Once We Had a Country (9 page)

When she leaves them and re-enters the house, she finds Brid standing in the mud room by the window.

“Handsome devil,” says Brid. “You find out if he’s single?”

That afternoon, Maggie goes for a walk along the gravel road, thinking she might glance next door to see what’s going on there. She has decided the thin girl’s father must own the wrecking yard, and she imagines seeing him out
on the lawn with his daughter. She imagines introducing herself, making the girl squirm a bit. It’s a silly fantasy, and Maggie doubts she could pull it off without embarrassing herself. When she reaches the gate for the wrecking yard, she turns toward the mobile home only for a second, trying to be surreptitious.

There’s no one on the lawn, but in the driveway sits a truck that bears a striking resemblance to the one driven by Frank, the gas repairman. Then a man in an undershirt, jeans, and a baseball cap steps out from the building. It takes Maggie a moment to recognize it’s him. From his clothes, and from the unselfconscious way he lets the door slam behind him, she realizes this is his home. Frank is their next-door neighbour. He must be the girl’s father, too. Maggie returns her eyes to the road and hurries back toward the farmhouse.

Once she’s out of view and can relax again, her bewilderment turns to irritation. If the man lives next door, why did it take him over a week to come and fix the gas? Why wouldn’t he introduce himself as their neighbour? Then she remembers: he thinks they’re hippies. He must want nothing to do with them.

Just as she’s about to re-enter the farmhouse, the camper comes up the driveway behind her and Fletcher steps out, back from his trip to the St. Catharines mall. She descends the porch stairs to greet him.

“You’ll never guess who we have for a neighbour,” she says.

“Frank the repairman,” he replies. She can’t believe it. “How did you know?”

“I just saw him pulling out of the lane next door.”

Then Maggie tells him about her encounter with the girls. He nods as if none of it surprises him.

“The daughter must have inherited her manners from the old man,” he says. “I bet he doesn’t know she and her friends are smoking dope, though.”

“You think I should have done something about them?”

“Nah, you did plenty.” She doesn’t know how he can have such certainty, but it’s a comfort. “Let’s get inside,” he says, kissing her on the forehead. He unloads a large cardboard box from the camper. “I want to show you what I bought.”

Fletcher opens it in the living room to reveal a silver television set, the shape of an egg and mounted on a stubby tripod. He says it’s one of the newest models from Japan. Juxtaposed with the room’s worn-out furniture, the television looks like an alien invader. Maggie thinks about asking how he plans to pay for the thing, but she decides not to risk ruining the moment. He calls in Brid and Pauline to see the set too, and they all wait on the couch while he fiddles with the rabbit ears, coaxing ghostly images from static.

The rest of June passes by on television. During the day they occupy themselves with cutting away the dead limbs of cherry trees and planting vegetables in a corner of the backyard, and on weekends they drive the countryside in search of lawn sales from which to furnish the house and barracks, but the evenings are spent in front of the little metal spaceship with its screen aglow. Whether they watch the local channel or the ones from Buffalo, it doesn’t matter, it all seems to be about America: the Libertarian
Party convention, Angela Davis’s acquittal, the break-in at Democratic offices. Their country has moved on without them, but television lets them peek back in at their leisure.

Whenever Maggie tries to read the copy of
Middlemarch
she picked up at a yard sale, the sound and images from the TV keep tempting her eyes from the page. It’s better when everyone gathers in the playroom to watch the latest film she’s shot. Those nights they eat bowls of popcorn, and Fletcher makes shadow puppets between the reels. Maggie hasn’t yet figured out how to match the film with the audiotapes she’s recorded, so the four of them take turns doing each other’s voices. Afterward, Brid and Fletcher compliment her camerawork, and Maggie’s relieved, because each day she picks up the camera expecting one of them will say it’s a frivolous thing to do. She wonders how long they’ll let her get away with it.

Often, after dinner, Fletcher spends long hours in the kitchen with the telephone receiver cradled under his chin, bribing and cajoling friends into coming up. None of them arrives, and there’s no sign of Wale. Still, Brid and Pauline remain at the farm, and nobody mentions Brid’s threat to leave. No one asks Maggie about her father, either. She hasn’t heard from him again, and she should be glad, but she finds herself contemplating a call to Gran, just to make sure he’s all right. She never did send a reply to Gran’s letter.

