After the Fire (23 page)

When she had finished the letter, she sat for some time, thinking not of Bonnie but of Nora, the daughter lost to her whose blue eyes could be as cold as her own. Yet she had been there in Milly’s memories with Martin and Bonnie, Nora their leader always, the brightest and bravest of the lot, and Forbes’ favorite, Milly had always suspected. Though he had been a fair father, she had to give him that. How had they managed these things so badly that they’d lost a child in the process? And was she really lost? Nobody had made any real attempt to find her.

Dear Forbes,
Milly wrote.
This isn’t a request for money; so don’t throw it away before you read it.

She was tempted first to blame him once again, but they’d both been disgusting. All she really wanted now was to offer Nora a chance to forgive them.

Please find Nora,
she wrote.
It’s time.

When she addressed that letter, she went to her closet to look for something appropriate among her summer things for a memorial evening. As she looked, she thought how much too young as well as too shabby and too small her clothes were for her. By now she hadn’t much idea what fashions were. And what difference did it really make? She took out a wraparound navy skirt and the freshest-looking of her white blouses. If she was beginning to look more and more like a real islander, why not? There were worse things to be.

As she picked up the platter of raw vegetables and dip she was taking, she wondered how old she’d have to be before she could get away with coffee or tea bags.

Henrietta was not waiting at the end of her drive as she had done before Hart died. She was waiting at her door and came slowly and tentatively to the car carrying a plate of sandwiches.

“I couldn’t face the oven on so hot a day,” she confessed.

“Do you feel a bit funny about this?” Milly couldn’t resist asking.

“No, why?”

“Well, it just doesn’t seem to me her place to do it.”

“I don’t know why not,” Henrietta said. “She’s living there now, and Red’s too busy with the baby to take it on. Oh, I feel a bit guilty, to tell the truth, but then I thought how nice that a young person would think of it and do it.”

“Did she ask you to bring something?” Milly asked.

“No. But I thought she’s probably too shy to.”

“Well, when I go, I hope my memorial won’t be announced on the bulletin boards like a washing machine for sale.”

“It’s a way to make sure everybody’s welcome,” Henrietta said. “I think Miss James would have liked it.”

“Whatever happens, this time I’m not taking Sadie home,” Milly determined.

“I don’t think she’ll be there somehow. She didn’t even want to go to Dickie’s funeral.”

“And she wants nothing to do with that baby. She thinks of it as Dickie’s revenge.”

“Just as well,” Henrietta said. “Red really isn’t interested in sharing that baby with anyone.”

“Except the dog,” Milly said.

Henrietta laughed.

Milly glanced over at her to catch sight of that vitality which would now only occasionally rise into Henrietta’s face. Henrietta was too old to recover completely. Milly liked her better, being able to feel always a little sorry for her. And Milly was particularly glad of her company as they walked through Miss James’ wildflower garden because alone Milly would have felt far from sure of welcome. The only way this invitation could include her was on a bulletin board.

Miss James’ small house was already crowded, and Milly was surprised at the number of young people there. She’d never had the impression that Miss James had much to do with the young, except for her dependence on and attachment to Red. Were they this hard up for a party?

“Would you like wine or tea or coffee?” Karen asked her.

“Wine, thank you,” Milly replied, relieved to be able to respond just as she would at the pub.

“Try one of these, Milly,” Adam said, holding out a plate of sushi.

“Thank you, no,” Milly said, sweeping past him into the living room.

Henrietta, watching her go, gave Karen a rueful smile at the same moment Adam and Karen burst out laughing, obvious conspirators in a private joke.

“Excuse me, Hen,” Karen said. “What can I get for you?”

“A place to sit down,” Henrietta confessed. “I’m no good at standing.”

All the chairs in the living room, except Miss James’ own, had been taken. Henrietta hesitated for only a moment before she moved to it and sat down, thinking herself as likely a candidate as any. How substantial and nearly sacred or obscene furniture became when those who had claimed it were dead. This odd game they were playing should be called musical people, for at each gathering one more was gone while the chairs stayed on. A baby’s cry from the bedroom reminded Henrietta that there were also those newly born to insure the furniture had its uses, but she had lost too many of her own to take the comfort there should be in each new life.

It was that dwindling interest the young found so hard to forgive. Red couldn’t understand why Miss James hadn’t at least waited to see the baby, had strained all her will instead against that eventuality. Miss James would have been pleased at the neatness of it, dying the day the baby was born, the one passage actually involved in bringing on the other.

Miss James would have preferred Red to be in charge of the house and the party, but she might have understood Red’s need to act in her own way, to take her time. And it was important for Karen, who had been a favorite with Miss James, too, to take just such a place as this in the community.

“It’s hard to believe you’ve been here only just over a year,” Henrietta said to Karen, accepting the glass of wine she offered.

“I’m on my way the end of the month,” Karen confided.

“Oh?”

“I’ve decided to go to Japan,” Karen said. “I’ve never been.”

“Well,” Henrietta said reluctantly, “perhaps the time for you young people to go is when people begin to take you for granted. We’ll miss you.”

“Thank you,” Karen said and turned away quickly as if the comment had been embarrassing in some way.

