The Seary Line (16 page)

“Ah, who gives a God damn?”

Stella started to laugh.

Amos began to snicker too, then added, “By Christ.”

“You's wicked.”

“Yes, I's a real little pisser.”

“Amos!” she squealed, still giggling. “My ears is burning.”

“All right,” he said with another chuckle. “Let's see if I can keep my bloody trap shut.”

“Dirty trap, more like it. Filthy. I should take you over to Mrs. Hickey's. She'd teach you.”

“Bugger Mrs. Hickey. If Mother was here, she'd be jamming soap down my throat.”

“Forget the soap. She'd go straight after the lye.”

“Ha.”

When the laughing petered out, Amos sat up, stared out at the snow, just flurries now. He lit another cigarette, rolled it slowly between thumb and forefinger. He wondered how far away a person could see the glimmer from a flick of burning ash.

“Lots of bad here, but 'tis pretty, idn't it?”

“Yeah.” Stella sat up beside him.

“I likes the snow, even though it causes trouble. And I likes the water, even though you can get drowned.”

“I knows.”

“But she don't have to drown you, unless she wants to. She can give you a life instead. She's fickle, that old sea. You can never tell what's she's thinking. Fickle and rich. You can't never own her. And that's why every man loves her.”

As they spoke, the flurries ended, the night cleared. And as though it knew they were talking about it, the sea balled up and rammed the beach proudly, jostling the helpless stones.

“Do you want to carry on with the fishing when you gets home?”

“Yeah. I didn't like working to the mill. Now Skipper Penny said he'd take me on with him.”

“He took a real shine to you. Treats you like a son.”

“Yeah, I loves to fish. For me, there's no pleasure in hacking down trees.”

“No?”

“When you're out there jigging, and you heaves your hook and line overboard, and it disappears into the darkness. I don't know. There's some magic to it. There's chance. Sounds stupid, I suppose.”

“No, it don't. Keep saying.”

“Skipper Penny told me that. He says, ‘Magic is blind. You don't need to see when you fishes, 'tis all in your hands, in your soul.' He says that I got to learn with my eyes closed, learn to feel the fish when they's swimming by, when they nibbles, when they bites. And I does that, I do. Out there with him, leaning over, eyes shut up right tight. And I tell you, something real wonderful moves through me when I knows there's a weight on my hook. Some wonderful magic.”

“That sounds right lovely. Never had that myself.”

“Don't want much, I don't. Don't want no uppity job at some store or nothing. When I gets home, I'll take up with Skipper. Then, when I gets a handle on things, I'll go off on my own. If she'll have me.”

“Who's she?”

“The water, I means. I believes she's the only woman for me.” Amos cleared his throat.

Stella put her elbows on her knees, leaned her chin into her mittens. “Sorry about Nettie.”

“Ah, I put that out of my mind long ago. She's only a girl. There'll be plenty of those.”

“She probably don't know what she's doing. Living in squalor all the time. All those sisters and brothers.”

“That don't got nothing to do with me.”

“Well, I can tell you. I idn't having no dozen kids.”

“Me neither. Nope. No chance of that. No chance.” Amos stared out at the waves, pale watery fingers slithering through the rocks, reaching for him. Inside, he sensed his nerves were firing shots, shock running down through his legs, heart jolting, stomach flopping. He sighed again, then lay back, arm up, elbow covering his eyes.

“Do you ever think about dying, Stell?”

Silence for a moment, then a quiet, “I guess so.”

“I mean, do you ever think about what it's actually like to die?”

“Sometimes. Yeah.”

“And what do you think?”

“I don't know. You say first.”

“Well, I thinks when you reach the point just before you dies, you won't be hurting no more or nothing. You'll feel good. But, it'll be dark, darker than it is now. Black like pitch. And you'll be somewhere on a cliff or something, high up, I imagines, and you'll know that one more step and there'll be nothing at all underneath your feet, only all the space in the world.”

“And?”

“You'll feel good, I's thinking. And I reckons if you're going to die, it'll be your choice, no one nudges you or nothing like that. When you're at the edge, no one darts up behind and slams you. You makes up your own mind if you wants to go on. I bet you'll feel so good that you won't be able to resist it. You won't even think about it. Something else'll take over, putting your mind right at ease. And you'll have no doubt, real faith, I suppose, that when you lets yourself go into all that nothing, when you leaps and begins to fall, someone you love'll catch you right up. And that'll feel real good, I bet. Gathered in someone's arms.”

“That sounds nice. I like that.”

“I reckons it'll be.”

“Only I thinks 'tis going to be cold.”

“Really?”

“And dirty. Tons of dirt, so much you can't even move around in it. You'll be stuck. Like you're buried and covered, but can still breath.”

“That sounds more like life to me, maid.” Amos smirked in the flickering light of the lantern.

“Who do you think'll catch you?”

“My mother. My real mother.”

“That'll be nice.” Stella swung her legs, banged the heels of her shoes against the rock. “I bet she will too.”

“I miss her, you know.”

Amos heard her draw in her breath before she said, “I'm sorry. I really is.”

“No need to be sorry, maid. Nothing you can do about it. Nothing you could've done. 'Tis just the way things is.”

He saw her wipe her face with her mitten.

“Though,” she said, “if nothing never happened to your mother, you wouldn't be here. And it may sound wonderful mean, but that would be worse than anything.”

“Ah, maid,” he said, and began to laugh, shoulder blades lifting off the stone. “Heaven forbid, you might have got a pinch of peace. Without me at you all the time. I'd torment the devil. Little bugger, I was.”

“You was not.”

