A Peculiar Grace (27 page)

Hewitt thought it was the first good choice he’d made in a couple of days.

When it ended Hewitt rose and lifted the arm and placed it back in its cradle. He paused then, considering what came next.

Jessica spoke, just loud enough for him to hear. “That was nice. How you doing, Hewitt?”

He hesitated and flipped the album over and set the needle down in the outer groove. Still Borodin. String Quartet no. 1 in A major. Only when the music began did he turn.

She’d come up so she was sitting cross-legged on the couch, her arms loose, hands hidden in the fold of clothes in her lap. He didn’t bother answering her, guessing she knew as much as she needed.

After a bit Jessica said, “Walter feels awful bad about slugging you.”

“I know he does.”

“He said it’s the first time he hurt anybody in years and years.”

“I believe that too.”

They were quiet again. The flowing counterpoint of violins, violas, cellos and bass around them, as if emanating from the room itself, the walls and floor and ceiling.

Again Jessica broke the silence. “I’m sorry,” she said.

And in her tone Hewitt knew she meant everything.

So he said, “Thanks.” Then, not for pity but to clarify, he said, “I made a damn fool of myself.”

She smiled, “I sorta figured that out. There’s worse things a person can do.”

“I guess. I’m not feeling so good about it right now.”

She said, “All of feeble life recedes until there is but dust and air and the song of the morning bird.”

“What the hell is that?”

“I don’t know. Something I learned in school. Some old poet or something. But it’s true.”

“I guess. It’s nice to think so.” Then because he couldn’t bear to go further this evening he said, “So you and Walter got along?”

She shrugged. “He’s strange but nice. He hasn’t hit on me.”

Hewitt noted this and then realized it was none of his business. He said, “What’s the deal with the Bug? You get tired of the old paint job?”

She was matter of fact. “He convinced me it was foolish driving a car that screams Look at me, especially the way I live. And when I balked, I mean nobody but nobody can say shit like that to me and not get flipped off, he went into this smooth little bit about the car itself and pointing out to me all the things about it that made it different from newer Beetles and man he had it down, he knew his shit and the next thing he was down on his back with a penknife and scraped away just enough paint so he could stand up and tell me things I didn’t know. The car originally had been this creamy mint green but it was a rare color only used for a few years and then he went off about how there wasn’t a speck of rust on the whole thing and we should repaint it that old color and he’d even go out and find the whitewall tires that would match it. He said he didn’t want or expect anything in return except the chance to turn that car back into what it deserved to be. Hewitt, I got thinking about my grandmother and how she’d feel about the car, both how it looks right now and how it’d be when we were done and that was pretty much that. Truth is I thought we’d have it done by the time you got back.”

Hewitt had to grin. Which hurt. So he said, “Well, I’m gonna have to threaten to shoot him next time he shows up, just for my pride. And he’ll probably take my side-by-side out of my hands and crack me over the head. No, it won’t bother me. You two go on and paint your car. I’ve got plenty of work to keep myself busy anyway. When he’s done you won’t believe your eyes. It’ll look like the day your grandmother bought it off the lot. And now I’m going to bed because
I couldn’t even tell you what day of the week it is which is usually fine but I’m run over and used up and have offended more people than I care to think about. Including myself. So I’m going to bed.”

And he stood and looked at her a long moment and she looked back at him and he dearly wanted to step to the couch and hug her but his reasons were selfish—he wanted to know that someone in this world cared for him. So he wavered a bit side to side and said, “I expect I’ll be up early.”

She pulled her shoulders a little tighter together, gathering herself. “Hewitt? You and Walter, you going to be okay?”

“I expect so. We go back a ways. He was just pissed because I’d done something stupid and compounded it by doing something else just as stupid.”

She nodded, very serious. “It’s not my business what you do. You do what you have to, you hear?”

“You know, Jessica? Sometimes you have to crawl back where you once were and get inside it all over again to make sure it’s no place you want to be.”

“I seen that myself.”

“Walter’s a good shit. He didn’t change my mind so much as sharpen my focus. That’s all.”

“You read any of that book he’s writing?”

