiarity.

  “Andrea, Neal,” she says, then pauses, noticing the turtle for the first time.

  “A monster, isn’t it?” Neal says. “Andie found it out here this morning. I think we should get rid of it before it bites someone.”

  In one long second Gert looks at him and reads the whole scenario, coming down firmly on Andie’s side just for spite.

  “Oh, I don’t think so,” she says sweetly. “After all, it’s one of the charms of the country, isn’t it? The ability to see wildlife up close? Speaking of which, did you hear the coyotes howling last night?”

  Neal gives an almost imperceptible shudder. “Is that what that was?”

  Andie gives her aunt a look. “Is there something I can help you with, Aunt Gert?”

  “As a matter of fact, there is. I’m expecting a load of mulch for the front garden,” Gert says. “I was hoping Cort could be here to supervise, but regrettably, he has other plans.”

  “How unfortunate,” Andie says drily.

  “I’d like you to remind the driver to dump it on the drive, not th
e lawn,” Gert says, ignoring her. “Catherine McCallister told me that when they delivered it to her house, they killed a patch of lawn as wide as her car.”

  “Sure, no problem,” Andie says. “Where are you heading off to?”

  “Town. I have some appointments there.”

  “Any chance I could hitch a ride? I need to do some shopping, and there’s no point taking two cars.”

  Gert hesitates. “I’m going to be there for quite some time, Andrea. You might not want to wait.”

  “I don’t mind.”

  “All right. But I need to leave soon, so if you’re coming, you’ll have to be quick.”

  “Just let me get my bag,” Andie says. “Maybe we could grab lunch, too. Where are you going, anyhow?”

  Gert hesitates again. “To the hospital,” she says finally. “I have an appointment there.”

  A flicker of alarm runs through me. I look at Gert again, and notice for the first time the ways shadows have pressed themselves like thumbprints into the flesh beneath her eyes. I telegraph my concern to Andie, practically shouting in her ear. But there’s no need.

  “Just a regular checkup,” Gert’s saying. “If I’m leaving too soon…”

  “No, no, I’d like to come.” Andie stands, finishes her coffee in one gulp. “Just give me a minute. What time is your appointment?”

  “At ten.” Gert checks her watch. “That gives you just under half an hour to get dressed and ready.”

  “I’m set now,” Andie says. She’s wearing a white tank top that’s seen better days and paint-splattered shorts. Gert doesn’t move, just eyeballs her until Andie sighs and goes inside the house.

  Neal smiles at her. His teeth are perfect.

  “Beautiful morning,” he says, putting his hands inside his short pockets.

  “Indeed.”

  “It’s a great place you have here. The area’s charming, really. Andie’s description of it didn’t do it justice.”

  “I can imagine,” Gert says.

  “It must be hard for you to sell, but what a terrific opportunity,” he says. “You must have developers pounding down the door. Why not move on that? You know, I’ve done some real estate. It’s not really my field, but I still have connections. Just say the word, and I’d be glad to hook you up. Your brother thinks…”

  Gert makes a dismissive motion, as if she’s swatting a mosquito. “Thank you, but no.”

  “But…”

  “Mr. Roberts, let me be candid,” she says, and I brace myself. “It may surprise you, but I’m not interested in what my brother thinks. Whether I take two or twenty years to sell is not his concern. Besides which, Evenfall is a family matter, and you are not family.”

  “Well, not yet, anyways. And please, call me Neal.”

  Gert gives him a sharp look. He smiles at her and rocks back and forth on his heels. They don’t speak, and I focus my energy on willing him to leave, but he’s a stubborn cuss. He stands there in the silence for another five minutes. At last he turns to go inside.

  “Well, I suppose I’d better go see what’s keeping Andie,” he says, and without offering her so much as a cup of cold water, he goes inside my home and shuts the door behind him, insolent bounder that he is.

  At least he’s left me alone with Gert, who has abandoned her usual perfect posture and is slumped against the car. Through the liquid air between us I can hear her heart beating, as rapid and quiet as a hummingbird’s wings. I want nothing more than to hold her, and so I do. My love. This time, she doesn’t run, just lets me envelop her, my whole being wrapped around her the way it should have been every day in life.

  We stand that way, Gert’s head just where my shoulder would be, her eyes closed, until her breathing slows and I can feel her heart calm. If you could see us both, we’d look for all the world like a couple of old coots at the end of a long run together. Or so I tell myself.

  It’s the reptile who reminds me of the truth. I’m so focused, so drawn to Gert, that when she straightens and steps away, it’s as if she’s cut off my oxygen supply. I gasp, struggle to reclaim myself from the air and earth, and while I’m floundering I see what’s caught her attention.

  I’d forgotten the turtle in Gert’s presence, but now it’s moving from the lawn to the woods with surprising speed, tracing back its path of flattened grass.

  Come back, I call to it. I’d like to probe through its memories again. But the turtle doesn’t obey, just increases its pace. I drop a small limb from one of the outlying trees into its path, but it turns and avoids it so neatly I wonder if it sensed the branch even as I sent it hurtling down.

  Come back!

