Down River Page 4

  He was perfect.

  But my father refused the shot. He lowered his rifle and I saw that tears brimmed in his eyes. He whispered to me that something had changed. He couldn’t do it. A white deer is a sign, he said, and I knew that he was talking about my mother. Yet, the animal hung in my sights, too. I bit down hard, let out half a breath, and I felt my father’s eyes. He shook his head once, mouthed the word, No.

  I took the shot.

  And missed.

  My father lifted the rifle from my hands and put an arm over my shoulder. He squeezed hard and we sat like that for a long time. He thought that I’d chosen to miss, that in the last second I, too, had come to believe that life was more precious somehow, that my mother’s death had had this effect on both of us.

  But that wasn’t it. Not even close.

  I wanted to hurt that deer. I wanted it so badly my hands shook.

  That’s what ruined the shot.

  I looked again at the photograph. On the day it was taken, I was nine years old, my mother fresh in the ground. The old man thought we’d rounded the corner, that that day in the woods had been our first step, a sign of healing. But I knew nothing of signs or forgiveness. I barely knew who I was.

  I put the photo back on the shelf, squared it just so. He thought that day was our new beginning, and kept the photo all these years, never guessing that it was a great, giant lie.

  I’d thought that I was ready to come home, but now I was no longer sure. My father was not here. There was nothing for me here. Yet, as I turned, I saw the page on his desk, fine stationery next to an expensive burgundy pen my mother had once given him. “Dear Adam,” it read. Then nothing else. Emptiness. How long had he stared at that blank paper, I wondered, and what would he have said, had the words actually come?

  I left the room as I’d found it, wandered back into the main part of the house. New art adorned the walls, including a portrait of my adopted sister. She was eighteen the last time I’d seen her, a fragile young woman who’d sat every day in the courtroom, yet had been unable to meet my eyes. She was my sister, and we’d not spoken since the day I left, but I didn’t hold that against her. It was as much my fault as hers. More, really.

  She’d be twenty-three now, a mature woman, and I looked again at her portrait: the easy smile, the confidence. It could happen, I thought. Maybe.

  The picture of Miriam turned me to thoughts of Jamie, her twin brother. In my absence, responsibility for the crews would have fallen to him. I went to the big staircase and yelled his name. I heard footsteps and a muffled voice. Then, stocking feet at the top of the stairs, followed by jeans grimed at the cuff, and an impossibly muscular torso beneath pale, thin hair spiked with some kind of gel. Jamie’s face had filled out, lost the angles of youth, but the eyes had not changed, and they crinkled at the corners when they settled on me.

  “I do not freakin’ believe it,” he said. His voice was as big as the rest of him. “Jesus, Adam, when did you get here?” He came down the stairs, stopped and looked at me. He stood six four, and had me by forty pounds, all of it muscle. The last time I’d seen him he’d been my size.

  “Damn, Jamie. When did you get huge?”

  He curled his arms and studied the muscles with obvious pride. “Gotta have the guns, baby. You know how it is. But look at you. You haven’t changed at all.” He gestured at my face. “Somebody kicked your ass, I see, but other than that you could have walked out of here yesterday.”

  I fingered the stitches.

  “Is that local?” he asked.

  “Zebulon Faith.”

  “That old bastard?”

  “And two of his boys.”

  He nodded, eyelids drooping. “Wish I’d been there.”

  “Next time,” I said.

  “Hey, does Dad know you’re back?”

  “He’s heard. We haven’t spoken yet.”

  “Unreal.”

  I held out my hand. “Good to see you, Jamie.”

  His hand swallowed mine. “Fuck that,” he said, and pulled me into a bear hug that was ninety percent painful backslapping.

  “Hey, you want a beer?” He gestured toward the kitchen.

  “You have the time?”

  “What’s the point of being the boss if you can’t sit in the shade and drink a beer with your brother? Am I right?”

  I thought about keeping my mouth shut, but I could still see the migrants, sweating in the sun-scorched fields. “Someone should be with the crews.”