Hewitt blinked and said, “Which book is that?”

She didn’t miss the blink. “I thought you knew. Well, he didn’t let me read any of it, either. But it’s boxes and boxes of paper. He says it’s every strange thing he knows about, every strange story he’s ever heard. All the way back to some history that doesn’t exist. Or maybe does, I don’t know.”

“Well, I’ll be damned. You think he’s going to try and get it published?”

“He says that’d be the last thing he wants.”

Hewitt nodded. “Sounds right. All right, girl, I’m off to catch up on two three days of sleep.”

“Good night, Hewitt.”

“Good night, Jessica.” He turned away toward the hall and the stairs. She called after him. “Sleep tight.”

He glanced back, still walking, mere degrees from a stumbling shuffle of exhaustion. And said, “You too, sweetie. You too.”

U
P EARLY, THE
sun streaming over the hills into a sky near startling for its clarity. Sometimes, he thought, a good clout to the jaw lets you be surprised by the world. While the coffee was making he walked out to the forge and pumped up the fire and took stock. The third egg was ready for its final hammerwork. Then the fourth and after that the finish work and, for this job, for the delicacy of touch he wanted and also the strength needed, the final spot-weld with the oxyacetylene torch. Hewitt preferred the challenge of forge welding but the size of the gates along with his determination that the eggs appear to be simply resting atop the gate ends, made the torch inevitable. Then what remained was gentle warming of the gates, section by section and applying coats of linseed oil. This would take days. Most smiths were content with three coats, perhaps for a fixture like this that would be outside, four. Hewitt worked with a minimum of six and these gates would likely get eight. The initial difference in appearance between three coats and eight would not be apparent to near anyone. But Hewitt knew however much he insisted on the importance of yearly tending with steel wool and on a hot summer day a new coat of the oil, the owner would almost certainly neglect this. Until the iron had lost the accretion of the oil and slowly began to gain the mottled patina of rust. Hewitt knew his clientele and so one day, four or five years down the road they would come to a stop and notice their extraordinarily expensive ironwork was rusted and like as not spend an afternoon with a half-dozen cans of flat black spray paint, or, if the work was lucky, they might instruct their caretaker to wire-brush it before painting it. The linseed oil would not be a distant memory but something forgotten altogether.

The fire was up enough in the forge so he could leave it while he had his coffee. Maybe a small breakfast of toast and juice. Last minute he grabbed up the bottle of whisky and carried it with him. Up the stairs back into the day. Glorious day. A day for symphonies.

Back in the silent house he poured a cup of coffee. He was starting to think about bacon and eggs. He felt hollow, as if he’d not eaten in days and started bacon over low heat and worked at his coffee, then without pause poured the rest of the whisky down the sink drain and tossed the bottle into the trash. As he moved back toward the stove he noticed the phone unplugged from the night before and smiled without humor. He crawled under the table to retrieve the dropped cord and plugged it into the back of the answering machine which lit up with a solemn blinking zero.

He went back to the stove and poured another cup of coffee, fussed with the bacon with a fork but the heat was so low the meat wasn’t ready to turn. That was fine. He drank his coffee. He was feeling pretty good. Even the lump in his jaw was almost gone. He thought he’d have to tell Walter it wasn’t much of a punch. And smiled, thinking this.

The phone rang. As far as Hewitt was concerned the day was well advanced. The coffee was working and he had a solid plan for the next few days and the sizzle of bacon starting to rise in the room. So he stepped over and picked up the phone. “Good morning,” his voice rolling and thoughtless. His mind was on eggs. Fried or scrambled.

“You went home.”

He drew a breath.

She said, “You showed up at my door without even the decency of a warning. And I told you everything. It wasn’t a conscious choice. I couldn’t stand holding it in anymore. And for the shortest of moments you felt safe. But you weren’t safe, not at all. You bastard.”