“I allows I wasn't. I was worse kind. Bugs in your bed, in your clothes. Remember that time I trimmed your hair?”

“Trimmed? That weren't no trimming. You was using rusty old shears.”

“Well, you let me.”

“That's cause I knew what kind of trouble you'd get in.

'Twas worth more than my bit of hair.”

“Oh, really?”

“Yeah.” Giggling again.

“Ooo. Now that's cruel. I'm eyeing you in a whole new light.”

“Though I never thought you were going to take so much off.”

“Sure, the whole time I had you nipped between my knees, I was pretending you was a sheep.”

“Yeah, you're right,” she said, then punched his knee. “You're worse.”

Amos took a deep breath, sat up again. Another cigarette, but he did not bring it to his mouth, let the curls of smoke trail over his knuckles before the wind found them, dragged them away. “Lots of times I tried to make you feel small, you know. Tried to make you think I was better.”

“Nah.”

“I don't know why I did that.”

“That's what brothers does.”

“Maybe I was angry, that you had your mother and mine was gone. Weren't even allowed to mention her name. Had to pretend she weren't even real. I thought you had everything.”

“What? Is you codding me?” Stella blew air out through pursed lips. “If 'tis any comfort, I don't even think she could stand me.”

“What?”

“Mother. I don't think she gave me much mind.”

“Don't say that. 'Tis not true.”

“Maybe it's not. But that's what I thinks sometimes. She never ever said.”

“People don't need to say stuff. It's what they does that matters.”

“Well, she never done nothing either. As far as I minds. Seems like she's been gone forever. Sometimes it seems like she was never there at all. Like I imagined her or something.”

“Don't say that, Stella.”

“All right.” She leaned her head against the wall of the hole, sniffed hard to clear her nose. Several minutes passed.

“No. You can say it. I don't want you to stop talking. I don't like to hear myself breathe.”

“Oh.”

“Talk, Stella. Say whatever you wants.”

“Can I tell you something?”

“That's what I've been asking you to do.”

Stella pressed her mittens to her nose, mumbled, “I was scared of her.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was afraid to touch her. Hug her. I wanted to sometimes though.”

“Yeah.”

“Thought I would hurt her. I used to dream over and over again I had big muscle arms and I squeezed her so tight. Damaged her right bad.”

“Oh.”

“And that she was dead.”

“I don't think you could do that, Stell.”

“Sometimes I got myself convinced that I was in the church with her, and somehow it was me. Me that done it.”

“You weren't. . .you weren't even close.”

“I don't know. I guess I was afraid to even love her. Had myself convinced she didn't even like me. To make it easier, I suppose.”

“She loved you, Stell. I knows it.”

“How do you know?”

Amos let the cigarette drop, saw it bounce, then die. “Because I used to watch her, that's how. Watch her watching you. She'd always be staring at you when you were doing something with a needle, or trying to knead bread with those skinny little arms. Sewing up the arse of Father's trousers. She'd watch you. And. . .”

“And what, Amos?”

“That was the only time she ever really looked content. Happy. She looked happy when she was watching you.”

Stella rubbed her eyes, reddening them with the itchy wool. She yawned and shuddered. “I'm tired, Amos.”

Amos moved the lantern back, illuminating the darkness behind them. “I knows,” he said and shimmied out of his coat. “Lean here, maid. You can rest against me.”

She laid her cheek against his shoulder, and he tucked his coat over her knees. “Thank you, Amos.” Red mittens laid gently on his forearm, and he patted her hands. When he heard her breathing regulate into soft shallow puffs, he let his face fall, rest on her head. He could smell the salt air trapped in her hair, no sweeter scent in the entire world. Barely audible, he said, “I love you, Stella. I hope you knows you're my star too.”

Amos never slept. He waited for morning, barely blinking, staring until he could distinguish the sea from the sky. Dead cold had stiffened him, numbed his fingers and neck. Beneath woolen clothes, his damp skin had shrunk against his body, and he felt smaller, wished he had just one more day to grow back to his regular size. But when the edge of the sky flushed pink, urged out the grey night, he understood his time was up. He nudged Stella, told her they needed to go home.

They traipsed over the beach and climbed the slippery hills that led to the pathway between the Jenkins' and Smith's farms. Stella tripped, clutched handfuls of long lifeless grass to pull herself up. And it held tight, saved her the fall.

As he watched her yank at that grass, Amos thought about the many elements of the earth, and decided they were female. The sea, the sky, the soil, the plants. All generous. So willing. And even though he viewed himself as being a decent man, he knew in the months ahead he was going to crawl over the earth and violate her. Abuse her nature. He thought of the war as noble havoc, played out upon the surface of a beautiful woman. Who really owned her anyway?

They reached home, and Amos entered to retrieve his things. His father was seated in the rocker, face so puffed with sadness, it pained Amos to look at him. But he went, stood before his father, took his hand and shook it firmly.

He mumbled something, but Amos never understood. Sliding his hand out from the sandpaper grip, Amos said, “I'll be home before you knows it, Dad. After the war is done.”

“That you will,” his father replied.

Their eyes met briefly, and with that gaze, Amos asked his father one hundred questions, and every one was answered. And Amos was able to see the debilitating depth of his father's emotion, a continual pelting rain. Though he wanted to, Amos was unable to fathom a response, and so he stretched, tried to straighten his back. He nodded at his father, shook his hand once more, and walked out the door.

Stella waited at the front gate, leaning over the sharp pickets, eyes droopy. Gales peeled off the sea, snapped her scarf, and she covered her ears with her mittens.

Amos stopped when he reached her, said, “Do you want to see something?”