  “I’ve only been gone an hour. The crews are fine.”

  “They’re your responsibility—”

  Jamie dropped a hand on my shoulder. “Adam, you know that I’m happy to see you, right? But I’ve been out from under your shadow for a long time. You did a good job when you were here. No one would deny that. But I manage the daily operations now. You would be wrong to show up all of a sudden and expect everybody to bow down to you. This is my deal. Don’t tell me how to run it.” He squeezed my shoulder with steel fingers. They found the bruises and burrowed in. “That would be a problem for us, Adam. I don’t want there to be a problem for us.”

  “Okay, Jamie. I get your point.”

  “Good,” he said. “That’s just fine.” He turned for the kitchen and I followed him. “What kind of beer do you like? I’ve got all different kinds.”

  “Whatever,” I said. “You pick.” He opened the refrigerator. “Where is everybody?” I asked.

  “Dad’s in Winston for something. Mom and Miriam have been in Colorado. I think that they were supposed to fly in yesterday and spend the night in Charlotte.” He smiled and nudged me. “A couple of squaws off shopping. They’ll probably be home late.”

  “Colorado?”

  “Yeah, for a couple of weeks. Mom took Miriam to some fat farm out there. Costs a fortune, but hey, not my call, you know.” He turned with two beers in his hands.

  “Miriam has never been overweight,” I said.

  Jamie shrugged. “A health spa, then. Mud baths and eel grass. I don’t know. This is a Belgian one, some kind of lager, I think. And this is an English stout. Which one?”

  “The lager.”

  He opened it and handed it to me. Took a pull on his own. “The porch?” he asked.

  “Yeah. The porch.”

  He went through the door first, and when I emerged into the heat behind him, I found him leaning against our father’s post with a proprietary air. A knowing glint appeared in his eyes, and his smile thinned into a statement.

  “Cheers,” he said.

  “Sure, Jamie. Cheers.”

  The bottles clinked, and we drank our beer in the still and heavy air. “Cops know you’re back?” Jamie asked.

  “They know.”

  “Jesus.”

  “Screw ’em,” I said.

  At one point, Jamie raised his arm, made a muscle and pointed at his bicep.

  “Twenty-three inches,” he said.

  “Nice,” I told him.

  “Guns, baby.”

  Rivers find the low ground—it is what they are made to do—and looking over the one that defined our border I thought that maybe the talent had rubbed off on my brother. He talked about money he’d spent and about the girls he’d laid. He counted them up for me, a slew of them. Our conversation did not venture beyond that until he asked about the reason for my return. The question came at the end of his second beer, and he slipped it in like it meant nothing. But his eyes couldn’t lie. It was all he cared about.

  Was I back for good?

  I told him the truth as I knew it: doubtful.

  To his credit, he covered his relief well. “Are you sticking around for dinner?” he asked, draining the beer.

  “Do you think that I should?”

  He scratched at his thinning hair. “It might be easier with just Dad here. I think he’ll forgive you for what happened, but Mom won’t be happy. There’s no lie in that.”

  “I’m not here to ask for forgiveness.”

  “Dam
n, Adam, let’s not start this up again. Dad had to choose a side. He could believe you or he could believe Mom, but he couldn’t believe both of you.”

  “This is still my family, Jamie, even after all that’s happened. She can’t very well tell me to stay away.”

  Jamie’s eyes grew suddenly sympathetic. “She’s scared of you, Adam.”

  “This is my home.” The words sounded hollow. “I was acquitted.”

  Jamie rolled massive shoulders. “Your call, bro. It’ll be interesting either way. I’m just glad to have a front-row seat.”

  His smile was patently false; but he was trying. “You’re such an ass, Jamie.”

  “Don’t hate me ’cause I’m beautiful.”

  “Tomorrow night, then. May as well do it all at once.” But that was only part of it. I was feeling the pain, a profound ache that still had room to grow. I thought of Robin’s dark bedroom, and then of my father and the note he had been unable to complete. The time would be good for everyone.