  But the turtle won’t stop, just keeps trundling toward the woods. I chance one last encounter with it, sink beneath the layers of its outer being until I’m looking through its eyes. At first I see nothing but the grass and mud of the trail, the indistinct canopy of the trees above. I probe deeper, and the image changes, becomes blurrier. I see a shadow reaching down, its edges wavy and dark, and it takes me a moment to understand that I’m looking up through water. I see four long limbs entwined, crushing the moss beneath them. Two torsos, locked together. The printed pattern of a dress, hastily discarded. The corner of a white handkerchief, pressed into the mud. I want to look away, but of course I can’t, caught in a trap of my own making. I’m seeing with the turtle’s eyes some fifty years ago, and I hear the clacking of its gums as it shows me what I’ve tried so hard to forget: the slick of wet skin, the taste of salt, the throbbing, frenzied pulse of life.

  Andie

  IT’S eighty-nine degrees out and climbing, and Andie’s trying to find something to wear to the hospital. She’d like to be comfortable, which means cotton, and as little of it as possible. Unfortunately, her aunt, who appears to be working on some kind of a nervous breakdown, disagrees.

  Five minutes ago, when Andie went outside in perfectly respectable black shorts and a T-shirt, Gert startled as though she’d been sleeping, although as far as Andie could tell her eyes were wide open.

  “Well?” Gert snapped, as if she’d asked a question and Andie had failed to answer.

  “I’m set.”

  Gert eyed her outfit. “We’re not going to the supermarket, Andrea. Nor are we attending my funeral. Not yet, at least. I’d appreciate it if you’d put on something more appropriate, preferably in a color.”

  Which is why Andie is standing in front of her closet for the second time this morning, stripped to her underwear, contemplating the few choices that aren’t black. She’s having a hard time choosing something, made more difficult by the fact that Neal is circling behind her like a shark coming in for the kill. When he moves in and nuzzles her neck, she swats him away. “Quit it.”

  “I don’t think your aunt likes me very much,” he says, sitting on the bed. He has the pouty look of a little boy who has just been scolded, and normally Andie would find this adorable, but today she doesn’t have time. She pulls out a blue T-shirt and slips it over her head. “Aunt Gert doesn’t like anyone these days, me included. Just don’t forget to remind the driver about the mulch and you’ll be fine,” she says, examining her image in the mirror.

  The shirt has a small stain just at the neckline. She wonders what it is, and then heat floods her face as she remembers a night on the porch with Cort that involved a bottle of red wine and the slow removal of clothing. She must not have noticed the stain when she’d tossed the shirt in the washing machine. She takes it off, throws it on the bed, and starts again.

  “How about if you show me how much you like me, so I feel better?” Neal says, ignoring her comment about the mulch. He grabs her around the waist and pulls her to him, so that she’s standing between his knees.

  “Neal, I’m not kidding. I do not have time for this,” Andie says. He tries to kiss her and she lets him, for a second, feels a quick frisson of excitement. But when she opens her eyes and sees the rose-covered walls, the feeling vanishes.

  The problem is, it’s the kind o
f sex they would have had in Italy: quick and dirty, up against a wall in a bathroom or somebody else’s bedroom while the party went on just outside the door. The thrill of reapplying her lipstick, of walking out of the door on Neal’s arm to take a glass of wine from a handsome stranger made her feel both a part of something and an outsider at the same time. But she’s not that girl here, not with her aunt just below the window. She resists, pushing against his chest until he lets her go.

  “You never have time anymore.”

  “That’s not true.” She turns back to the closet so she won’t have to meet his eyes. She pulls out a white camisole trimmed with lace and a calf-length, shell pink skirt. It’s dotted with green flowers and is possibly the least sexy item she owns, bought on sale just in case Gert ever dragged her to church. She searches for her pearl earrings among the change, receipts, and other detritus that litters the dresser top, finds them, and puts them on. She slides on her white flip-flops, takes a final look in the mirror, and picks up her bag. At the door she turns back. Neal’s still sitting on the bed, staring moodily at his reflection.

  “Look, I’ll see you when I get home,” she says.

  “That assumes I’ll still be here,” he says sulkily, and she feels the familiar twist in her stomach, the cold plunging panic his moods always bring. She takes a deep breath. “Suit yourself,” she says. “But I forgot, you always do.”

  She can hear him calling after her as she walks down the stairs. She doesn’t turn around, just walks through the front door and closes it carefully behind her.

  Gert is waiting in the driver’s seat, the air-conditioning on and the windows up, and the cold air seems to have revived her. She gives Andie the once-over, but mercifully all she says is, “About time. Though I must say, you look quite nice.”

  “Yeah, well, glad you approve,” Andie says, and then is horrified by how fast she’s regressed to her teenage self. To make amends, she offers to drive.

  “No, thank you,” Gert says. “Perhaps on the way back.”

  Her voice is so calm, so unlike this morning, that Andie wonders if she imagined it. She sneaks a sideways glance as she fastens her seatbelt. Gert’s color isn’t great, it’s true, but she’s always been on the pale side. She looks tired, a bit hollow around the eyes, and Andie realizes she has no idea how her aunt has been spending her days lately. Just because she hasn’t been helping to empty out Evenfall doesn’t mean she’s been taking it easy. Knowing Aunt Gert, she could be working right alongside Cort on this crazy home improvement project of hers, but getting her to admit it is something else, and the only other person who would know is Cort himself. The coffee from this morning bubbles like acid in her stomach when she remembers their last meeting. The thought of calling him, even to talk about Gert, makes it worse, so she resolves to wait until after the doctor’s appointment to decide. The dilemma must show on her face, though, because Gert lets go of the steering wheel long enough to pat her hand.