“Emily—”

“A stronger man could’ve allowed me that opening. And understood it. If I was religious I could’ve gone to the Lutheran minister
but I’m not. My only other option is to travel to Rochester and see a therapist but to pull that off long enough to do any good would involve more lies. And I’m sick of lies right now. Then there you were and you felt safe. Are you listening, Hewitt? You felt safe. And I unloaded, the nasty story hidden behind the destruction of my life. And what did you do? Were you a stand-up guy? Did you realize I didn’t want advice or somebody who knows nothing about children telling me how to deal with them? Did it occur to you I simply needed to get the words out from poisoning my brain? Not for an answer but just to get them out. Because maybe, just maybe, by doing that I could begin to begin to work forward through this?”

“Emily, I—”

“Can you even begin to imagine what it was like standing there in my house which feels one minute like it’s smothering me and the next like it’s the only place I can hide although every time I turn around an entire life that was vibrant and full and everything a life should be is gone and will never be again? Not just my life Hewitt. But the life of the man I expected to grow old with, watching our children grow up and go out and make their own lives and have them come home married with children of their own. Can you understand that? And then you, goddamn it, you stood in my kitchen and confessed your own sad little dreamworld. Your undying love for me? Who the fuck do you think you are? You bastard. And then, and then,” she was gulping air, “on your way out you were nasty to my son who came in as soon as you left and found me sitting on the goddamn floor weeping. Do you know why I was crying, Hewitt? Do you really want to know?”

Now she was quiet. Waiting. Because he knew she was not done and she was exacting this from him. There was no choice.

Simply he said, “Yes.”

“Because, because,” and she was crying now. “Because until you showed up I was all fucked-up, my life pulled inside out, but I was either tromping onward or doing my best imitation of it. But then
there you were. Spitting and sputtering about your life and I stood there and thought This is too fucking much, the universe or God are truly ganged up to break me. And I broke. I just collapsed. And there’s my poor little boy kneeling beside me and stroking my back and telling me over and over that it would be okay. You bastard. What business did you have? What in the world made you think you had the right to come to me? And spill out your shit on top of me? We’re all grown up now, Hewitt. Aren’t we?”

Hewitt was pressing the phone so hard against his head that his ear hurt. His arm ached, his head ached. His heart was not pumping, best as he could tell. The room swimming around him. The silence, the faint electric crackle. And only then realized she was done. Waiting for him.

Finally he said, “I never intended to do that to you. It just came out. It’s why I came home. To leave you be.”

“I wish you’d done that to start with. I have to go now. I have to get dressed and go to work. Goodbye, Hewitt. And good luck.”

The line went dead. After a time he slowly put the receiver back in the cradle, but stood looking down at the phone. He hated the telephone.

“Y
OU TRYING TO
figure out how a telephone works or do you like your bacon burned up and filling the house with smoke? I mean, it’s your house and all but I’m sure as hell not going to eat that pig meat so you want I should toss the pan out back to cool off or what?”

Jessica in the doorway, wearing his old sweatpants and a large denim shirt loose over the pants.

Hewitt scraped the crusted bacon into the trash, rinsed the pan and used a copper brush to clean the pan under cold water before setting it back on the stove to dry.

He turned back to her and said, “That coffee’s fresh. I’m going to be gone most of the morning. Is Walter coming to work on the Bug with you?”

“Best I know. The car wasn’t all wrapped up like a ugly Christmas present I could drive you.”

“I appreciate it. But remember, I did just fine before you came along.” And grinned against misinterpretation.

She said, “You know what Hewitt? Since I’ve been here that evidence is not so strong. Or maybe it’s me.” She seemed to brighten with this declaration. “Shitfire, it wouldn’t be the first time I was the one blamed for things going wrong.”

“You’re fine. You’re the most fun I’ve had in a long time. Don’t you worry about that.”

She paused, taking this in, her face showing slight doubt but he was used to that. Then she said, “So, you walking? Or hitchhiking?”

“Hell no. Some lunatic might pick me up. I’ll take the tractor. Where I’m going, it’ll get the job done.”

She tipped her head to one side. She was waking. A grin straight from Puck popped over her face and she said, “You should get you a horse, Hewitt. You could sneak up on people and not stink up the air like that tractor exhaust.”

“Thanks,” he said. “But I’ve got an old barn cat to watch out for, and myself and other stray humans and I’d hate to think of an animal counting on me.”