The Half Wives

by Stacia Pelletier

  Now my skirt has snagged on something. I’m caught. Can’t kick, can’t push, can’t swim. Someone bangs on the door leading inside.

  —Ma!

  I reach down underwater and find where my skirt’s caught. Something jagged grabbed it. A nail, maybe. When I pull, my skirt rips free. The hem’s shredded. Ma’ll have to sew it back together. That’s all right. She’s used to it. Every day she sews up dead animals for tourists to view. When she talks to me about those animals, how they stay stuck for all time in their glass cases, her shoulders go stiff and she looks older than she should.

  Or maybe her shoulders have started doing that because Pa hardly ever comes over anymore. Since February, since my birthday, he has come by just twice. And both times Ma left before he visited. I asked her about it afterward.

  —I had business downtown, she said.

  —Mother, I was not born yesterday, I told her.

  —Yes, you were, she replied, and she grabbed my knuckles and kissed them, twice.

  This cistern is slimy. My hand flies out, pats for something to grab. I need something to hold, a bolt, a hook. Anything. A pole. A skimming pole. There! Some loon has hooked it too high up the wall for a girl to reach.

  —Ma, I shout again.

  Paddle on. Kick. Stay afloat! Think. Recite those lines from school: When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another . . .

  I can recite those words better than my classmates. I put true thought into them. My school meets in a former saloon. Some of the teachers complain, but the saloon part doesn’t bother me. I’ve seen people truly bad off, truly in the soup. One time I saw a man take his life at Lands End. He took a running leap and hurled himself off the edge of the cliff. It took him three tries. On his first two, he skidded to a halt and leaned over with his hands on his knees. He gasped at the water. His third try worked. He leaped into the fog. He fell fifty feet. He never made it to the ocean. The rocks took him. Later I found out the man was Ma’s cousin.

  The door bangs again. My name’s being called. Finally! Time for her to rescue me. Time for her to do her job. Hopefully she hasn’t forgotten how.

  And here it comes: suction, full strength, pulling at my feet. This well is a giant’s windpipe. It wants to inhale me. I’m up to my eyes in ocean. My whacked nose is leaking. I tilt my head back, and my ears go under. She’d better hurry up. The suction pulls my legs. Two shadows hover above me that move like a man and a woman. It’s hard to see.

  —Blue, one of the shadows calls.

  —By damn, the other shadow says.

  Ma’s voice is high and thin. I try to shout, but I take in sea instead. The ocean pours into me. Cough it out. Cough, gag, spit. And cough some more.

  She yells my name again. She’s going to be mad as a March hare when all this is done and over.

  —I’m here! Ma—

  The shadowy man is interesting. But I can’t pay attention to him. This is a giant washtub, and I’m circling the drain. This water is headed downtown.

  Hold your breath. Hold it and wait.

  I can wait a minute or more. I timed it once, thinking about Pa; when the picture of my Ostrich with his long legs and long face crossed my mind, I took a breath and held it as long as I could, testing for something, I don’t know what, until I almost fainted, and Ma came flying, her hair loosed from its pins, her fingers stained with ink. She slapped me awake. She left a black ink handprint on my cheek.

  I can taste metal. Far above, shining through the moving water, Ma calls out again. She bends over her boots.

  —I’m heading in, she says.

  —No, ma’am. I’ll do it, says the man.

  —She’s my daughter.

  —Stay back.

  The man pushes her away. He has the skimming pole I spied but couldn’t reach. He’s calling out again: I’ll do it.

  He leans toward the well, toward the water’s surface, hands holding the pole out. He has red hair. The skimming pole is long. But not long enough, I think. Only I don’t think it, I say it. And the sea comes with it.

  Lucy

  STONE GRIPS THE SKIMMING POLE in one hand and slides his free arm around your waist. The saltwater pump whistles and clangs. His ribs press against yours; his mouth is to your ear.

