Vandal Love (15 page)

The next day her property was crowded. She sold it all: the Jaguar, horses, every relic and piece of electronics. She let locals strip the house of furniture and counters, pine cabinets and oak flooring. All that week she watched the fences go, the stables, the entire building given up for eight hundred dollars, dismantled and removed. She
hired an investigator to find out who her mother was and gave him copies of Jude’s cards. She was almost pleased at the extravagant cost, as if being married had had a purpose after all. She told him she would be out of town and would contact him. Bart had never called. She slept in the only room that she’d left intact. She kept some clothes and books and Jude’s ashes as well as an old Polaroid camera. She imagined a trip to Québec with Bart, spreading the ashes, starting her life, not over but at last.

The evening before she left, she filled trash bags with what remained of Levon’s possessions, his suits, collector’s editions on UFOs and geometric studies of crop circles. The window glass flashed with the electric blooms of a far-off storm. Finished, she undressed and scrubbed her face with her damp shirt. Her belly was large, and she felt its hardness as she pulled a sweater on. She went out and carried the bags down the pasture to the stone wall. The flowing pools held rusty nails, from the mill, she supposed. Trip after trip she threw in books and documents until the stream was a roiling mud of paper and old clothes. She stood in the chill silent dark, not knowing what to expect or whether to be afraid. She didn’t need proof, not of God nor gods nor evil.

Isa arrived two days before Christmas. She stayed in a hotel in Lewiston and told the clerk she was looking for an old friend. He suggested she ask at a few popular bars, and though she was doubtful, everyone at the first place knew Bart. When she’d entered, the talk had fallen to an uncomfortable silence. It was a sparse afternoon crowd, mostly older men, but between them they were able to tell her exactly where he lived. She wasn’t sure if the silence had been because of her belly or her height. She
considered that if she wasn’t pregnant they might have told her more.

The apartment was on the edge of town, one of two above an abandoned convenience store. December had been temperate, warm enough for her to wait on the stairs. She’d had no reason to be certain Bart would be in Lewiston, but she hadn’t been able to imagine where else he might have gone. And if he wasn’t here, she’d told herself, or if she couldn’t find him, there would be his family, and even then she could simply continue north.

He arrived in the afternoon, driving a rusted-out Ford Bronco with new tires. His clothes were muddy, and he walked halfway to the stairs before he saw her. Already she could smell the alcohol. He simply stopped.

You’re working, she said. For the first time she truly grasped how long it had been. His face looked heavier, older, his eyes bloodshot.

How did you … get here?

I asked at the bar.

He hesitated. I thought it might be dangerous to call.

She shrugged. Maybe. Anyway, I’m here.

He looked at her, then up at the apartment. I can show you where I live.

She was relieved not to have to speak. She watched his hunched back as he climbed the stairs. The ceilings were low for them. There was a mattress on the floor, a table with two chairs. The fluted dish of the ceiling light had filled with dead flies, and the only wall decoration was a dusty dead clock in a laminated slice of wood.
Dirty boot prints made the yellow rug look strangely like leopard skin.

He stared past her and shifted from foot to foot, the floor creaking like a ship at sea.

Were you still thinking of me? she asked.

Yeah. I’ve been working. I’ve just been staying here and mostly working. The money got stolen. I … I bought the truck and what was left of the money got stolen here. But I have a job.

She was silent. That’s okay. I have money, too.

With the deliberate motions she’d become used to, she sat. She felt oddly detached, like a monk. I’m tired, she said, and then, after a moment, when he didn’t speak, I’m pregnant. I think it’s been almost eight months.

Later, to ease the tension, she asked that he show her the town. The calm between them felt like a lull. Clouds rafted against a sky the colour of aluminum. They walked aimlessly. She’d brought her Polaroid but felt ridiculous now for having done so. She noticed that people, usually men, paused to stare.

How’s your family? she asked.

He didn’t respond immediately. I’ve been working with my cousin Zy. He operates and repairs log skidders. He was doing helicopter repair for the army in Korea and just came home last year. He’s the one who got me my job.

What do you do?

Just stuff for the logging company. I’m working my way up.

