May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (36 page)

Just seven weeks ago he was there at that dreadful place
, she thought.
And what a loss it might have been if that bullet had found his belly and not his leg, instead
.

He stood there beside the picnic basket that represented more effort and planning and thoughtfulness than all the hothouse flowers
and scripted greetings of all the men Papa had ever brought home put together. And she found herself unable, or unwilling at the very least, to remain as distant as she had been previously determined to be. A few awkward moments passed as he mustered up a hopeful smile, until his foot sank a little in the soft ground, and he had to brace himself against the boat to maintain his balance. And she remembered then what Violet Smythe had said, about all that seemed lost for him, including the joy of a sail.

He must be thinking that it is all a terrible failure
, she thought.
Such a man as this
.

“Who
says
it’s too cold for a sail?” she said, feigning offense, and now possessed of a plan herself. “Or perhaps you think I am just a dainty little woman and unable to brave the raging waters of the Gowanus Bay? Yes, I know your type all too well, Mr. McOwen …”

And a soliloquy ensued, as she walked down to the boat and began pulling at it, budging it only slightly toward the water and then growing concerned that they might not be able to manage it, even together, and he would be forced to admit his incapacity, or worse, his fear.

“… we women are perfectly capable of a great
many
things you men will not give us credit for …”

Oh, please move, you damn thing
. Tugging harder now, not caring about the sand and dirt pouring into her shoes.

“… it’s because you never give us the chance to prove ourselves …”

Jesus, Marcella, what have you gotten yourself into now? Move, dammit!

“… but we are not so fragile, you know …”

And with bent back and feet entrenched in the earth to give her leverage, she looked up at him and saw a smile replacing the shock, and grew hopeful.

“Well, I didn’t say we were as
physically
strong, you know …”

And without saying a word, he stepped toward the boat and began to push.

Such a man as this
, she thought again.

“The
vote
, for example … one of those rights you men conveniently reserve for yourselves …”

And with the two of them working in unison, the boat began to slide more willingly along the sandy, grass-covered earth.

Thank God
.

“… it’s all part of the grander scheme, you know …”

And when they reached the edge of the water, he limped back for the basket and the blanket, placing them inside the boat. By now she was ankle-deep in the water, and he extended a hand to her as if to help her in, then caught himself.

“I don’t mean to patronize, Miss Arroyo,” he said.

And she smiled, relieved at the return of his wit.

“Equality for women doesn’t mean you can’t be a
gentleman
, Mr. McOwen …”

And he nodded his head, bowing slightly, and offered his hand again. She climbed in and, seeing the boat sink into the sand again, picked up one of the oars, pushing it into the earth and pressing on it to help him move the boat the last few feet into deep enough water. Then she braced it in the sand below, holding the boat still as he tossed his cane in first, then awkwardly folded his torso, and finally his reluctant legs, inside.

“Too cold for a sail? Why, it’s a
beautiful
day …”

Keep talking until he can collect himself
, she thought.
Dignity—let the man have his dignity
.

And then he was in, settled on the bench across from her, removing his hat and placing it on the floor of the vessel, smiling at her as he caught his breath.

“You’ve been sailing before?” he asked.

“Never,” she said, and handed him the oar she held as he picked up the other.

It took a few moments for him to place them in the oarlocks, and then a few moments more to find a way to row with only one leg available to anchor him. And she did her best not to watch him struggle, ceasing her imaginary diatribe now and looking out over the water. But before too long he had them under way, with Marcella offering the distraction of myriad questions about the terms for everything in the boat. She learned that it was called a skiff, learned about the mast and boom and tiller and other such things until they were far enough out to raise the sail.

He instructed her to walk around to the stern and man the tiller, then caught himself and joked that he didn’t mean to use such an
offensive expression and would she please
tend
to the tiller. And the great effort of just a few minutes before seemed gone then, as if, in his present condition, he could be more at home, more fluid in his movements, out on the water like this. He first pulled up the mast, raising it against the hinge at its base until it was fifteen feet high straight up and down, and he could lock it in place. Then he attached the sail and raised it the length of the mast and fixed it to the boom.

“Oh, how men like to give such
determined
names to things,” she said, amidst the flurry of vocabulary.

“How
else
are we to keep women subjugated?” he said, without looking at her, tending to the business of righting the boat.

Ahhhhh … THERE you are, Ethan
, she thought, deciding that he would never again be held at such a distance to think of him with any more formal manner of address.

Once the wind took full hold of the sail, he maneuvered himself onto the back bench, separated from her by the tiller, and she looked at him as if he would take hold of it. But he smiled at her, his comfort and confidence fully restored, it seemed, and his dignity intact, content to handle the boom line while
she
did the actual steering.

“You’re doing fine. Just keep her straight on into the wakes,” he said, pointing out the little waves rolling in. And they passed silently over them, Marcella focused intently on the task of keeping the tiller straight and Ethan alternately smiling at her, then allowing himself to feel the freedom of being on the water once again.

How long has it been since you’ve been out here?
she thought, but wouldn’t venture to ask, lest she stir up memories that needn’t be a part of this day.

They passed several minutes this way, with him pulling the boom line closer, then letting it out again, finding what manner of wind there was to be employed on such a mild autumn afternoon. Ethan nodded every now and again, pointing out a possible direction for her to follow, and she turned the tiller toward it, eventually taking them out of the Gowanus Bay and up along the East River, with the Brooklyn Heights and Manhattan Island serving as their bookends on a glorious day.