  —Listen, he calls out.—Behind the well’s the engine room. Pull the second lever. Pull all the way. That’ll stop the pump, and I’ll fish her out.

  You extract yourself from his grip, bend forward, and begin to remove your boots.

  —Lady, don’t. Just shut it off. I can’t fish your girl out till it’s off.

  He points at the engine room as you straighten. Planting a hand between your shoulder blades, he adds: Go on now.

  Yes, he’s younger than you are. His eyes still contain all the things he thinks he has to look forward to.

  Today was the day you were hoping to be courageous. To keep away.

  You already have kept away. You’ve broken the habit. Save for last night’s slip, last night’s momentary sighting, you’ve avoided Henry Plageman for three months and counting.

  Today is the last truly hard day, the last date with a hook in it. An anniversary. Not yours. Theirs. But you’ve lashed your dinghy to their boat.

  You move through the darkness to the engine room.

  Henry’s at the cemetery entrance by now, unshaven, scratching his chin, checking his watch, hoping against hope you’ll appear along the path, a pair of gloves extended, even though you said you wouldn’t, even though he agreed you couldn’t, even though you wrote him: No more. We cannot continue. Please, and he wrote back, two words underlined: I know.

  Three coal-fired steam engines rumble in the rear of the station. A utility door protects the controls, the network of pipes and gauges. You pry it open. Here’s a lever. Here’s another. Should you pull the one on the left or on the right? Stone said the second. Second meaning left or right? You’ll guess right. The lever’s stuck. Everything in this pump station has rotted. Salt and sea damp creep inside, seep through all pores.

  You hit the lever again, bear down with all your weight, the bar pressed against your sternum. You’ll wear a bruise there tomorrow.

  Fish her out. Fish her out. J. B. Stone, fish her out of this well.

  You hear nothing but engines pounding, feel nothing but your pulse tripping.

  —Almost there, Stone shouts.—Almost. I’ve nearly . . . hold on. Shut it off!

  The lever moans as the engine begins draining itself of power. The clanking continues. This pump takes years to stop, takes centuries.

  —There! C’mon. That’s it. Come on back, lady.

  He leans over the rim of the cistern while you fly to him. The way is clear. The pump releases Blue, abandoning its tug of war. She rises, floats upward to the surface, her sailor jacket the first part of her you see. She’s facedown.

  Stone reaches in and drags her to him, catches her tartan skirt with the pole. One of her arms drapes over the rod as he guides her to safety.

  —Hold on. Help me lay her down. Need to put some breath into her.

  His eyes flicker up to yours. The engines emit a plaintive final whistle. His eyes briefly say: I’m here.

  No. You don’t want that look. Not today. Today has sufficient worries of its own.

  Together, stretching and straining, the two of you lower Blue to the station floor. You can’t feel anything from the neck down, can’t tell which arms are yours and which are Stone’s. Squatting, he brushes the wet hair away from her eyes and mouth.

  Pray, Henry would tell you.

  Crouching beside her, you check for breath. Stone places a hand on her breastbone.

  —She breathing? he asks.—Oh, rot. There’s glass stuck to her.

  Breathing? Yes. No. Not yet. You pat her back and roll her to her side.

  —That’s it, he says.—Wake her up good.

  Splinters of glass poke through her black stocking
s. You slap her back. Hard. So hard you see stars. As hard as you did the other day when you were trying to write for the Banner about the new macadamized paving and caught her holding her breath; she frightened you into thinking she was choking. Be careful what you punish—this is the mother’s comeuppance.

  —Let me do it, Stone says.

  He takes over and claps her on the back twice. She retches. She coughs water all over his chin and neck. He nods.

  —Good girl. Almost there.

  She’s awake; she’s in his arms, sodden, crumpled, resilient. Henry’s child. Your child. Her eyes flutter.

  —Mother . . .

  —I’m here. I’m here. Sweetheart. You’re going to be all right.

