A Simple Thing (25 page)

Chapter 25

Betty 2011

The Sounder cemetery was one of Betty's favorite places on the island. Set in a field at the side of the road, it had no formal sign or even a fence, just a variety of rocks, plants, wooden crosses, logs, stone lanterns, Mardi Gras beads, and other mementos marking the graves, which were laid out haphazardly across the field. At first glance it looked like a half-forgotten garden, with little plots of eccentric plantings scattered here and there in the midst of the overgrown grass and dead leaves.

Betty pulled the truck over to the side of the road and sat for a moment, looking at the cemetery. Then she got out and walked over and through the little gate that stood as a kind of entryway, even though there was no fence.

She wandered by the graves. Some graves were marked only with a scattering of shells, a tiny statue of a laughing Buddha, a blue-glazed ceramic bowl, and visited only by those who knew where to find them. She saw the grave of Joel Thurlow, a boat maker, who had been buried in one of his cedar and canvas canoes instead of a coffin, his hammer tucked by his side. Dorothy Watson, a teacher at the Sounder school for more than thirty years, lay in a grave marked with a cedar bench, the perfect spot to sit and read. Two stone cherubs marked the graves of the twin daughters of Andrew and Ella Burns, drowned in a boating accident in 1923.

Much of the cemetery was in shadow, but in a few spots the afternoon sun lit bright patches of gold on the grass. Someone had put fresh calla lilies, which must have been brought back this week by boat, in a white pitcher on one of the graves.

She found the handmade cross that marked Bill's grave and stopped to look at it. Jim had carved his father's name, William Thomas Pavalak, into the wood, and the years of his life, 1926–1968. Betty looked around for a place to sit and settled on Dorothy Watson's bench, about twenty yards away. The seat of the bench was a red cedar log split in half, sanded to a satiny finish.

A small patch of blue elderberry covered the ground near Bill's grave; Betty contemplated it for a long time. It wouldn't be too difficult to pull the elderberry and dig a grave there, next to Bill. She didn't want anything fancy, maybe a nootka rose or a mock orange, with its lovely, fragrant flowers. There would be a certain irony in spending the centuries there at Bill's side. She had told Barefoot once that she wanted to be buried next to him.

“I'm not going to be buried,” Barefoot said. “Why? So you can come and weep over me? Burn me in the brush pile and scatter my ashes in the garden, where they'll do some good.”

“But I love you,” she said. It had been one of those moments when she felt a particular tenderness for him, a mix of gratitude and love that filled her and overflowed her soul, drowning her natural reticence.

“I love you, too,” he said, “but in forty years it won't make a damn bit of difference to either one of us if I'm buried or cremated.”

She had not told him yet about her visit to the doctor in Bellingham, about the spot on her lung and the two spots in her spine revealed by the CT scan. Five or six months, the doctor said. She hadn't told Jim, either. But she had called Bobbie. Betty wanted to stay home on Sounder until the end. There was a hospice program based in Friday Harbor. Bobbie had offered to move in with her, too. “Whatever you need,” Bobbie said.

She would have to tell Jim and her grandsons, and she would have to tell Barefoot. But not yet. Betty had kept the secret of her illness for a week now, holding it close like a precious thing and taking it out to study it when she was alone, turning it over and over in her mind. It would be hard on Jim, no question about it. She and Jim had been a team for many years, the two of them together. Even her long relationship with Barefoot had not frayed the bond she had with her son. And she hated to leave Hood and Baker before getting further along in their story, as she thought of it, before knowing more about where their lives might go.

And Barefoot—she didn't know how to tell him. He was still fiercely protective of her, and it would be impossibly hard on him to see her suffer. Maybe she'd be granted the gift of an easy, quick decline. Barefoot had told her once that he hoped she would die first, so she didn't have to suffer the pain of losing him and being alone and grieving. He wanted to take care of her through everything, and now he'd be able to do exactly that. Betty sighed.

A movement caught her eye and she saw someone walk down the road and cut across the yellow grass at the far end of the cemetery. She recognized Susannah's red parka and long dark hair. Susannah put up her hand to shade her eyes from the sun, then spotted Betty on the bench and began to walk toward her.

“This is such a lovely place,” Susannah said, coming up to the bench. Her cheeks were flushed with cold, but there were dark shadows under her eyes.

“It is, isn't it?” Betty smiled. “I used to think I wanted to be buried back home in Seattle. I was so mad when Bill moved us up here, away from my family. I used to tell him, ‘Don't you dare bury me here, or scatter even one of my ashes in that goddamned bay.' But now it's home.”

Susannah sat down beside her.

“It doesn't seem quite so scary in a place like this, does it?” Betty said.

“No.”

A comfortable silence overtook them.