In the last week of June, they watch on television as Hurricane Agnes arrives in America. The storm rains and rains over Pennsylvania until rivers break their banks, levees are overtopped, and thousands flee their homes. Maggie
takes in the images, hears the statistics about the dead and displaced, then goes about her business in the orchard sunshine. But that night the storm escapes the television set. Suddenly it’s outside the house, rattling the gutters, still raging after many inland miles, vengeful over a crime no one remembers committing. Lakeshore towns nearby are flooded, while the slimy creek at the back of the property swells into gouts of dirty water. The farmhouse roof springs a dozen leaks, everyone scurries for pots and buckets, and hourly Maggie makes the rounds to empty them. When the power goes out, they play cribbage and crazy eights by candlelight. The next morning Maggie stands at the bedroom window, still in her nightgown, and films the wind as it presses the cherry trees toward the ground. By the time the storm has passed, countless branches lie strewn about the orchard, a new multitude of automobile parts spread among them. The outhouse has been flattened, and the vegetables Maggie planted are drowned. It should be considered a disaster. Yet when the rain abates and she steps outside to film the ruins, she does so gladly.

A few days later, George Ray turns up at the door carrying a battered suitcase. Everyone files onto the porch to meet him, Fletcher pumping his hand energetically, Brid giving him a pasted-on smile that makes her reservations clear. Pauline hides behind her mother’s knees and refuses to say hello, while Maggie hangs back and listens to Fletcher talk about the damage from the hurricane.

“George Ray, what would you like for dinner?” Maggie asks after a time. For some reason the question seems to fluster him.

“That’s kind of you,” he says, not meeting her eyes, “but I won’t be able to join you tonight.”

“He’s going to live in the barracks,” Fletcher explains, then starts down the stairs as if to flee any questions. “Come on, George Ray, let’s get you moved in.”

“He isn’t staying in the house?” says Brid.

“It was something he decided,” replies Fletcher defensively.

“Don’t worry,” says George Ray, smiling at Brid and then at Maggie. “It’s better for me this way.”

Brid bites her lip and says nothing more, but at dinner, when George Ray stays true to his word and doesn’t join them, she demands that Fletcher explain what’s going on.

He shrugs. “A religious thing, maybe? Honestly, it was his idea.”

“Well, it looks terrible, him out there and all the white folks in here.”

“Who cares how it looks?” he says, tossing his fork onto his plate. “There’s nobody here to see it. Let’s just be glad we have him.”

The rest of the meal passes in silence. After Pauline has been put to bed, the top story on the TV news is Nixon’s announcement that no more draftees will be sent to Vietnam. Maggie lets out a cheer, but Fletcher and Brid stare at the screen with ashen faces.

“That’s great, isn’t it?” says Maggie, confused.

“It’s awful,” replies Fletcher. “It means no one else is coming up here.”

“Of course they’ll come,” Maggie says.

“Nope, we’re screwed,” says Brid. She stands with the pillow she’s been clutching, then tosses it into Fletcher’s lap.

“But things down south are getting worse,” insists Maggie. “People know that.”

“Sleep well, you two,” says Brid, disappearing into the hall. “Don’t run off and leave the country before I’m up to join you.”

G
ordon hurries through the jungle with Yia Pao’s baby boy wailing in his arms, Xang eight months old and too heavy to let Gordon run very long while carrying him. The trail has grown slick with rain. Again and again Gordon falls, taking the earth hard with his shoulder because he can’t let go of the child. When his red bandana slips from his neck and drops to the ground, he doesn’t even notice.

There’s no one at the waterfall when he gets there, just the stream of water pouring onto ledge rock. Then someone calls his name, barely loud enough to be heard above the cataract, and he sees Yia Pao step out from a hidden place behind the falls. Gordon goes to him and pushes the crying baby into his arms before bending over at the waist to take deep gulps of air.

“I won’t forget this,” says Yia Pao. He draws Xang close and tries to soothe him. “Did anyone see you?”

Gordon stands straight and shakes his head.

“Your neck,” says Yia Pao.