  “So, how’s Dad?’ I asked.

  “Ah, he’s bulletproof. You know how he is.”

  “Not anymore,” I said, but Jamie ignored me. “I’m going to walk down to the river, then I’ll be out of here. Tell Dad that I’m sorry I missed him.”

  “Say hello to Grace,” he said.

  “She’s down there?”

  “Every day. Same time.”

  I’d thought a lot about Grace, but was less sure of how to approach her than anyone else. She was two years old when she came to live with Dolf, still a child when I’d left, too young for any kind of explanation. For thirteen years I’d been a large part of her world, and leaving her alone is what felt most like a betrayal. All of my letters had come back unopened. Eventually, I’d stopped sending them.

  “How is she?” I asked, trying not to show how much the answer mattered.

  Jamie shook his head. “She’s a wild Indian, no mistake, but she always has been. She’s not going to college, looks like. She’s working odd jobs, hanging around the farm, living off the fat of the land.”

  “Is she happy?”

  “She should be. She’s the hottest thing in three counties.”

  “Is that right?” I asked.

  “Hell, I’d fuck her.” He winked at me, not seeing how close he was to a beating. I told myself that he meant nothing by it. He was just being a smart-ass. He’d forgotten how much I loved Grace. How protective of her I’d always been.

  He wasn’t trying to start something.

  “Good to see you, Jamie.” I dropped a hand on the hard lump of his shoulder. “I’ve missed you.”

  He folded his massive frame into the pickup truck. “Tomorrow night,” he said, and jolted off toward the fields. From the porch I saw his arm appear as he draped it through the window. Then he tossed a wave, and I knew that he was watching me in the rearview mirror. I stepped onto the lawn and watched until he was gone. Then I turned down the hill.

  Grace and I had been close. Maybe it was that day on the riverbank, when I’d held her, wailing, as my father hammered Dolf into the dirt for letting her wander off. Or the long walk back to the house, as my words finally calmed her. Maybe it was the smile she’d given me, or the desperate grip around my neck when I’d tried to put her down. Whatever the case, we’d bonded; and I’d watched with pride as she took the farm by storm. It was as if that plunge in the river had marked her, for she was fearless. She could swim the river by age five, ride bareback by seven. At ten, she could handle my father’s horse, a big, nasty brute that scared everyone but the old man. I taught her how to shoot and how to fish. She’d ride the tractor with me, beg to drive one of the farm trucks, then squeal with laughter when I let her. She was wild by nature, and often returned from school with blood on her cheek and tales of some boy who’d made her angry.

  In many ways, I’d missed her the most.

  I followed the narrow trail to the river and heard the music long before I got there. She was listening to Elvis Costello.

  The dock was thirty feet long, a finger bone stroking the river in the middle of its slow bend to the south. She was at the end of it, a lean brown figure in the smallest white bikini I’d ever seen. She sat on the side of the dock, holding, with her foot, the edge of a dark blue canoe and speaking to the woman who sat in it. I stopped under a tree, hesitant about intruding.

  The woman had white hair, a heart-shaped face, and lean arms. She looked very tan in a shirt the color of daffodils. I watched as she patted Grace’s hand and said something I could not hear. Then she gave a small wave and Grace pushed with her foot, skimming the canoe out into the river. The woman dipped a paddle and held the bow upstream. She said last words to the younger woman, then looked up and saw me. She stopped paddling and the current bore her down. She stared hard, then nodded once, and it was like I’d seen a ghost.

  She drove the canoe upstream, and Grace lay down on the hard, white wood. The moment held such brightness, and I watched the woman until the curve in the river stole her away. Then I walked onto the dock, my feet loud on the wood. She did not move when she spoke.

  “Go away, Jamie. I will not swim with you. I will not date you. I will not sleep with you under any circumstances. If you want to stare at me, go back to your telescope on the third floor.”

  “It’s not Jamie,” I said.

  She rolled onto her side, slid tinted glasses down her nose, and showed me her eyes. They were blue and sharp.