“You know Hood and Baker are leaving next year for high school,” Betty said. “Fiona's going to get an apartment in Friday Harbor and live there with them during the week. Although if they find a new teacher for Sounder, Jim may go with them.”

“So you'll be here all alone?” Susannah said.

No,
Betty thought.
I won't be here.
“Maybe,” she said. “Life is full of changes and surprises.” She tilted her face up to the sun. “I've never been particularly religious, but in this place, on a day like this, it's hard not to believe in
something.
”

Susannah clasped both hands around one knee and leaned back. “I've never been particularly religious, either,” she said. “As a kid I used to picture God as kind of like my dad in one of his rages—especially once I read the Old Testament.”

“Did you go to church?” Betty asked.

“Off and on. More off than on. We went to the Presbyterian Church. All I really remember about church is the music, this very good-looking, dark-eyed boy named Felipe who always asked questions that really made the Sunday School teachers mad—I think because they couldn't answer him—and the view out the window of the sanctuary, which overlooked Lake Saint Clair.”

Betty laughed. “That sounds about right.”

“I have to tell you something Katie said once,” Susannah said, turning to Betty. “I hope you don't think this is hokey, but it has always stuck with me.”

“Fire away.”

“We were driving someplace—to preschool, or the grocery store—and suddenly Katie said, ‘Mommy, do you know what God looks like?' ” Susannah's face grew animated as she told the story. “And I said, ‘I'm not sure anyone knows what God looks like.' And Katie said, ‘I do.' She was four at the time, all big dark eyes and dark hair. Anyway, so I said, ‘Well, what does God look like?' ”

Here Susannah paused, concentrating on something far back in the recesses of her mind. “And Katie said—I never forgot this, because she was so specific about it, and so
sure
—she said, ‘You see, when a baby is born, God and all the angels are right there in the room. So when the baby comes out she sees them all. But then as the baby gets older and gets farther away from the day she was born, she starts to forget God's face. But I still remember.'

“Then she said, ‘God has long, long hair he wears in a ponytail. He wears a bright yellow sweater with purple polka dots, and tie-dyed pants. And he has big purple shoes. I'll probably forget what he looks like, too, when I'm old.' And she told me to write it down when we got home so she'd remember. And I did!”

Susannah stopped now, in telling the story to Betty. “But that always haunted me,” she continued, “the idea that God and the angels are right there when a child is born, clear as day, and we spend our whole lives trying to get that close to the sacred again.”

Betty smiled. “And who knew that God looked like Wavy Gravy? Isn't that his name? He was big in the sixties.”

Betty looked up, watching the wind stir the trees. “I've never really believed in God or a hereafter; I just tried to live this life the best I could. My son is a good man; he found and married a decent woman, and I've been lucky enough to live near them and know my grandchildren. I've been able to live here”—she gestured toward the field, the forest, the looming sky. “In many ways, I've had a better life than I could have hoped for. But if there is a God waiting to judge me, I hope it's Katie's version. It's nice to think a kind man with a ponytail will be there to welcome us home.”

The pale December sun broke through the clouds again. A bird hopped through the grass across from where they sat, looking for insects. Susannah sighed.

“I came to find you to tell you that we're going home,” Susannah said. “I know I said we'd rent the cottage through June, and I'll pay you the rent through then even though we won't be here.”

“You're leaving?” Betty couldn't believe it.

“I have to.” Susannah's voice faltered. “Katie has been really difficult for me to handle alone. The pot poem and the cupcakes, and today I found her with Hood and they were—well, they're involved, too involved. And Matt and I are really struggling, and I don't know if he wants to stay married to me, and I can't fix that if I'm three thousand miles away.”

“Aw, honey.” Betty put an arm around Susannah's shoulders and hugged her. “None of us are perfect. You did what you thought was best for your kids. And it sounds like going home now is what's best for you and your marriage. You do what you have to do.”

“But I've made some big mistakes,” Susannah said.

“So have I,” Betty said. “And I made a lot of choices in my life that seemed wrong in some ways, but I know now all these years later they were exactly right. And I've learned to forgive myself my mistakes.”

Betty felt for Susannah, she did. She wished she could explain to her that as you grew older some of the angst faded, and the joys became sweeter. She thought of all the agonizing she'd done over Bill and his affairs and her miscarriages and the move to Sounder, and even over Barefoot and her own infidelity.

When Betty looked back on her life now, she recognized that she had married a man who stilled her restlessness, but in the end she wasn't enough to still his. She had put up with things she would have found unimaginable, but for reasons that were more important than her own yearnings. She had committed adultery—something she once would have deemed unforgivable—but she did not regret it. She regretted Bill's death with all her heart, yet she accepted that it was not an act of her will that had caused it, but a random cruelty of fate.

It was, as Barefoot said, all how you decided to look at things.