She was about to ask if he’d seen his grandparents, but he pointed out the railroad station.

The French-Canadians all arrived through here. I remember … my grandmother told me that they came after a spur was built to the Portland–Montreal line. All this area from here to the river was called Little Canada, I think.

She glanced at a sign: Lisbon Street.

He had a pained look on his face. You said you have money?

Enough … to get by. She’d intended to say, For us. To say, To have the child and get started. She wondered if he would continue working if she were to give him what she had.

We should buy groceries for dinner, she told him. To celebrate.

He’d stopped and looked away. He turned back. Let me take a picture of you, he said.

She stood by a lamppost. She tried to look calmly at the camera. The sky was almost dark. He snapped the picture.

They waited for the photo to develop, shoulder to shoulder in the last flare of light.

I was wondering, he said. Was your … was he found?

Levon?

Did they find him?

He wasn’t really my husband, she said. Just legally. And no, he wasn’t found.

He hitched his thumbs. The photo’s probably ready. Why don’t you peel it?

She did and turned to show him.

It’s perfect, he said. It’s really good.

They went home without groceries. She was suddenly too tired. This had been happening more and more, bouts of exhaustion that had her asleep almost before she could lie down. She took off her shoes, the floorboards cold from the abandoned convenience store below. She stretched on the bed and thought of those first days when she and Bart had lain together in the dark stables. She wanted to speak now like they had. Her throat hurt.

What do you think we should do? he asked.

Do? she repeated. We need to worry about simple things.

He sat next to her.

Come here, she told him. Feel it.

It was as if she’d taken a stranger’s hand. She held it to her. There had been entire days she’d refused to acknowledge this. She closed her eyes, then forced herself to open them and look at him. He was staring at his hand.

When I was boy, he said, I used to hate my hands. They were so hairy. I remember one of my teachers said that hands were a symbol of human beauty or humanity or something.

Isa let her eyes close. Drifting, she could sense the weight of his hand, its heat like that of a sleeping creature. Later, she realized that the pressure was gone. She heard the creaking floor and gazed from the bedroom through the dim living room into the kitchen. Bart’s head
almost touched the ceiling. Lamplight bruised the declivities in his haggard and fattened face. Neither spoke. He was holding a bottle, now reaching for the counter like an old man.

In the morning he was gone. She couldn’t recall him returning to bed. Vague sunlight came through the windows. She put on her coat and sat on the stairs. Across the building a boy came out. He checked the thermometer, then wrote in a journal.

What are you doing? she asked.

I’m keeping a record of temperatures, he said matter-of-factly. I send them to my cousin in Mexico City, and she sends me the temperatures there. It’s sunny now, but the radio says it’s going to snow today, so I’m checking every hour.

Oh. She tried to smile. For the first time she considered what her child might be like.

Are you Bart’s wife?

Um, yes.

I’m Miguel. Bart told me he’s going to be a writer someday. It’s a coincidence because I’m a writer too. But I write about the future.

The future? she repeated, considering Bart as a writer, that he might see himself this way.

Yes, mostly about intergalactic travel. I’m working on a book about a world where body parts are replaced and nobody dies. This world as we know it, he added, will soon be obsolete.

Obsolete?

He looked at her sharply, perhaps annoyed that she kept repeating.

Exactly. Everything we do won’t matter anymore. We’ll stop aging, and work will be done by robots. People will get to enjoy their lives forever.

Like children.

In a way, he agreed. But better.

Later, still waiting for Bart, Isa considered this future. Would she sacrifice a little of herself for certainty: nobody forgotten, a bar code on her arm, a number on one of a million identical doors?

She slept through the morning, then began cleaning. Work clothes were piled in the closet, the mud on them dried to a fine dust. Empty whisky bottles cluttered the space beneath the sink. She thought of Jude. The weather had turned, and snowflakes struck the glass. Traffic sounded hushed. She watched the wet halos of car lights. She didn’t want to run away again.

She went into the bathroom and pulled back her hair. She held her hands to her belly. Her body had changed so much. The child moved often.

