Northern Light

by Deb Davies

  “I take it my buddy’s OK?” Charles sat up, crossing his legs, to attend to the conversation.

  “Your buddy? I like that!” Claire objected.

  “Oh, yeah. Black Pearl is fine,” Arnie assured them. “He’s lord of the barnyard. He and a big red rooster had it out this fall. Pearl took on this sidewinding, caterwauling swagger and then charged at the rooster, who flew back to the coop. Nights, Pearl either snuggles with Colby or sleeps on Bill’s stomach, kneading it like Bill’s his mama. Days, he sometimes sleeps on Braytoven the donkey’s back.

  “How’s Sawyer?” Claire asked.

  “Seems good. He has a girlfriend.” Arnie shook his head. “He sure isn’t as shy as I was at that age. Neddie seems happy.”

  Charles snagged another marshmallow. “Does Jen like design school?” He looked skeptical.

  “The verdict’s still out,” Laurel said. “But then, she just started. She’s hardly limping at all. Bill and Barbara have a new project. With Orra’s help, they’re wet nursing a calf that turned up starving in January. It’s a female. They’re thinking of keeping it for milk.”

  “Sanjay and Zoe?” Claire looked away when she posed the question.

  “Sanjay plays the piano—with lots of arpeggios—and Zoe loves the hot tub,” Laurel said.

  “Tansy?” Charles asked so Claire wouldn’t have to. Sometimes, Claire would still have nightmares, and it seemed easier if he brought the question up. “Is she doing all right, considering?”

  “I think so,” Laurel said. “She hasn’t heard back from Simon’s parents or whether they want to know the name of the people who adopted their grandchild. But she might still hear,” she added. “Decisions that important take time. She and Jen keep in touch.”

  “Are Dannie and Elaine still looking for a sperm donor?” Claire asked.

  “They are,” Arnie answered. “There’s a doula service of sorts that matches a donor to parents, kind of like matchmaking adults. The woman they’re using has worked with a gynecologist they trust, so they should avoid anyone like that slimeball in California who donated thousands of units of sperm at clinics all over the state. It might be Elaine who gets pregnant,” Arnie said, with a trace of annoyance. “Turns out Dannie has serious varicose veins.”

  “You have a problem with that?” Laurel asked.

  “Elaine is a bit like my godchild,” Arnie admitted. “There are risks in pregnancy. And she’s my source of information, damn it. Anything happening in the force, I know she’ll fill me in. For instance, the video perp I should have followed up with, before he hurt anyone? He’s in a minimum security prison. Not ideal, but it could have been worse.”

  “Could have been worse,” Charles said, “sums a lot up.”

  Momentary silence descended. Charles thought about his cabin—the progress made, the things he still should do. Laurel remembered the shock of hitting Ann traveling up her arm. The hair on her arm had grown back. She tried not to dwell and was, for the most, part successful. Claire had a pang of contrition. Good Old George—or “Gog,” as she spitefully called him—could have left his money to Ann in his will.

  “House sparrows in New Zealand—but only in New Zealand—hover near magnetic gizmos that open doors to cafeterias,” Charles offered. “I could teach Oscar that, but I’d end up with store owners gunning for ravens.”

  “Did you see him this fall?” Arnie asked. He’d gotten more interested in Oscar after he heard about the bird leading an attack on Ann.

  “Nope,” Charles said. “He may be heading farther north, where deer that don’t make it through winter, brought down by age or predators, provide ravens free pickings.”

  “Ugh.” Laurel groaned. “Claire, how do you stand him?”

  “I’m doing penance for sins I will commit later in life.”

  “All right, I’ll do guy talk,” Charles said patiently. “Hey, Arnie. How’s the Explorer? You get a good deal on it?”

  Arnie stretched out his legs, looking pleased. “I did. Bought it from a friend who drove it for two years, so it was just coming off lease. Four-wheel drive. Enough room for Laurel to sleep in back, if she wants to curl up. I’m not crazy about pushing through when we’re tired, anyway. Hey, want to see it? Go kick the tires?”

  Charles put on boots, and he and Arnie threw on coats before heading through the kitchen and out to the garage.

  Laurel took a meditative bite from a fig and leaned forward to talk to Claire.