“I don't know,” Susannah said. “I doubt you made any mistakes like mine. I made a mistake once that's the kind of thing no one can forgive.”

Betty remembered something Barefoot had said to her, all those years ago. “Don't confuse guilt and shame,” she said. “It's okay to feel badly about something you've done. But don't let it make you feel badly about who you are. You're a good mother. And a good wife and daughter. I've known you long enough to know all that. You're a good person, Susannah. A really worthwhile person to know.”

Susannah's eyes filled with tears, and she laid her head on Betty's shoulder and cried as she had not cried in years and years.

Chapter 26

Susannah 2011

The following Saturday Quinn awoke with a stomachache. He pushed his eggs around on the plate with a fork at breakfast. “I don't feel like eating, Mom.”

“Okay, sweetheart.” Susannah picked up the plate, and put a hand on his forehead. Warm but not hot.

“Do you want some tea? You want to lie on the couch and watch a movie?”

He nodded. She set him up with a hot water bottle, blankets, the laptop, and a DVD, with a cup of ginger tea on the coffee table next to him. He lay curled on his side, his knees drawn up. Susannah looked at him and felt uneasy, but didn't know why. In some ways she was relieved to be heading back to Tilton next week, close to doctors and hospitals.

Katie came out of her room. “What's wrong with Turtleboy?”

Susannah shot her a look. “He's got a stomachache. Leave him alone.”

Katie sat down in the armchair across from Quinn. “I have an English project due this week,” she said. “I'm supposed to finish it this weekend. Which seems kind of pointless since we're moving—
again
—in ten days or whatever. This is totally messing up my grades for this year, as well as everything else.”

“It's not messing up your grades,” Susannah said. “You'll be fine.” But her conscience pricked her. Moving the kids twice in one school year
was
a terrible thing to do. When she'd told Quinn they were moving home, he had shaken his head back and forth, back and forth, as she spoke.

“No, no, no,” he said. “It's much better here. I don't want to go home.”

“It's not better here without Dad,” Susannah had said.

“It doesn't matter,” Katie had said. “Being away from Dad for nine months totally doesn't matter.”

“It matters to me,” Susannah said.

Katie and Quinn had bonded over their desire to stay on Sounder and had spent the past week trying to convince Susannah to change her mind. She wavered. It was rare to see the kids so united—even more, it was rare to see them passionate about something the way they were about Sounder and all the things they loved here: Barefoot, school, the Pavalaks, working on the boat, freedom from supervision. But all she had to do was think about Matt, about the deadness in his voice when he said, “I'm not sure I can be married to you”—and she knew she had to go. The kids were the most important thing in her life, but Matt
was
her life, and had been from almost the very beginning. She wanted to be good to him; she wanted to be worthy of him.

Quinn's stomachache grew steadily worse throughout the morning. Susannah put on her rain parka and walked up to Jim's to see if he had any Pepto-Bismol, but the cabin was dark and empty.

“Jim and Hood and Baker and Betty left for Anacortes this morning,” Katie told her when she came back. “I forgot. They're meeting Betty's sister for lunch or something.”

“Maybe I'll see if Barefoot has something that might help Quinn,” Susannah said. The nagging worry in the back of her mind would not go away. “Katie, will you stay here with him until I get back?”

“Yeah. But if he throws up I am not cleaning it up.”

“Great. Fine.”

Susannah drove out the driveway and along the roads to Crane's Point. The sky was dark even though it was not yet noon, and the wind bent the tops of the firs and pines and danced the leaves along the road. The wind was worse on top of Crane's Point, blowing the craggy branches of the old Garry oak and whipping the thick boughs of the shore pines. She parked behind Barefoot's farmhouse, stepped onto the porch, and knocked on the door. “Barefoot?”

She opened the door and stepped inside. It was dark, but she saw a half-full mug of tea on the chest in front of the fireplace. “Barefoot?”

She walked through the living room and into the kitchen and from there out the back door to the greenhouse, but couldn't find him. There was no sign of Toby, either, which meant Barefoot was out somewhere. She wondered if he could be in the boat, the
Gota
, in its perch on the cliff top. She walked around the side of the farmhouse.

A red-winged blackbird chattered in the distance, and Susannah heard the sound of the water, the waves bumping roughly against the sandstone cliffs at the base of Crane's Point. As she emerged into the clearing, the wind lifted her hair, reddened her cheeks and ears, stung her eyes.

I can't believe the boat doesn't blow over in this,
she thought. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her parka to keep them warm. But then she saw the elaborate system of scaffolding and ropes that anchored the
Gota
. Barefoot knew what he was doing.

“Barefoot?” she called again. But of course he wouldn't be able to hear her voice over the wind.