Gordon frowns and reaches up to touch the thick white scar along his throat. “From the war,” he says. When he sees Yia Pao’s bemusement, he adds, “The one against Hitler.” He tucks his chin toward his collar but isn’t quite able to hide the scar from sight.

“I must leave,” says Yia Pao, and Gordon puts a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“Go with God,” he says. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he asks, “Why are they after you?”

Instead of answering, Yia Pao draws back. An expression of terror has overtaken him. Gordon has only a moment to turn and glimpse the men in the distance before Yia Pao is pulling him toward the waterfall, into the dark place behind the rushing water.

The chamber is narrow, a wedge of wet air between the falls and a rock face tufted with moss. The light that filters through the water seems to be in motion, running down their clothes and faces.

“Did they see us?” Gordon whispers, but his words are lost in the tumult. Yia Pao is busy with Xang, trying to hush his crying, rocking him almost violently.

There are sounds from outside that could be men’s voices. Gordon tries to peer through the waterfall, but a moment later he recoils. On the other side is a human shape stepping onto the ledge rock. The cries of the baby have ceased. When Gordon looks, he sees that Yia Pao has
slipped a hand over Xang’s mouth, and the child’s face is bright red.

In the next second, something pokes through the waterfall at chest level. It’s the barrel of a rifle, and tied to it is Gordon’s bandana. After a time the barrel withdraws, and in its absence comes a face. It’s the face of a man, the skin pale, eyes closed, teeth bared. It’s the face of a corpse.

The eyes pop open. They roll in their sockets until they fix upon Gordon. He can’t help himself. He screams and screams.

“Peekaboo,” says the face. “I found you.” It licks its lips and grins.

Maggie has just stepped out from the mud room to smoke a final cigarette before bed and watch the galaxy unfurl above her when faintly she hears a voice from the barracks. It sounds like the red-haired girl from next door. Maggie strains to listen and the voice promptly falls away. There are only the crickets chirring, the radio towers blinking on the horizon. She imagines the two girls out in the barracks with George Ray. He must be more than twice their age. He’s probably married. Maggie sets off across the lawn.

Halfway there, she hesitates. No one has declared the barracks off limits since he moved in, but she’ll be invading his privacy. Even if the girls are there, it isn’t Maggie’s business. Then she pictures them at the barracks window, making snide comments as she stands in the middle of the grass. Continuing on, she knocks at the door. George Ray answers in his undershirt and jeans.

“No cameras allowed in here,” he says, deadpan. She gives a nervous laugh and holds out her empty hands, palms up. Laughing along with her, he invites her in.

Nobody’s sitting at the long dining table in the middle of the room. It holds only a single plate with a few chicken bones on it. Against the near wall are bunk beds, recently installed. There’s nobody in them either, and only one has been made up. Above it George Ray has tacked a Polaroid, while nearby a clothesline sags under the weight of underwear and socks. When he notices her looking in their direction, he rushes over to remove them.

“Didn’t know there was inspection today,” he says.

“Please, don’t go to any trouble,” she replies. It’s horrible of her to have been so suspicious. “I just came out to see how you’re managing.” She points at the Polaroid above his bunk. “Your family?” He says yes, and she crosses the room to see.

The photo shows him standing in a suit against a backdrop of palm trees and washed-out sky. Beside him, a round-cheeked woman holds a baby and looks harried. A small boy is pulling at George Ray’s hand with all his might, as if trying to drag him out of the picture.

“My daughter’s twelve now,” says George Ray. The information makes Maggie’s peering at the photo seem too intimate somehow, and she turns away to gaze at the back of the room. Against the wall are stacks of insulation. Near Fletcher’s weightlifting bench, a wide mirror rises from floor to ceiling. She takes herself in, notices the scar of thread on her top’s strap, her pale calves below her skirt, her thin-lobed ears peeking out from hair she hasn’t cut in
months. George Ray looks at her in the mirror. He has a barrel chest along with thick limbs, and deep lines run in parentheses around his mouth. When his reflection waves to hers, she laughs.

“Did Fletcher put the mirror there?” she says, and he nods. “It doesn’t bother you?”

“Keeps me company,” he says.

She murmurs her understanding, but the mention of company reminds her of why she’s here and makes her feel guilty again.