  “How’s married love life?” Claire asked.

  Laurel choked on the fig.

  “Good,” she answered. “Arnie’s concussion still gives him blinding headaches when we least expect it. We wouldn’t win a sexual Olympics competition, but I never feel as if I have to perform, the way I did with David. I never thought I’d be one of those women who says this, but when we’re going to sleep and Arnie puts his arm around me, I sometimes think, ‘Trust is the ultimate intimacy.’ Are you and Charles OK?”

  “Charles is. I think I still have trust issues, after what happened with George. I find myself trying to not count on Charles being there.”

  “His brain changes channels so fast, sometimes I can’t follow him,” Laurel said. “Does it ever hurt your feelings, if you say something to him and he answers you with migratory counts?”

  “It startled me the first hundred or so times it happened. But when I reel Charles back to the conversation, he’s completely aware of what’s being discussed, and he does answer, right on target, empathy and all. George’s was more of an “If you say so, dear,’ responder. We didn’t converse, really. We talked about his work or talked about the house. I never knew what he felt.”

  She seemed to veer off topic, adding, “I feel weird about this condo. You notice there’s a dearth of personality here?”

  “I noticed there’s not much clutter. Not much that looks like you here, to be honest.”

  “I bought new dishes,” Claire said.

  “Nice. I like the blueberry pattern.”

  “I just can’t seem to get going, house-decoration wise. Maybe I always did it to please George? I just sort of don’t want to get all domestic here. What if Charles gets sick of me, and I don’t want to stay on this hauntingly beautiful river by myself?”

  CHARLES AND ARNIE were sitting in Arnie’s Explorer—Arnie in the driver’s seat, and Charles in the passenger seat. They looked at the dials, but their conversation had moved beyond the car’s mileage.

  “I can’t picture Claire wanting to be with me forever,” Charles said. “She has a place in Grand Rapids. She had a life and friends in Grand Rapids.

  “All I know is, for now, I’m a lucky man. I loved Lane from afar most of my life, but I’m realizing that as getting-older adults, we aren’t much alike. She’s serious about her children’s success. Fair enough, really. She’s invested in her music. She’s a competitive runner. But when we talked, she didn’t sound like she takes time to laugh much or go for walks anymore. Her life is packed to the gills with self-improvement projects, and Claire and I are still looking for new bends in the road.”

  Arnie nodded. “I know what you’re saying. I worry Laurel is going to miss her full-time job and be too kind to tell me. She’s smart, and she’s helped me understand myself. She says I’ve got something called ‘visual literacy.’ Sometimes, she reads when we’re together, but we’ve watched some terrific movies since my headaches have gotten better: The Florida Project, Three Billboards Outside Ebbing, Missouri, The Shape of Water, Icarus.

  “Before I met Laurel, I never felt like anyone really got me. I can work through print; I understand written instructions, and I can draft what Laurel calls ‘cogent’ memos. But I feel like an ox trying to write. When we watch movies together, I can feel connections, make comparisons, empathize. We go out for breakfast and talk about what we’ve seen, and I can keep up with her, even see things she’s missed.

  “Icarus terrified me. Laurel cried—though she laughed, too—watching kids in The Florida Projec
t. She said if she were still teaching, she’d have those kids in her classes when they grew up.”

  “Even newly hatched songbirds need good nutrition and low stress levels to sing right when they’ve fledged,” Charles commiserated.

  “I didn’t know people could bond over movies,” Arnie mused.

  Charles said, “Maybe Claire and I should watch more.”

  “Try The Shape of Water,” Arnie suggested. “You’re the ecology guy. The harbor in the movie could use some help.”

  “God, it’s cold out here. Let’s go back in,” Charles said.

  Claire and Laurel looked up when the back door slammed open as Charles and Arnie came in, their coats wafting cold air.

  “Still cold,” Arnie reported. “The wind’s dying down, or at least it seemed quieter to me.”

  “You two have a chance to catch up?” Claire asked.

  “We talked about warranties,” Charles answered, looking down to peel off his boots. “Arnie’s car-truck thing has got a lot of room to pick up things you find along the road. I found a railway lantern once. I think it fell off a truck, and I gave it to my sister for her rec room. Did Claire show you her sketches?” he asked Laurel.

