The Sabbathday River (20 page)
Read The Sabbathday River Online
Authors: Jean Hanff Korelitz
“Maybe I ought to run you into town,” Heather said softly, keeping her diaphragm as still as possible.
“No. It isn't too bad. Just a headache.” She smiled ruefully. “Doctor'd just tell me to go home.”
Polly coughed in her sleep. Heather stroked the back of the baby's head, where white hairârubbed off from months of turning her head against the crib mattressâwas growing back shiny, dark, and fine. “I won't go in to work today,” she said.
Pick shook her head. “No need for that. You go on.” She paused. “I know you like to go. I'll watch her.”
“Oh, I couldn't,” said Heather. But already her mind was working. She could. She could leave her sick baby with her sick grandmother. To have that extra hour with Ashley, the hour after Polly woke up and wanted her, for food or distraction, to have that small but irreplaceable freedom to make noise, to move in ways they couldn't move normally for fear of waking the babyâsurely Pick wouldn't offer if she didn't feel up to it. And Pick could always call the mill if she started to feel poorly, and Heather could just tell Ashley she had to go home. Otherwise â¦
“I couldn't,” Heather said again, just to stay her conscience.
“Don't be silly,” said Pick, who carefully extricated the still-sleeping Polly from Heather's stomach, allowing Heather to escape to the bathroom. She was already expertly holding the baby's forehead against her own cheek, pronouncing her “cool as a cucumber.” “Just a bit of a sniffle. Nothing to get nuts about.”
“Sure,” Heather said. “I know.”
Pick put the baby down, gingerly, in her crib, where, to Heather's amazement, she did not wake instantly and start to howl but turned her other cheek to the blanket and continued to breathe, evenly, if still rather wetly.
“Okay,” Heather said. “I guess it's fine. And you're fine.”
“I am fine,” said Pick. “You worry too much.”
But Heather didn't worry too much, that was the problem. She should have worried far more. If she had called home, she thought afterward. If she had stopped work early and gone to check. If, for once, she had told Ashley that today was not a good day for them to drive to the woods, then how differently everything might have unraveled for her, for Ashley, for Polly and Pick, even for Naomi Roth, Heather would think too many months later. But she was greedy. Her greed ran through her where blood should have been, and her common concern, this drug hunger for the man whose touch was the one thing she had deemed worth pursuing in the known universe. How thoroughly the world had shrunk to this, she thought, leaving her sick house without a backward glance, revving the car like the heat-seeking missile it was, and setting off.
She worked through the morning and went grocery shopping at midday, enjoying the freedom of maneuvering her cart without having to be careful of jarring the baby. She bought eggs and milk, a bag of
anemic oranges, a pot roast for the weekend, when she generally took over the cooking from Pick, a new size of diapers for Polly. She bought yogurt and a roll for her lunch and took them back to the mill, and Ashley was there, painting the new clapboards with a foul-smelling paint, working without gloves so his raw hands were spattered white. Heather sat by the window and had her lunch, listening to Sarah Copley talk about her husband, Rory, and his habit of leaving empty ice cream cartons in the sink, as if expecting her to wash them out and reuse them.
The man simply can't stand to think of anything going to the dump! It's bad enough he's got every issue of
The Clarion back to '68. The women chortled and murmured their own stories. Heather put her yogurt into the trash and went back to her sampler. She was waiting for Ashley now, and for the women to leave. She didn't mind the wait. She was anticipating the extra time later, the freedom she had grown unaccustomed to since Polly's birth. If she thought of Polly or Pick at all, it was without anxietyâher grandmother would call if there was troubleâbut with a sweet lift of her spirits, and gratitude that the women in her life would make this space for the man. Ashley was right: she did have everything, and the parts of everything all worked in concert to give her the greatest possible happiness. It occurred to her, for the first time, that the bad feeling lingering between her and so many of her neighbors had less to do with pity or condemnation than with sheer resentment. They scorned her choices, but at root, they wanted what she had, and if what she had did not include a husband who filled her sink with refuse, then there was that much more reason for them to envy her, and that much less reason for her to care.
anemic oranges, a pot roast for the weekend, when she generally took over the cooking from Pick, a new size of diapers for Polly. She bought yogurt and a roll for her lunch and took them back to the mill, and Ashley was there, painting the new clapboards with a foul-smelling paint, working without gloves so his raw hands were spattered white. Heather sat by the window and had her lunch, listening to Sarah Copley talk about her husband, Rory, and his habit of leaving empty ice cream cartons in the sink, as if expecting her to wash them out and reuse them.
