Once We Had a Country (17 page)

Maggie remembers well enough. She tries to picture going next door and confronting the two of them about what happened but can’t quite manage it.

“So what do you want me to do?” she asks.

He shrugs. “You know this man from last night better than I do.”

“But you won’t tell me who it is.”

“I promised,” he repeats. But he adds, “I will only say that those girls should not be out late with a married man.”

“Dimitri,” she says, and his eyebrows lift enough for her to know she’s right.

“I don’t wish to cause trouble,” he insists.

“Of course.” Then a thought occurs to her. “Why tell me? Why not Fletcher?”

George Ray’s face grows pensive, as if he has asked himself the same question. “Because you seem to care about the farm’s success,” he replies. “And because Fletcher might overreact.”

He seems embarrassed saying it, but she knows he’s right. Fletcher would make a stink, and it could backfire on him. She doesn’t particularly care if Dimitri and Rhea leave, but she doesn’t want half the people on the farm going with them.

“Thanks for telling me,” she says. “I’ll think about what to do.”

He looks her in the eye and nods, and she feels a vibration go through her at what he’s shared, at the fact of his sharing it. As he walks off, she realizes she doesn’t want to speak with Dimitri. It will only lead to no good. She’d rather keep the matter between herself and George Ray. And suddenly it seems to her that Dimitri isn’t the only one in the wrong.

At that night’s meeting, Fletcher wants to talk about people who crash at the farm and don’t contribute anything, but Dimitri says they have more important things to discuss. He says they should start a public seminar on organic farming. They should organize a parade through Virgil in solidarity with the Quebec liberation movement. Everyone seems to recognize he’s just stirring the pot,
because nobody bothers to respond. It’s as though they have turned up only to watch him and Fletcher argue.

Then Dimitri announces that what they really need to talk about is their exploitation of black people.

“For Christ’s sake,” says Fletcher, “you mean George Ray?”

“Some of us marched on Washington,” says Dimitri. “Anyone here feel strange having this guy as our personal slave?”

Hands go up around the room. Jim and Sarah from New Jersey, Rhea, Brid. Maggie can’t believe Dimitri’s gall.

“Is George Ray even Jamaican?” Dimitri says. “He doesn’t talk like it.”

“He’s not going to speak in patois with a bunch of crackers like us,” says Fletcher. “Look, he isn’t a slave. He gets paid. He chooses to be here.”

“But that’s a problem too,” says Rhea. “He’s only here for the money. I thought we wanted everyone committed to each other.” Maggie wonders if Dimitri has asked Rhea to take his side or if she’s just doing it instinctively, unaware of what she’s abetting. Either way, Maggie can’t let it go on.

“We shouldn’t talk about George Ray when he isn’t here,” she exclaims. Everyone turns to look at her. She meets Dimitri’s gaze and glares at him until he drops his eyes.

“Maggie’s right,” says Fletcher, standing. “I’ll go get him.” He sounds glad of her support and eager to have another ally in the room.

“That’s right, massa,” says Dimitri. “You fetch him for us. It’s how your family got rich, isn’t it? All those plantations.”

Fletcher gives Dimitri the finger but sits back down.

From the kitchen comes the ringing of the phone. Nobody moves, apparently unwilling to miss whatever’s about to happen next, so Maggie gets to her feet and runs to answer. As she goes, she’s thinking she’ll find George Ray herself and ask him to join them. When she picks up the receiver and says hello, the voice at the other end gives her a start. It’s Gran.

“I’m sorry for calling,” Gran says. “I know you don’t want to be disturbed.”

“What’s up?” Maggie asks, wondering how Gran got the number, thinking it must have been the operator. They should have asked for an unlisted number.

“I’m worried about your father,” says Gran. “Has he been in touch with you?” Maggie says he hasn’t. “He said he’d phone me Monday from a town near the mission, but he never called.”

Maggie tries to suppress a feeling of alarm. “Maybe his ride got a flat tire,” she suggests. “Maybe the weather was bad. If you’re concerned, you should call the head office in Laos.”

“I did. They said they’d look into it.”

Maggie tries to think of how to reply. Whenever she talks with Gran, she feels adulthood slip away until once more she’s the little girl who argued with her every chance she got. Then she remembers her conversation with Wale in the screening room.