  “What sketches?” Laurel asked, eyeing Claire curiously.

  “I did some sketches last fall,” Claire admitted. “Southern iris—the little ones. I had to learn to do it, which was hard…but I liked it.”

  “Colored pencil,” Charles said. “Looked like book illustrations. Hey! You two finished the marshmallows.”

  “Can we see them?” Arnie asked. And when Claire spread them out, he and Laurel both looked serious.

  “These are good, Claire,” Laurel said.

  Arnie nodded. “I’ve never liked prints of plants much. They seem forced to me, somehow. But these look kind of warm. Familiar.”

  “I think it’s because I left in tattered leaves and discolored flowers,” Claire said. “I wanted them to look fragile.”

  Conversation came to a sudden, sober halt. Each was remembering something from the North Branch. Arnie thought of raspberry canes. Laurel pictured deliquescing oranges in the blue bowl on the piano, and Claire thought of snowdrops she and George had found in the spring.

  “I know what we need,” Charles said abruptly. “We need to take a road trip. We need to make new memories. All of us. Well, me less than you three, maybe, but you all need new pictures in your heads. Not just wildflowers. New rivers. Pileated woodpeckers. Birch groves. Bittersweet.”

  They stared at him like children. Arnie pushed his hair back from the scar on his forehead. Laurel’s jaw dropped, and Claire suddenly looked goggle-eyed with fatigue.

  “Tahquamenon Falls. You’ve been there?”

  All three shook their heads.

  “You’ve lived in Michigan all your lives, and one of the Michigan attractions that pulls Japanese and Swedes and Sudanese doesn’t get your time of day? It has wood-chipped, 5 percent graded walking paths, benches, boats to rent. A shady island. I’ve been there three times. I’ll be your tour guide.”

  “That will be safe,” Arnie muttered. “And I hate the Mackinac Bridge.”

  Laurel elbowed him gently. Getting Arnie to stop obsessing about his job would be a relief to her, and maybe that change alone would help heal his concussion.

  “We’ll talk about it at breakfast. We’ll need maps. Plans. Places to eat! But you all look tired. Go to sleep and dream,” Charles said, and shooed them to bed. “No griping,” he said. “Wait until morning, when the sun is out.”

  Claire dreamed that she was edging between the car, and the house and the small patch of dirt that held lilies of the valley, their scent rising for her, the essence of childhood. She bent down, inhaling, and carefully pulled a few of the stems so that each stem came complete from the ground, tender at the tip, each bell swaying in her hand, opaque white with a breath of green. She raised them to her face so she could look into the flowers. She picked two leaves, and babying them in her hand, pulled open the screen door and ran up the stairs, dropping her coat and books as she went. Ma would be in the dining room, surrounded by piles of ironing, the boys’ shirts hanging from a door jam, that crisp cotton smell filling the house.

  She walked through the small kitchen. There was the sink where Ma washed their hair using the sink sprayer attachment, and the one long counter, where last year, struggling with a turkey that spun out of control and shot across the kitchen, Ma had cussed, using words her brothers used. The ironing board was up; piles of laundry lay folded—jeans and shirts and Dad’s work clothes.

  “Hey! Hey, I’m home! Is anyone here? Jan, Mark, Brian? Ma?”

  Where were they all? No As the World Turns playing from the living room, though the drapes Ma had laboriously made were pulled against the west sun.

  She reached to a shadow box, fingers wrapping around the perfume vase with the heart-shaped stopper for the lilies of the valley. The vase was small. You had to run the water just right or it filled the neck of the tiny vase but didn’t trickle in. She eased the stems in, one by one, so she wouldn’t smush them, and only got a little water up her sweater sleeves. She pushed her sleeves up, knowing the wrists would stretch out and the rash that never quite left the insides of her forearms would prickle. Still, it was an achievement to have gotten down the tiny vase without knocking over any of the other glass bottles there—one green crackle glass, a small, tall, slender perfume bottle that had been her gramma’s, and a purple-swirled vase that would hold lilacs, later in the year. Some of her friend’s mothers had Avon perfume bottles, but her mother’s bottles were antiques, from Germany, though Claire wasn’t sure what that meant.

