A Peculiar Grace (21 page)

They picked grapes, cold in the morning dew and sweating in the afternoon sun, working fast as they could down the rows to get ahead of their coworkers so they could snort spoons which let them get even further ahead so they could smoke one of the joints Emily rolled each morning and brought in an old Bugler cigarette tin, then do another spoon to gain their lost ground. When the grapes slowed they picked apples and then went back to the vineyards for the last of the wine grapes, those left on the vine until the last possible handful of days. It was briefly a satisfying time—the weather high autumn, the sky filled
with geese in a way he’d only seen flecks of in Vermont and rolling fleets of autumn clouds, scurrying shadows here and then gone over them and while the weather held it seemed they were within the vestige of a waking dream. Emily didn’t really like coke which didn’t stop her from taking it when offered and while it was wonderful in bed for both of them afterward it left her quiet and withdrawn. Hewitt would stretch on the bed under the covers of old quilts and sleeping bags and watch her curled in a blanket in one of the chairs, sometimes reading but often as not gazing at the blank black window and more than once he thought of the house in Lympus and how she’d fit there and wondering why he just didn’t ask her to go there with him now—even with winter coming on he could roof and outfit the forge in a few short weeks and have it up and running by the first of the year. But he didn’t, partly because he was having too much fun most of the time.

Partly because he feared she’d say No.

As the weather turned cold she returned to her waitress job and Hewitt went back to work in the vineyards, following the trimmers to pull the cut vines, the brush, the long new growth from their twisted lives on the wires stretched taut. On cold days the brush would come free with a whip-crack and snap against his cheek, hard enough to bring tears to his eyes. More than once he quit and walked off the job only to return to a near empty Ark where everyone now except Willie was out at day jobs and it was ever more clear Willie didn’t really like Hewitt. At the time Hewitt thought this was jealousy over Emily; years later he figured out Willie already knew he was a short-timer. And now it was Emily who brought home the greater share of groceries and the big house was cold except for the kitchen and the band room that had a large gas heater. Old coal grates were in all the bedrooms but the chimneys were bad and they couldn’t be used. Portable kerosene heaters were used although if one was left on during the day in a feeble attempt to maintain warmth in the room, the occupant would return to find it shut down. This Hewitt understood—Willie’s fear of fire—but he kept out of those long-running disputes. Evenings they’d
drink homemade wine and smoke dope and sometimes the band would play but as often sit huddled in the big room and listen to records or reel-to-reel bootlegs of Dylan or Janis or the Dead. All of which more or less depressed Hewitt—it was warmer somewhere else and he’d be slumped in the broken sofa, the heater flickering queer blue and orange reflections on the ceiling when he’d realize Emily was watching him. Often when he’d look, she’d be looking away.

It wasn’t all bad. Days off they’d take long walks through the snow-skimmed woods hand in hand or chase each other, laughing until one or the other would fall to the ground and then be tackled gently. Evenings they’d drive into town and drink Irish coffees for the heat and flush it gave them and sit outside later in the running car kissing each other as if for the first time. Or out with the band when they gigged and those were wonderful nights because whatever else was working or not between them once dancing they were again as smoothly connected as if they’d been born that way. And always love, even after the fights over who ate the last Oreos or forgot to buy bread, even the argument when she threw a cheap aluminum pot at him and dented the pot and the old plaster where it hit and Willie had stood up, about to speak when Emily said, “Oh fuck off Willie,” and chased Hewitt upstairs to grapple on the bed and leave the clamps of her toothmarks on his upper arms, that would throb the next day in the cold lowering sunlight, the marks of her love upon him, the idea that she would consume him, eat him if she could. This physical pain was nothing compared to how he felt looking at her, how he felt away from her only a few hours and how she felt also, he knew. So at Thanksgiving which proved to be a wonderful time, a warmish spell brought rain the night before and then a pale sun and warmth on the day itself, a turkey stuffed with mushrooms and hash brownies for dessert, the house filled with people. That evening in the kitchen after he’d happily volunteered himself and Emily to clean up while the band was setting up, leaning back against the sink and holding her, their hands running up and down each other, her eyes lit and tender and teasing, the love flowing
from her suddenly overwhelmed him and he went to his knees, his arms around her and his head pressed to her stomach, almost crying, just holding on to what he knew was his very life and in those moments before he’d slid down saw she knew it too. Later that night as she slept beside him and the music had long died away except the unknown melodies running through his head he resolved that at Christmastime, that unspoken quiet anniversary of sorts, he’d tell her it was time to go, time for them to go back together to Vermont and by spring the forge would be running and she could do what she wanted; he was thinking UVM for premed and then wherever she needed or wanted for medical school. Dartmouth, for that matter, as much as he disliked it had gone coed a few years before and there was a good program there. Or Massachusetts. Far more—anything she wanted.