The man simply can't stand to think of anything going to the dump! It's bad enough he's got every issue of
The Clarion back to '68. The women chortled and murmured their own stories. Heather put her yogurt into the trash and went back to her sampler. She was waiting for Ashley now, and for the women to leave. She didn't mind the wait. She was anticipating the extra time later, the freedom she had grown unaccustomed to since Polly's birth. If she thought of Polly or Pick at all, it was without anxietyâher grandmother would call if there was troubleâbut with a sweet lift of her spirits, and gratitude that the women in her life would make this space for the man. Ashley was right: she did have everything, and the parts of everything all worked in concert to give her the greatest possible happiness. It occurred to her, for the first time, that the bad feeling lingering between her and so many of her neighbors had less to do with pity or condemnation than with sheer resentment. They scorned her choices, but at root, they wanted what she had, and if what she had did not include a husband who filled her sink with refuse, then there was that much more reason for them to envy her, and that much less reason for her to care.
Ashley finished around five and packed away his tools in the back room adjacent to the office. Heather folded her sampler carefully into her bag and walked into the office. Naomi was working at the computer, her head bent forward so the green glow from the screen played out over her face as she stared deeply into it. “We have any more of that linen thread?” Heather asked. “You know, that white? I think I'll be okay, but I might run out of what I've got if I have to put in all these extra flowers.”
Naomi looked up. The green fled from her face, leaving it streaky red. Her eyes were red, too.
“Oh, hey,” Heather said. “Are youâ”
“Okay,” Naomi said quickly. “I'm fine.”
Heather was staring. She wanted to stop staring, but she couldn't figure out how. Naomi, for her part, didn't look away either.
“Everything's fine,” Naomi said finally. “I didn't realize anybody was still in there.”
“I'm waiting,” Heather said. “I mean, I was just finishing up.” She stopped. “Can I help you?”
Naomi gave a sour little smile. “Oh no, I don't think so. It's just my ⦠Well, Daniel and I decided to call it quits this weekend. It's normal to be sad, right? I mean, we've been together for like ⦔ She looked up, calculating, then found the answer and sighed. “Anyway, I'm just fine. Thanks for asking.”
“You don't look fine,” Heather said bluntly. Then she blushed. “Oh, I didn't mean that. I'm sorry.”
“No, no.” Naomi shook her head. “I know I look like shit. This is what you look like when you stay up all night screaming at your so-called life partner while he's pawing through a box of records, trying to remember who reached into whose pocket on Bleecker Street in 1974 to pull out the dollar that bought âAre You Experienced?' off some wino's blanket. Charming, huh?”
Huh,
Heather thought, staring.
Heather thought, staring.
“Well, that's life, I guess,” Naomi went on. “I mean, they say you should never go into marriage without making sure you want the same things from life, but they don't tell you that wanting those things and getting those things are two distinct concepts. So, God forbid you should
achieve
anything, right? Achieving just interferes with the almighty
striving,
doesn't it?”
achieve
anything, right? Achieving just interferes with the almighty
striving,
doesn't it?”
“I guess,” said Heather softly. “I never really thought about it.”
“Who
thinks
about it? That's my point. Nobody thinks about this stuff. They just do what they're told. What do you think I'm doing with myself, Heather? You think I'm enjoying this? This!” Naomi pushed out her hands, sharply, as if urging more from an imaginary orchestra around her. “I am not enjoying this.” Her voice dropped to a hush, as if she were telling herself a secret. “I am not enjoying this. I'm just doing what I'm fucking told.”
thinks
about it? That's my point. Nobody thinks about this stuff. They just do what they're told. What do you think I'm doing with myself, Heather? You think I'm enjoying this? This!” Naomi pushed out her hands, sharply, as if urging more from an imaginary orchestra around her. “I am not enjoying this.” Her voice dropped to a hush, as if she were telling herself a secret. “I am not enjoying this. I'm just doing what I'm fucking told.”
Heather swallowed. She searched fervently for something to say, but she couldn't seem to grasp anything.
“So don't mind me,” Naomi said ruefully. “I'm just fine. I'm just not as fine as I'm supposed to be, so the light of my life is off to find
somebody who hasn't taken the code of enlightenment quite so literally as I apparently have. Somebody who meditates more and does less, I guess. And maybe has some unearned income; that might help. Also is happy to shit in a bucket and grow hair on her legsâbut not under her arms! Because that grosses him out! And never, never, never wants to do something so insufferably self-indulgent as have a baby in this evil, fascist world, because, among other things, that would make him a father, which would make him not the baby anymore.”
somebody who hasn't taken the code of enlightenment quite so literally as I apparently have. Somebody who meditates more and does less, I guess. And maybe has some unearned income; that might help. Also is happy to shit in a bucket and grow hair on her legsâbut not under her arms! Because that grosses him out! And never, never, never wants to do something so insufferably self-indulgent as have a baby in this evil, fascist world, because, among other things, that would make him a father, which would make him not the baby anymore.”