  The house was so quiet. Her dad was at work, making sure the tire production line ran smoothly. Kind of funny Ma wasn’t there. She could hear the kitchen clock tick. Almost four o’clock—she should start her homework. The sun, moving west, slid behind a neighbor’s box elder tree. Ma hated box elder bugs. The room seemed to slide into shadow, the way a globe rotates on its stand…

  Suddenly, for no reason, she was terrified. Goose bumps broke out on her arms, and hair prickled on the back of her neck. Maybe Ma was already dead, spread-eagle on a bed, the way the Horst twins said women in movies died, only the women in movies had on nightgowns with lace cut low around their boobies, not the pajamas Ma wore.

  A ticking sound from behind her. Not the clock. The iron. Jesus and Mary, the iron was still on. Ma would never do that unless she’d been dragged away. Maybe was being gnawed on right then, or something like that; the Horst twins had never been clear about that part. In the corner of the dining room was the roll-away bed that Gramma used when she came to visit.

  There was a cover on it now to hide the fact, Claire guessed, that they had a bed in the dining room. When she was small, she could slide between the folded metal legs, under the mattress folded upward, in half like butterfly wings. Some would call it spying, but she was simply learning things, observing adult quarrels and watching her brothers coming down to water liquor bottles.

  She found herself on the floor, struggling though the familiar process, but this time, her shoes stuck on an angled bit of metal. She doubled up her leg, but the shoe popped off her foot. She couldn’t stay hidden and reach past the foot to recover her shoe. A blast of cold struck the room. The iron ticked louder now, seeming to say, “Claire’s hiding, Claire’s hiding, Claire’s hiding.” She felt squashed and smothered, and dust made her want to sneeze. She put her face down on the hardwood floor, trying not to breathe, knowing that any minute, a hard, knobby hand would grab her. The worst thing wasn’t knowing she was going to die—probably stabbed through the heart—but that the whole world had gone wrong, and nothing she had ever believed in had been true.

  She jerked upright in Charles’s arms.

  ARNIE RUBBED HIS blurring eyes. His room was filled with fog, or at least his eyes were. This was, obviously, a dream. If he pulled up the covers and slept a little more, he’d get rid of the intruding
fog. What was it Scrooge had said? A bit of indigestion from eating tacos?

  Well, not tacos. He tugged the light wool blanket up to his chin and settled in. The luxury of that few more minutes of sleep. God, what a good thing that his cell phone alarm wasn’t ringing.

  Well, it wouldn’t be ringing, would it, if this was a dream? What time was it, anyway? Somehow, it seemed as if he had slept past noon. He opened one eye to peer at his watch, which he’d worn to bed. He’d taken off his belt, but otherwise, he was wearing his uniform.

  He sat up in bed, suddenly wide awake. His vision was blurry. Worse than before. It was like being in a plane flying through clouds that are static and solid, as though flying through corridors of white-painted hospital walls.

  That was when he heard Sawyer crying in the next room. He swung his feet out of bed, lurching out of the covers and holding up his pants, which were too loose, with one hand.

  “Sawyer? Sawyer, what’s wrong, kiddo? Don’t worry, Dad’ll be there. Dad’ll be right there.”

  Goddamn it, where was the doorframe? Surely he’d walked in a straight line from the bed, and the door—the door should be right there. Whatever was wrong with his eyes, he could get it fixed later—if it could be fixed later. He had a friend who’d lost vision in one eye—a torn retina—but not both eyes. But so what? It didn’t matter. Where was the fucking door?

  He tripped over his dragging pant cuffs and struggled to free his legs and step out of the damn pants, but then he lost his balance and went crashing to the floor.

  “Dad? Dad? Where are you?” Sawyer’s voice was higher in pitch now. Arnie got to his feet and felt for the edge of the bookcase that should be right next to him, but he was disoriented. He felt for the wall and nearly tumbled forward again when he didn’t find it.

  Arnie struggled to not fall. He was sweating now, in panic, his uniform shirt clammy. He thrashed with his arms to maintain his balance, and to his horror, hit his hand against what had to be his bed. He’d gotten completely turned around. What if Sawyer really needed him? Maybe he had appendicitis, or even had just wet the bed, because if the kid was really sleeping hard, that was a possibility, maybe once or twice a year.