  —I’m very sorry, she whispers, and she passes out again, faints dead away. But she’s breathing. That’s all you care about; that’s all a person can hope for some days.

  Stone nods energetically. His ears are a vigorous pink.

  —The French Hospital’s closest, he says, and his clear eyes lift again to yours, and remain.

  What time is it? It’s late; that’s what time it is. And Henry’s still holding out hope you’ll meet him today. It’s habit. It’s tradition. You’ve done it for nearly a decade.

  You two never discuss the oddness of it, the sheer folly of helping your lover tend a graveside garden his wife will visit. It’s a tale you’ll never submit to the newspaper, a headline you’ll never report. Jack’s garden isn’t yours. It’s theirs. But Marilyn is not able to help her husband care for it. Marilyn can endure the city cemetery only so many minutes before her heart gives out.

  Henry will have to pull this year’s weeds on his own.

  Blue

  I’M AWAKE. AT LEAST I THINK SO. The redheaded man totes me in his arms. He’s jogging along the Great Highway. Leaving the pump station. He calls over his shoulder to Ma, who’s running behind:

  —We’ll bring her to the French Hospital. They’ll help. They’ll stitch her up.

  —What about the Life Saving Service? she calls back.—Those men are trained to deal with emergencies.

  I look up at him. My eyes are stinging from salt water. He regards me solemnly.

  —I was one. Bunch of drunks. French Hospital’s better.

  —I can’t afford it, Ma says.

  —Not to worry.

  He winks at me and charges uphill. He’s a saddle bum, a cowboy, maybe. But his shoulder makes for easy leaning. I rest my head in the crook of his neck and let him keep carrying me. I can hear the sea slap the rocks beneath the new Cliff House. They built that house too close to the edge. I’ve been inside only once.

  —That place’ll slide into the water someday, I’ll bet you two bits, the redheaded man says.—Though it’s a beautiful sight, I’ll say.

  He dashes off a smile and hustles up the hill.

  Is his smile real? I’m not used to any man but Pa. Neither is Ma.

  What kind of fee-male—that’s how the fellows on the estate say it—spends her days setting glass eyes in the sockets of deer and gluing hair on the bald spots of leopards? They say Ma has a screw loose. If she does, I do too.

  A woman is to be a keeper at home, my grandmother wrote to us from Omaha.

  Whose home? Ma wrote back. She tore up her reply and didn’t mail it. I rescued it from the waste bin.

  Grandma likes to accuse Ma of deserting her for no good reason. She likes to write us about her own life, how she crossed the ocean at seventeen, following relatives from Sweden. She wound up in Nebraska. She married her second cousin but lost him to the flu one week after Ma was born.

  I prayed to God to grant me a new life, she wrote me and Ma, remembering.

  —She should have prayed for something more specific, Ma said when she read that part. Grandma never married again. Eleven months of a fellow was enough.

  I’m cold, soaked through from the well. And my ear hurts as bad as a body can imagine. We’re closing in on the depot.

  —How much longer? I say to the redheaded man.

  He says: A few more minutes. Folks at that hospital will put you right in no time.

  He looks at me like he fears I’ll start crying. He seems shy, like he’s not used to talking to girls. He’s not as good of a talker as my pa.

  The wall is thin between where Ma and I sleep and where we eat, so on the nights Pa visited, I used to be able to hear what they talked about after she put me to bed. One time, she read a letter from Grandma out loud. After she finished, Pa said something about needing to take Ma’s mind off things. She said something about what did he have in mind. They whispered for a minute, too low for me to hear. I don’t like it when they do that. And then he laughed and said:

  —How about a round of chess, then?

  —In that case, you’re the bishop, Ma said.

  —I’m a pawn. At best.

  —You underestimate yourself.

  —I wish I did, he said.

  She should have told him he was the king. That’s what I would have said. I can’t wait to tell him a well almost swallowed me!

  Lucy

  —WHAT’S THAT? STONE ASKS.—What’s she saying?