Heather stared at her. An idea pricked her consciousness. “Do you ⦠are you pregnant, Naomi?”
“No!” the older woman shrieked. Fresh tears flew from her eyes. She sighed then, a rasp of unhappy breath. “I mean no. I'm sorry. No.” She shook her head. “I thought I might be, but I'm not. Lots of rejoicing
chez
Roth over that one,” she said tersely. Then she looked up at Heather and frowned. “I really admire you, you know,” Naomi said softly. “I do, Heather.”
chez
Roth over that one,” she said tersely. Then she looked up at Heather and frowned. “I really admire you, you know,” Naomi said softly. “I do, Heather.”
Her face went a little numb. “You do?” This was a fresh concept. “You admire
me
?
”
me
?
”
“Yuh.” Naomi nodded. She swiped at her cheek with the back of her hand. “You don't take shit from people. And this town's full of people who would dearly love to give it to you, for whatever half-assed reason. Like it has anything to do with them! But you won't take it. It pisses them off, you know.”
“I know.” Heather nodded.
“And I'm not asking for details, believe me. But I think it's great. You walk so tall. It's a great example for your daughter, you know.”
“Do you think so?” Heather said, amazed.
“Sure! You don't wait for people to tell you how to live your life, you just get on with it. You're the only home-grown feminist I've met since I moved here, you know. You ought to be proud of yourself.”
But Heather did not feel proud. She was brooding about being called a feminist. She didn't want to be a feminist. She wanted to be beautiful for Ashley.
Naomi got to her feet and snapped off the computer. “This is stupid,” she said, addressing the dimming screen. “I'm just putting it off. I've got to go home sometime.”
Heather looked at her, then past her, out the window. Ashley was loading his car.
“I have to go, too,” she said. “Are you sure you're all right?”
“Sure.” Naomi grinned, her face streaky. “All right. Oh”âshe frownedâ“you said something about thread?”
“Oh, nothing! It's fine, I'm sure I've got plenty.”
“Because we could look upstairs.” Naomi gestured toward the attic stairs.
Heather checked the window. Ashley was in his car, waiting.
“No.” She moved toward the door. “See you tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow,” Naomi said, behind her. The door shut between them.
Ashley had the engine going, and the car was warm for her. He moved a drill off the passenger seat and hoisted it into the back. “Sorry.”
“All right.” She stared forward.
“What's the matter?” Ashley said.
“Naomi just told me she's getting divorced from her husband. She looks sad.”
“Yeah?” Ashley said. “This just happened?”
“I guess. She said, over the weekend.”
He nodded. The river was sluggish today, overflowing its own ice at a thousand different points. It bugged her, the stop and go of it, the failure to hold itself back or let itself go. She hoped they would make it onto the logging road today and not have to resort to Nate's Landing.
“He was a jerk,” Ashley said. “I always thought so.”
“You did?” She turned to Ashley. There was a smudge of paint on the straight edge of his nose.
“He didn't know shit about building houses. I had to go out there and fix everything he did. Not that I minded.” He smiled. “I mean, cause she paid me.” He turned to grin at Heather. “But still. He put this junk on the roof that was supposed to be for solar power, but it leaked like a sponge, and he refused to cut down any trees to give the house more sunlight, so Naomi had to heat water on the stove if she wanted to take a bath that wasn't freezing. That's one thing for a guy, but women like to be clean.” He laughed to himself. “She always said, if guys got periods like women, they'd be the first ones to demand hot and cold running water. And he wouldn't even let her have a toilet. He had this creepy compost thing that was supposedly better for pollution or something.” He sighed. “Maybe she'll want a toilet put in now.”
“Was he nice to her?” Heather asked. “I mean, aside from the toilet and that stuff?”
Ashley pursed his lips. “Well, I guess. He didn't beat her up or anything.”
They turned off from the river. The road, to Heather's relief, looked good. “I like Naomi,” Heather said. They were driving slowly into the diminishing light. She felt as if they were hiding themselves, sweetly and slowly, crawling in tandem to their warm destination. “I don't really know her.”
“Who knows anybody?” said Ashley. He stopped the car and killed the engine. There was a sound like crinkling as the wagon settled in snow, in its black ring of winter woods. The engine ticked over a bit as it cooled. She reached for his hand.
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