And then he looked at her, purposefully, as if surprised by the direction this entire day had taken. He turned his head slightly to one side,
boyishly almost, and stared intently at her the way he had the night he first met her at the gallery. Only now it wasn’t a painter’s or photographer’s eye gleaning bits of her heart, but the opposite entirely, as if he were confiding something in her that would be diminished with every frivolous word used to describe it.

“Thank you,” he finally said, then turned back around, closing his eyes and taking hold of a deep saltwater breath, holding it for a moment longer than usual, then letting go.

She looked at him, understanding, as if welcoming him back to these waters, to normalcy. And letting go of all her reserve, of everything she had felt was necessary by way of self-preservation just a few hours before, she smiled back at him.

No
, she thought … 
thank you
.

If he wanted to think of it that way, he could, that if it hadn’t been for her, he never would’ve even considered Mr. Prendergast’s offer. Mam and Aunt Em, and even the men in his family, had so doted upon him when he returned from the hospital that he’d begun to feel that his would be a convalescent’s life for whatever years might remain of it. But not her.

She’d been the first one not to ask about the leg or the shoulder every time she saw him. She’d allowed him to become a man again by not treating him as anything else, and he’d gravitated toward her for that as much as for the glisten of her eyes or the curve of her cheek or the thrill of earning a laugh from her. And they’d spent at least
some
time together every day since the sail on Gowanus Bay, as if they weren’t safely tucked away in New York but were stuck right in the thick of the war and couldn’t waste time with trivial hesitations since the whole world could be torn asunder at any moment. More than once she’d begun to tell him something, then stopped, smiling and shaking her
head slightly as if surprised at what she was confessing. Then she’d say to him
I’ve never said this to anyone—no one living anyway
—and then she’d tell him the thing all the same. And he’d come to know that the nonliving person she’d shared all these things with was her Abuela who’d been left behind in Spain half her lifetime ago, which made him smile and tell her a secret of his own—about Aislinn, and how he still sometimes talked to her when he was down by the water somewhere, and his words could be carried off to her resting place along the lane back in the Old Country.

And she smiled only slightly to hear it, then caught herself and squinted her eyes closed with head tilted slightly to one side.
Well, you’re far crazier than I am then
, she said, and they laughed together.

If this had been back in Enniskillen, there’d have been structure to all of this, even at their ages, with the two of them falling under the collective supervision of the village as they took late afternoon walks together or went half a mile out of their way to pass by the other’s cottage on the off chance they’d meet. And she’d told him that if her father had his way, she never would have met him, and certainly
never
would have been permitted to court him without bank statements to verify his suitability. Then it would be stuffy dinner parties and stuffier visits to the opera seated in separate boxes to demonstrate sufficient chastity to all the gossip-thirsty onlookers. But the fates had freed them of all that, to somehow bring them together and leave only their own inhibitions to overcome. And he began to think of this three-week interlude as something of a happy accident in the midst of a world that, with all its wits about it—free from the unbalancing effect of war—would have conspired to keep them from ever crossing paths. But now that fortunate disruption in the natural order of things was over, and it was time for the real world once again.

This hospital’s far more pristine than the ones he remembers, even the ones in Washington, where he’d had a regular sort of bed and meals three times a day and nurses to change the bandages and such. In the weeks after he’d been wounded, between all the mosquitoes and the moans of the men hit real bad, he’d never got even just a half-night’s sleep straight through—’til Seanny showed up with his man Cormac and they’d practically discharged him from the army themselves right
there, then took him home. And as near as all these memories are to the present day, he begins to feel most uncomfortable as he makes his way past the beds of the men still recovering from Antietam and skirmishes before and since. No moans or fever-tossed restlessness in these lads—these were the ones well enough to make it through the train ride north to ease the overcrowded hospitals down where the war was hot.

Then he sees her, tending to the elevated and thoroughly wrapped leg of a man who looks to be almost forty years old, a man who’d gone and volunteered for such a thing at such an age. And there’s the terrible conflict of his thoughts contained right there in the few seconds before and after she sees him, with him feeling the assurance of his decision knowing there were things he could still do in this cause—but then seeing her face light up just for him, smiling amidst the crowd all around her—and telling her he’d accepted Mr. Prendergast’s offer seems almost worse than surgery right now. But the fates are conspiring again, as he discovers when she walks over to him.

I’m so sorry, she says with a pained expression. Agnes has come down with a fever, and there’s only one nurse on the overnight shift, and I told them I’d stay … 
sorry
. And she exaggerates a playful frown in the way she’s become more and more prone to, letting her emotions reach the surface of her face the way they didn’t when they’d first met, the way even she’d acknowledged when she told him that
meeting you has been the death of my poker game
. Now he’s the one with the expressionless face, knowing there will be no bluffing his way through the news he has to deliver.

They slip outside the main room to a dimly lit edge of hallway, and she kisses him before he’s able to even introduce the subject of Mr. Prendergast’s offer, the moistness of her lips and the warm caress of her breath conspiring right along with the fates somehow, telling him to reconsider what he’d decided with what he thought was finality. But there’s no talk between them here, with the entire evening’s kisses having to be fit into this tiny hidden-away space and the reprieve of a moment’s pause from her duties. And this minute or two seem to be mere seconds before there’s the call from a doctor inside the recovery room,
Nurse … Nurse!
piercing the stillness, with time for just one more kiss before she’s off again. This time he pulls her closer, kissing her like
it will be the last one for some time, before separating enough to take in the glisten of her eye and the curve of her cheek and the smile, once more.

I’ll see you tomorrow after tea, she says. Violet’s coming tomorrow.

And she reaches a hand up and brushes it against his cheek, then turns away back to the main room,
Nurse, I need some clean bandages here
, hardly seeming like an urgent enough order to have ruined the chance to tell her.