She stood and looked up at the boat. She was curious. Katie had never taken her inside or shown her the work she'd been doing with Barefoot here. She saw a stepladder set up against the side of the boat, climbed up it, and stepped onto the deck. She lifted the heavy canvas flap of the wheelhouse and stepped inside. To the left of the steering wheel was a small door, like a Hobbit door, that led into the cabin beneath the bow.

She bent her head, walked down two steps, opened the little door, and stepped inside. It was more spacious than she had expected. The cabin was triangular, with two berths that met at the head, making an upside-down V across from the steps. Immediately to the left was a wooden counter with a sink and hot plate, and to the right was a small closet with a toilet inside. A long narrow rectangular window stretched above each berth. Susannah remembered that Katie had told her about making the cabinets and shelving that stretched above the berths and windows. She had also refinished the counter, the beds, and the door to the “head,” as Katie had called the little bathroom.

Susannah ran a hand over the smooth, glossy surface of the wood counter. It was lovely. Everything about the little space was clean and neat and perfect. She had no idea that Katie had learned how to do so much, and do it so well. The berths, which ran almost the whole length of the cabin, were covered in sunny yellow cushions. The little counter, the shelves, the door to the bathroom, and the inside of the bathroom were all finished in rich, glowing mahogany. Susannah looked at it all and thought, with some surprise,
Katie is an artist, too.

A gust of wind rocked the boat and the little door slammed shut. Susannah grabbed the metal door handle and tried to turn it, but it didn't budge. She shook it, then pushed hard against the door with her hip, but nothing happened.

“Shit!” Susannah leaned against the door, fighting waves of claustrophobia.

She shook the door handle again, and then began to pound her fists against the door.

“Barefoot! Barefoot! Somebody! I'm stuck in the boat! Get me out of here!”

She paused, breathless. She took a deep breath and noticed she was shaking, her hands, arms, and legs quivering. She pulled her cell phone from her pocket, but of course it was unlikely to be working in this wind. Sure enough, the words “searching for service” flashed on the display. She punched in Katie's number anyway, but nothing happened.

She tried to think. The Pavalaks were gone. Barefoot wasn't home and didn't own a cell phone anyway; he'd never hear her shouting in this storm. Katie was her best hope, but she'd have to wait until she could get some kind of cell phone signal. But Quinn was so sick. She couldn't wait. She had to
do
something.

She paced around the tiny cabin. The windows were made of thick, solid glass and didn't open. She started opening drawers and closets and cubbies, looking for a spare key, or maybe a screwdriver or something she could use to jimmy the lock.

She bent over and opened a hinged door beneath one of the berths and found a sleeping bag. Another compartment held blankets. Above the berths, on shelves behind sliding wooden doors, were cans of food, spices, bottles of water. In one drawer she found a silver flask, like the one Barefoot had had on the boat that first day, when he'd made her drive the boat on the way to Friday Harbor. She picked it up and shook it and heard the slosh of liquid inside. She unscrewed the flask and sniffed it, and the strong smell of whiskey and oranges hit her nose. If ever she could use a slug of “heart medicine,” now would be the time. She took a sip and felt the warmth run down inside her. She took another drink and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. She screwed the top back on and slid the flask into the pocket of her parka.

There was no key. Or hammer. Or even a screwdriver. She sat down on one of the berths. She was stuck. She looked out the narrow window above the berth, at the grassy brown meadow and the gnarled, twisted trunks of the windblown junipers at the edge of the field, perched above the sandstone cliffs. A large granite boulder—evidence of an ancient glacier—sat next to the junipers. The sky beyond was thick and gray.

I am failing,
she thought
.
Here she was, stuck, at a time when her son needed her care and protection more than ever, and she was letting him down—the one thing she had sworn she would never do. Her father's words on the day of the accident echoed inside her head:
How could you let her go?
Her whole life was nothing more than a constant attempt to make up for that one moment, that one moment when she was thirteen years old. And now she was going to fail again.

“
No!
” she yelled at the empty cabin. “You were driving too fast! You shouldn't have hit the wake that fast.”

How could you let her go?

“No!”

Susannah stood up and started rummaging again through the closet, the cupboards, the tiny bathroom, looking for a hammer, a hatchet, something she could use to
smash
her way out. She wanted to blow up the locked door, this claustrophobic cabin, her whole cautious, guilty life. It was like that stupid analogy about women at midlife being butterflies inside cocoons, waiting to burst forth with fresh confidence and creativity into the second half of their lives. Only she didn't feel like a butterfly, or even particularly confident or creative.
I am a pissed-off woman,
she thought,
and I hate this fucking cocoon
.

She looked around again and saw the metal fire extinguisher, hanging on the wall above the hot plate. She stood up and reached for it, lifted it over her head with both arms, and pounded it against the door with all her strength. She heard a crack and, to her surprise, the door splintered down the middle. Before she knew it, Susannah was free.