Five days later the weather turned and he’d come home early with two red welts across his cheeks from the snapping grape canes and saw her car inexplicably in the driveway and his first thought was if she’d quit her job they’d shower and change and go out for a night on the town, a good meal and Irish coffee and then cruise for the inevitable party. He walked into the kitchen peeling off his quilt-lined Carhartt overalls when he glanced up to see Ken, quiet Ken with his thick mustache and gentle drooping cornflower eyes looking at Hewitt as if Ken wanted nothing but to be anywhere, anywhere on the planet than where he was right then and the look explained nothing and everything and Hewitt said, “Where’s Emily?”

Ken sat down at the table and began to roll a Drum cigarette. He could roll a joint fast as the thought but he labored over the cigarette. Finally he looked up at Hewitt and gently rumbled, “Talking to Max. I think you should leave her alone just now man.”

Of all of them Ken was the one he was most comfortable with. Briefly it flashed that it was no accident Ken was alone in the house when Hewitt arrived. He said, “Hey, man. That’s cool. That’s cool.”

Ken struck a farmer’s match off his thumbnail and blew smoke and said, “Just hang loose, man.”

And then Hewitt was very much not hanging loose. “What do you mean? What’s she talking to Max about, Ken? What’s going on?”

Ken nodded. “They’re in a powwow of sorts.”

“A powwow? You mean they’re holed up in his teepee? Shit, man. Are they out there
fucking
?”

Ken looked at him. “No man. I would say they are not doing that.”

“Then what?”

“Hewitt. Why don’t you sit down and cool out? They’re talking is all. She came in around noon and wanted to talk to him. That’s all.”

Hewitt was out the door in his socks and jeans and two layers of shirts. He walked through the crisp crusty snow and stood twenty feet from the teepee with its thin vent of smoke, silent, listening but hearing nothing. He tipped his head back and the first small dense flakes of new snow came out of the trees and on to his face, into his mouth as he opened it wide and cried her name.

Maybe an hour later he was tramping a tight circle around her where she stood with her arms wrapped around the brown and white Peruvian sweater he’d given her last Christmas, her hair wet from the snow and turning the gold of honey, Emily silent as she’d been for some time and Hewitt unable to slow or stop himself. “Why didn’t you talk to me? What makes you think you couldn’t talk to me? What have I done that you couldn’t talk to me? Emily what the fuck do you mean? I don’t care if that’s what you really want. I mean I do care but why exclude me? If you want to go on to school that’s fine. I mean that is just absolutely fucking fine with me but what about us what about you and me Emily I mean this decision clearly says something about you and me or am I just plain goddamn wrong? You’re sick of this life? So am I. Can you do more than just tell me you’re going to Cornell in January and that’s all? How the fuck can that be all Emily? Don’t do this to me I can’t stand it, I’m falling apart here why the fuck won’t you talk to me? Emily Christ I can do anything with you, I’ll do anything with you, I’ll let you do anything you want just don’t
goddamn Emily are you even listening to me? I love you, answer me damn it do you love me or not? Stop standing there like a fucking stone and talk to me Emily do you love me or has this been all a joke is that what it is, was I just someone to fill a little time, to kill a little time goddamn goddamn goddamn Emily fucking answer me!”