“Gran, did Dad ever mention meeting a friend of mine over there?”

“What sort of friend?” Gran sounds suspicious.

“Just a guy here at the farm. His name’s Wale.”

“I don’t think so. Why?”

“Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” Maggie takes the telephone cord and winds it about her hand. “Listen, don’t get uptight about the missed call. I bet Dad phones next week and says he just slept in or something.”

“He never sleeps in,” Gran retorts, then goes quiet as if waiting for further reassurance. From the living room come the sounds of voices shouting at each other.

“You’ll tell me if it turns out something’s wrong?” Maggie asks, and Gran says she will. Maggie edges down the hall, unlooping the cord from her hand as she goes, trying to make out what’s being said in the living room.

“Are you all right up there?” Gran asks.

“I’m great. I’m very happy. Hey, I even went to church a while back.” Why is she telling Gran that? It’s the last thing she wants to be talking about. “The farm’s a big hit,” she adds quickly. “You should come and see it for yourself.” But that’s no better; she can’t believe what she’s saying, and it seems Gran can’t either, because there’s only silence at the other end.

“Yes, well, I’m sorry for bothering you,” says Gran finally, then bids her goodbye.

Maggie puts down the phone, telling herself it’s ridiculous of Gran to get worked up over one missed call. Her son is in a war zone. What did she expect? This is what she gets for urging him to go, as if it were heroic, not stupid and dangerous. Now she wants Maggie to fret along with her just because he hasn’t been in touch as planned.

But there could have been a bombing raid. He could be laid up with malaria. Maggie tries to put the images out of
her head. This is why she doesn’t want to hear from him at all. It isn’t right to make them worry like this.

She returns to the living room only to find people passing into the hallway. When Fletcher emerges, he murmurs to her, “I’m going to kill him, I really am.” He continues onto the porch and lets the screen door slap shut behind him. Maggie waits in the hall until Dimitri appears. Rhea is with him, but Maggie doesn’t care.

“I know what you’re doing,” she tells him.

“Of course you do,” he says, seeming unperturbed. “You’re a real bright chick.” Putting his arm around Rhea, he heads upstairs. It’s only for the briefest of moments that Maggie could swear she detects a nervousness in his face.

She decides to wait until morning before talking to Fletcher about Gran’s call, but when she wakes up, he’s gone. After searching the house, she pokes her head out the mud room door and hears the sound of an axe falling in the orchard. On a hunch she starts toward it, the dry grass of the back lawn scratchy under her bare feet. Upon entering the trees, she walks by piles of branches gathered at the ends of the lanes, newly cut limbs thrown on top of debris from the hurricane. The strike of the axe grows louder until she sees Fletcher chopping at a tree, the ground beneath him littered with wood chips, twigs, and bark. His axe hitting the trunk has a hollow, unsatisfying ring.

“Look at this,” he says, bending down to the place where the blade has done its work. He rips away a handful of mealy wood. “Rotten right through.”

“Wouldn’t it be quicker with the chainsaw?”

“For some reason, I find this more gratifying.”

“It lets you exorcise your demons,” she suggests.

“What demons? There aren’t any demons.” He takes another swing with the axe. “Richard Nixon, maybe. Spiro fucking Agnew.” He’s wearing khaki shorts with a leather belt and she notices he’s missed a loop, but she doesn’t mention it. “My father phoned this morning,” he says between swings. “He wants to sell the farm.”

The shock keeps her from replying right away.

“But he promised we could buy it, didn’t he?” she finally exclaims.

“He says it’s different now that no one else is being sent to Vietnam. He doesn’t want me up here anymore.” Letting the axe drop to the ground, he begins to push on the cherry tree. It seems to struggle against him, until finally there’s a snap like a bone being broken. He retrieves the axe and starts to work on the branches.

“What if we asked him to visit?” she says. Then she remembers proposing the same thing to Gran and decides she should have her head examined. Neither Gran nor Fletcher’s father would be persuaded of anything if they saw this place. More likely it would only confirm their fears. Fletcher must be thinking the same thing, because he makes a face.