Henrietta wasn’t used to being lacking in tact. You could only be tactful in a world you paid attention to and understood. She wondered if she’d ever have enough energy or interest to relearn that skill.

Red came over and squatted down by Henrietta.

“I like to see you sitting there,” Red said. “It helps.”

“Karen says she’s leaving us.”

“She just decided,” Red said. “She was afraid no one would come.”

“Why?” Henrietta asked in surprise. “People always do.”

“For births and deaths,” Red remarked.

“And fires,” Henrietta added.

“And fires,” Red agreed.

“Has Karen had a hard time living here?” Henrietta asked.

“She tried to make friends with me,” Red said.

“And someone has to be pretty hard up to try a thing like that? Oh, Red!”

“I’m not ready to be a friend,” Red said. “And maybe I never will be.”

“Having a baby is a pretty big responsibility. Friends can help,” Henrietta said.

“They don’t,” Red said. “They get in the way.”

“Oh, I know they can,” Henrietta said, a sudden memory of herself frantically trying to protect her first living baby from the hordes of gift-bearing visitors, and she was naturally sociable, not a cautious hermit like Red.

Homer and Jane had arrived, and Red rose to greet them, a gesture which suggested she might be reluctantly practicing for the time she would be mistress of this house. Henrietta couldn’t imagine another gathering such as this at Red’s instigation. But Blue had already changed Red’s relationship to the community, and, as the human traffic died down, she would suspect and resent it less and only gradually know she’d been a little changed by it, more open to human connection than she could now imagine.

In the absence of Sadie, the young men were paying some court to Milly who looked remarkably well, her face no longer such a careful mask of makeup, her body taking its fuller, more natural shape. She was making them laugh.

Karen came to Henrietta and asked, “Do you think it’s time that we maybe said a little bit about Miss James?”

“Yes,” Henrietta said.

Karen tapped her glass until the room was quiet.

“I didn’t ask anyone ahead of time to make a speech, but I thought maybe now anyone who wanted to say something could. I’ve only known Miss James—and all of you—for a bit more than a year, but I learned a lot from her, maybe mostly about living alone. She did it so well I began to think I might learn to like it. I still don’t, but I can do it.”

There was an amused murmur.

“She talked a lot about her travels. One of her teacups or a picture could start her off, and maybe part of the secret of living alone well is collecting a lot of good memories. She had the courage to do that. The first brave thing I ever did in my life was moving to this island. The next bravest thing I’m going to do is go to Japan.”

“One day,” Riley said, “when I gave her a lift into town, she had me nearly talked into going to Alaska, and I still think maybe some day I’ll make it.”

“Miss James,” said Henrietta from Miss James’ chair, “would have had a poem to recite.”

Everyone nodded.

“She was a good, wise friend to me. I’m going to miss her very much,” Henrietta concluded.

That simplicity encouraged others without confidence in their eloquence to share an anecdote or a bit of homely philosophy, letting short silences fall between speakers without any sense of embarrassment. It was a ritual they understood.

Finally Red stepped forward and said, “I’ve memorized a poem Miss James liked. It’s called ‘Rumination’ by Richard Eberhart.

When I can hold a stone within my hand

And feel time make it sand and soil, and see

The roots of living things grow in this land,

Pushing between my fingers flower and tree,

Then I shall be as wise as death,

For death has done this and he will

Do this to me, and blow his breath

To fire my clay, when I am still.”

“Thank you, Red,” Henrietta said.

It was about Hart’s roses, she supposed, or her own lilies, living consolations against the rebuking furniture. Miss James went on reading poetry far too long in order to keep sharing it with the young who might need to think death was wise instead of simply mindless.

“This is also now a house-warming,” Karen said, holding up a new bottle of wine, “for Red.”

Jane Rule (1931–2007) was the author of several novels and essay collections, including the groundbreaking lesbian love story
Desert of the Heart
(1964), which was made into the feature film
Desert Hearts
. She was inducted into the Order of Canada in 2007. Born in New Jersey, Rule moved to Canada in 1956, and lived on Galiano Island, British Columbia, until her death at the age of seventy-six.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook onscreen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

The poem “Rumination” by Richard Eberhart, appearing on pages 237–238 is from COLLECTED POEMS 1930–1986 by Richard Eberhart. Copyright © 1988 by Richard Eberhart. Reprinted by permission of Oxford University Press, Inc.

Appearing on page 41 are twelve lines, three stanzas, from A. E. Housman’s “To an Athlete Dying Young,” are reprinted from THE COLLECTED POEMS OF A. E. HOUSMAN, Copyright © 1939, 1940, 1965 by Holt, Rinehart and Winston, Inc. Copyright © 1967, 1968 by Robert E. Symons. Reprinted by permission of Henry Holt and Company, Inc.

The poem on pages 193–194 is by Emily Dickinson and is reprinted from THE COLLECTED POEMS OF EMILY DICKINSON.

Copyright © 1989 by Jane Rule

Cover design by Tracey Dunham

978-1-4804-2946-8

This edition published in 2013 by Open Road Integrated Media

345 Hudson Street

New York, NY 10014

www.openroadmedia.com