AND WITHOUT THE
least idea he was about to do so or even doing it as he did he reached out and swatted her hard across the top of her head with the flat of his hand

“A
SSHOLE
!”
SHE SCREAMED
and broke and ran for the house

H
EWITT STANDING STARING
after her not believing what he’d done and knowing he’d done it stood watching the door shut behind her and seeing then what he’d known all along—the line of faces pressed against the lit kitchen windows that had seen and most certainly heard it all and the snow came down

A
LL
I
WANTED
he thought Was for her to say something, To let me know she was hearing and feeling some if not everything of what I was saying and feeling

A
SSHOLE SHE’D SAID
and he stood in the snow a long time as it grew dark and stared at the house asshole

W
HEN HE FINALLY
walked up to the house and into the kitchen Max and Willie and Ken waited. They were drinking dark Beck’s and passing a joint. In the middle of the floor was all his stuff. Backpack packed. He noticed that.

He said, “Where’s Emily?”

Ken said, “She doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“I’d like to talk to her.”

Willie said, “You already did. Now get your shit and go.”

“I want to talk to her.”

Max stepped forward. He said, “I’ll carry your stuff to your car. You can follow me or wait right here and then I’ll carry you to your car.”

Hewitt was shaking, cold, angry, frightened, misunderstood. He said, “Come, on guys. I just need to talk to her.”

Ken said, “Hit a woman.”

Willie said, “You got about a minute. Then Max and I are going to take you apart and you won’t ever fit back together.”

Hewitt said, “Come on and do it then.”

There was a pause. Then Ken said, “Don’t make it worse, Hewitt. Don’t make it worse.”

H
E SAT IN
the Volvo in the yard with the backseat piled with his stuff. They left him be. From time to time he’d start the engine to warm it up, also to let whoever in the house might care know he was still there. It was getting very cold and the snow was coming down heavily, the powdery snow that could encase the car in a foot or more by morning. He’d stopped crying a while ago. He thought he could, probably would, die by dawn. But he was going nowhere. And then well after dark, the snow still tracking heavily by the lights from the house suddenly there she was, face against his window, wearing her green down vest over the sweater, a ski cap pulled low on her head so her hair pressed tight down over the vest, her eyes red from crying and her lips pouched full, chapped to blooming. He started to roll down his window and she backed up a step, slipped and went down on her rear in the snow. Then he was out of the car pulling her up and they stood holding each other pressed tight not caring about the cold and he was crying and saying her name and she was crying also but silent and she led him into the house, through the suddenly quiet and empty house and up to their room, her room, whatever it was, where in the meager warmth of the heater they held each other again and kissing, kissing feeding each other as they stripped all four hands seeming to
belong to one being as so many times before and then scurrying under the quilts and bedding where he sank into her so moist and close as if they’d never done this before and he came almost immediately but remained erect and then the long hard sweaty love that was like all times and like no time ever known to him and he knew for her also, her eyes wide and bold upon him, his name released like sucking air each time he’d take his mouth from hers and then somewhere he realized this was the final time and he began to cry and slowed, his rhythm with her matched exactly and she watched him still no longer saying his name until she cried it out one final time as she arched under him. Then they curled together silent, his tears and sobbing gone now as he simply lay with her and held her and she held on to him and it was so quiet in the room they could hear the faint swish of snow against the windows.

He woke while it was still dark and lay beside her, composed and patient, certain that in this new dawn they would talk and repair themselves and each other and go forth someway together into the new life he also wanted, was amazed and awed and grateful she’d seen it first, had known the change needed to come and pressed him into this place of not simple acceptance but full cooperation, even if he wasn’t sure what that meant beyond her going to Cornell and his going back to Vermont to finish his forge and go to work and wait for summer. And he saw also the folly, the sheer selfish stupidity that had not allowed him to see and understand that need before, how he’d wanted to hold on to something that was already gone and then she slipped out of bed and in the light of the heater pulled on socks and sweats, already wearing a T-shirt to sleep in, and left the room as quiet as a cutpurse and he let her go, knowing as so many other mornings she would bring back coffee and climb into bed as they sat with the heavy insulated mugs to talk and perhaps make love again.