She found a phonebook in the kitchen. When Bart had first told his stories, she’d made a mental note of his mother’s name. There were quite a few Beaulieus, but on her third call an elderly man said that Amy Beaulieu had been his niece, and what was the research about?

Just a genealogy, she told him, and soon she knew which of the remaining numbers was Bart’s grandmother.
The listing read Bill and Evelyn Beaulieu, but he told her the grandfather had passed on. The wife lived alone. Isa let him finish. She thanked him and wrote down the address.

She put on her jacket and took her purse.

Snow fell steadily out of a dark sky. A few Christmas wreaths shone on lampposts.

She started the car and turned on the defrost. Sitting in the cold she felt a pulse deep inside her. Snow had gathered around the tires, but after a few attempts she was able to back out.

The house wasn’t far. She rang the doorbell and stood, pulling at her jacket. She’d been afraid to call and lose momentum. A stocky man with a moustache answered.

Yes? he said.

Hello, I’m looking for Evelyn Beaulieu.

Right. She’s here.

Who is it? a woman’s voice called. She came to the top of the stairs inside. Her cheeks had spots the same iron colour as her hair. She took off her glasses and held them a bit in front of her face.

Can I help you?

Isa touched her jacket over her belly. She wondered how she looked. I’m sorry to come by so late. I’m your grandson’s wife.

Which one?

Bart, she said.

Evelyn mouthed his name. Bart? she repeated. He’s around?

He lives nearby.

Come in. Come in anyway. I don’t know why we’re making you stand in the cold.

Evelyn put water for tea in the microwave, then sat. Isa told her where Bart was working, that they’d been living in Virginia and had moved to be closer to the family.

Evelyn furrowed her brow slightly. I lost track of him a long time ago.

I know. But he’s here now. Isa tried to smile.

Oh. I see. Well, apparently he had a very bad time growing up. He wasn’t one of the lucky ones.

He’ll get settled.

Yes, Evelyn agreed.

They sat. Knit doilies lay on the coffee table and mantels, under the telephone. Framed photographs showed brides and heavyset grooms in tuxedos sitting sideways and smiling into the camera. The man hadn’t spoken. He shifted in his chair and pursed his lips.

I was hoping to know more about the family, Isa told them.

Well, Evelyn said, a few of us were together today. We just came back. This is Mike. He drove me. He and Bart would be cousins, I think. She lifted her hands as if to shrug and put them back on the armrests. It was never a very close family. And the children who do stay around are parents, grandparents some of them, and they have their own to deal with. But Bart’s mother never had much to do with us. I think I saw him only two or three times.

Isa glanced at the photos. She tried to connect the youths with the men, the girls with mothers.

Do you have any pictures of Bart?

Evelyn hesitated. No, she said. No, I don’t think so. There was no reason I would.

Isa struggled to breathe. She felt herself being looked at. I’m pregnant, she said.

Evelyn lifted her eyebrows with a sudden motion, like the wings of a bird. I can see that. Will it be a boy or a girl?

I don’t know, Isa said. She wasn’t sure why she’d come. She’d wanted some way to help hold her and Bart in place. I don’t want to keep you, she told them. In the kitchen the microwave binged loudly. She tried to calm her breath.

I need to go.

That’s okay, Evelyn said. It’s been nice meeting you. If I’d known you were in town, we would have invited you …

Thank you.

Evelyn stood and sat again.

I’ll clean the snow off your car, Mike offered.

Isa followed him into the drably suburban street. A wind had blown up, ice crystals tinkling on the windshield.

I’m sorry, he told her. He kept his hands in his pockets. A few of us knew Bart was around, but we had no idea … He lifted his chin … about you.

It’s okay.

When I was young, it was like we got used to seeing Bart come and go. He couldn’t stay still. He was always a nice guy. Nice to me anyway.

He likes to travel.

Yeah, he said. He cleaned off what little snow had gathered on her windshield. There wasn’t enough to
warrant this. He couldn’t quite look at her. Listen, he said, I know things probably aren’t okay if you’re here alone. I … I’ve heard a few times what Bart’s been up to, but no one’s mentioned you. If you need help, my wife and I have an extra room. We’ll do what we can. There’s still some family. We’re not very close, but we all help out.