  “Hello, Grace.”

  She declined to smile, and lifted the glasses to hide her eyes. She rolled onto her stomach, reached for the radio, and turned it down. Her chin settled on the back of her folded hands, and she looked out over the water.

  “Am I supposed to jump up and throw my arms around you?” she asked.

  “No one else has.”

  “I won’t feel sorry for you.”

  “You never answered my letters.”

  “To hell with your letters, Adam. You were all I had and you left. That’s where the story ends.”

  “I’m sorry, Grace. If it means anything, leaving you alone broke my heart.”

  “Go away, Adam.”

  “I’m here now.”

  Her voice spiked. “Who else cared about me? Not your stepmother. Not Miriam and not Jamie. Not until I had tits. Just a couple of busy old men that knew nothing about raising young girls. The whole world was messed up after you left, and you left me alone to deal with it. All of it. A world of shit. Keep your letters.”

  Her words were killing me. “I was tried for murder. My own father kicked me out. I couldn’t stay here.”

  “Whatever.”

  “Grace—”

  “Put some lotion on my back, Adam.”

  “I don’t—”

  “Just do it.”

  I knelt on the wood beside her. The lotion was hot out of the bottle, cooked in the sun and smelling of bananas. Grace was beneath me, a stretch of hard, brown body that I could not relate to. I hesitated, and she reached behind herself and untied the top of her bikini. The straps fell away and for an instant, before she lay back down, one of her breasts hung in my vision. Then she was flat on the wood, and I knelt unmoving, completely undone. It was her manner, the sudden woman of her, and the certain knowledge that the Grace I’d known was lost forever.

  “Don’t take all day,” she said.

  I put the lotion on her back but did a bad job of it. I couldn’t look at the soft curves of her, the long legs slightly parted. So I looked over the river as well, and if we saw the same thing we could not have known. There were no words for that moment.

  I’d barely finished when she said, “I’m going for a swim.” She retied her top and stood, the smooth plane of her stomach inches from my face. “Don’t go away,” she said, then turned and split the water in one fluid motion. I stood and watched the sun flash off of her arms as she stroked hard against the current. She went out fifty feet, then turned, and swam back. She cut through the river like she belonged in it, and I
thought of the day she’d first went in, how the water had opened up and taken her down.

  The river ran off of her as she climbed up the ladder. The weight of water pulled her hair back, and for a moment I saw something fierce in her naked features. But then the glasses went back on, and I stood mutely as she lay back down and let the sun begin to bake her dry.

  “Should I even ask how long you plan to stay?” she said.

  I sat next to her. “As long as it takes. A couple of days.”

  “Do you have any plans?”

  “One or two things,” I said. “Seeing friends. Seeing family.”

  She laughed an unforgiving laugh. “Don’t count on a whole lot of this. I have a life, you know. Things I won’t drop just because you decide to show up unannounced.” Then, without skipping a beat, she asked me, “Do you smoke?” She reached into the pile of clothes next to her—cutoffs, red T-shirt, flip-flops—and came out with a small plastic bag. She pulled out a joint and a lighter.

  “Not since college,” I said.

  She lit the joint, sucked in a lungful. “Well, I smoke,” she said tightly. She extended the joint toward me, but I shook my head. She took another drag, and the smoke moved out over the water.

  “Do you have a wife?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “A girlfriend?”

  “No.”

  “What about Robin Alexander?”

  “Not for a long time.”

  She took one more drag, stubbed the joint out, and dropped the charred end back into the plastic bag. Her words were soft around the edges.

  “I’ve got boyfriends,” she said.

  “That’s good.”

  “Lots of boyfriends. I date one and then I date another.” I didn’t know what to say. She sat up, facing me. “Don’t you care?” she asked.

  “Of course I care, but it’s none of my business.”

  Then she was on her feet.

  “It is your business,” she said. “If not yours, then whose?” She stepped closer, stopped an inch away. Powerful emotions emanated from her, but they were complex. I didn’t know what to say, so I said the only thing that I could.