  —Nothing. She likes to talk to herself.

  He raises his eyebrows. You’ve nearly reached the depot, and you’re matching him stride for stride now.

  —Let me carry her, you say.

  He refuses.—I’ve got this.

  You should be holding Blue, not him. You should take over. But your arms and legs are pistons, pumping without your guidance; they march in time to the word hospital, repeated. Rain pelts the brim of your hat, a plain straw sailor with a single pin stuck through it. The pin has worked its way out. Forget the hat. Good riddance. It tumbles off. The sky hangs low, unsettled. A heron passes overhead, so close you can feel the air its beating wings displace. It disappears into fog.

  —I see the car, Stone says, and he charges ahead.—There. It’s at the depot.

  The streetcar depot lies beyond the entrance to Sutro’s Baths and Museum. Your employer has aspired to greatness with his baths, has aspired and not quite achieved it. His tourist attraction boasts glass-domed roofs, heated saltwater pools, stadium seating, diving boards, and more than five hundred dressing rooms. His taxidermy workshop—the same workshop where you spend your days—resides upstairs, tucked away on the promenade level. Saturday mornings you’re almost always there, aproned and wearing a white skullcap. At your request, Mr. Claude granted you time off today. Without pay, of course.

  Stone reaches out to steady your step. The passengers up front turn their eyes to Blue’s waterlogged and shivering form as you board. She still rests against Stone’s chest.

  —You all right? he asks quietly. He’s directing the question to you, not your daughter.

  You shake your head and remain silent. When you’re with any man but Henry, your words fall flat; your vocabulary contracts. What’s left to say?

  You started the tradition, joining him on May 22. You were the one to intrude. Because you wanted to help him, to see him through it. And then it became part of the ritual:

  Show up at nine, before anyone else. Wait for Henry. He arrives; his attempt at a smile collapses. Walk north. When the two of you reach the mariners’ section, he stoops, bends over, his hands on his knees; this is God knocking the wind out of him. The sight of that granite angel never fails to flatten him. You hang back; you wait for God to return him. Maybe you’re still waiting.

  After a few seconds, he reaches for your hand, grips it once, and releases it. Next, the two of you get to work. You don’t talk. You labor side by side until the garden is ready. By noon, or half past, your arms and back will ache. You’ll rest, sitting on your coat in the sand until he says it’s time.

  Henry does not like to acknowledge the constraints of his situation, the straitjacket he wears. He prefers to pretend he can breathe.

  Your task each year is to dig weeds; clear driftwood; haul trash, the remains of a raptor’s kill. Planting new cutt
ings is Henry’s responsibility. You remove the old; he delivers the new.

  You vacate the garden no later than one o’clock. Marilyn arrives no earlier than two. What Henry plants never lasts.

  —Ten minutes, Stone says, motioning past the passengers toward a bench in the open-air section.—Here’s a space. Ten minutes to the hospital. Look, color’s coming back into her.

  He surrenders Blue to your lap as you take a seat. Her tiny body sags forward. You pull her close, kiss her hair, her eyelids, her nose. You lower your forehead to hers.

  Stone remains standing. He doesn’t bother with the handrail. Maybe he doesn’t need it; maybe his balance is that good. The car lurches forward. Electricity powers the People’s Railway, and sparks rain from the trolley pole. Your seat faces outward, offering a view of the passing landscape, roads half paved, half wild. Industry and isolation cohabiting on the same street.

  —I can tell you two are related, Stone says, inclining his head toward Blue as the car picks up speed.—I’d have figured that one out a mile away.

  —How?

  —Stubborn. Both of you.

  He laughs, and a half grin escapes him, an expression you haven’t seen on anyone in a while: joy arising.

  The car hits a rut and shudders. Blue shifts; she’s returned to full alertness. You unlace her wet shoes, then pry them off. You’ll rub the circulation back into her. Those were good shoes, with stitching around the eyelet tabs. Henry bought them for her.