“I’m sick of it all,” he says. “I’m sick of the way he tries to call the shots.” Picking up the end of a branch, he drags it down the lane. Maggie grabs another and pulls it after him. “I’m sick of all these people. I go downtown and the storekeepers chew me out because some idiot’s been
shoplifting again. I’m sick of the slobs and the layabouts, and the ones who hate me because of who my father is. They don’t complain about taking a ride on his money, though, do they?” He heaves his branch onto the nearest pile, then bends to snatch up a hubcap from the ground. “Fucking car parts. You know, I bet Frank Dodd throws this stuff over the fence just to piss me off.” He hurls the hubcap toward the wrecking yard, but it falls short of the fence. When Maggie embraces him, he stands stiffly in her arms.

“You should have seen my dad in March,” he says, his voice now little more than a whisper. “When I told him about dropping out of law school, he looked scared. I’d never seen him scared. Did I tell you that?”

“You didn’t,” she says, holding him tighter.

“At first I figured it was about the draft, but then I realized it was worse. I was killing all his plans for me. Partner at a law firm, politics. The old man was panicking. I realized I could ask him for just about anything right then and he’d agree, so long as it involved some kind of future for me.”

“Fletcher, we’re going to make this work,” she tells him. “We got a rough start here. Your father will understand. I’ll talk to him if you like.” She says this even though it’s the last thing she wants to do. “We’re not leaving. You said next year we could grow enough cherries to start making a profit, right?”

He seems unconsoled. His moustache tickles her forehead as he kisses it, while a squirrel rebukes them from a nearby tree.

“Come on,” she says. “Let’s not worry about it right now. Let’s just go inside.” She takes his soft, blistered hand and with slow steps leads him back toward the house.

“What if—” he says in the bedroom. “What if we filmed ourselves doing it?”

He’s been undressing her, but her thoughts haven’t been on sex. Instead, her mind has drifted to her father, picturing him lost and hacking his way through thick jungle.

“Why would we do that?” she says.

“Because it would be exciting.” He runs a hand gently down her side.

“What, and then we’d show it to everyone?”

“Of course not. We’d watch it by ourselves. You know, some other time, as a turn-on.”

Maggie doesn’t think it would be a turn-on. She finds no pleasure in the thought of watching herself. She wants it to be just her and him with nothing added, no distance, only the press of their bodies. The camera is for the rest of the world.

“What about developing the film?” she says. “Someone at the lab—”

“Nobody watches that stuff. It’s done with machines.”

“I don’t know.” But he’s set on it, she can tell.

“Remember in Nantucket, when we did it in front of the mirror? It would be like that.” She hated the mirror. When she doesn’t reply, he sits on the edge of the bed. “Never mind, it was just an idea.”

She tries to think of some compromise. “What if it’s just
you?” she suggests. As she says it, the notion seems reasonable enough. But Fletcher gains the same lonely, hangdog look as in the orchard. “All right,” she says. “Fine, let’s do it.”

Feeling nauseous, she takes the equipment from the closet and sets up the tripod she recently acquired at the St. Catharines mall. He stands behind her, kissing her neck while she adjusts the focus.

“The settings are all messed up,” she says. “Have you been using it?” He shakes his head. “Well, somebody has. Honestly, this place. Everyone’s always in your stuff.”

She senses that he wants to disagree but has decided it isn’t the time for an argument. Instead, he goes to the mattress and waits while she continues to make adjustments.

“The light isn’t very good,” she complains. “Maybe we should move the bed.”

“It doesn’t have to be perfect. Just get it going.”

On her hands and knees, her face toward the lens and Fletcher behind her, the room is a jumble of shadows and angles. It would be better if she were underneath him, not having to look at the camera. Her skin tingles in the places where she feels watched: the stretch marks from her growth spurt, the legs she hasn’t shaved in weeks. The camera’s clacking is the only sound in the room other than the soft slap, slap of flesh on flesh. The hands holding her are invisible; she can barely feel them. Where has Fletcher gone? Reduced to a guiding, pounding force. The fear creeps into her that someone will open the door, and every few seconds she turns her head to check.

“Nobody’s going to bother us,” says Fletcher, sounding impatient.

The noise from the camera stops.

“It’s out of film,” she says, pulling away.

“Already? Hold on.” He gets up and crosses the room, removes the cartridge from the camera, then reaches for another and tries unsuccessfully to tear open its foil envelope.