The Clearing (19 page)

"He didn't give her any help?"

"Oh, he helped her al right—helped her with some pil s," Henry said, barely able to keep the anger from his voice.

"Lots of people are on medication for depression," Amy said. "It's something that people get treated for in my time."

"Wel , this doctor's treatment didn't help. It hurt." He looked away, unable to take Amy's concerned stare. "It was a hot June day and I'd just made it home from swimming with my chums down at the river. Mother had made fried chicken, a special treat. We were sitting down to eat supper and there was a knock at the door. Mother answered, and then I heard her screaming. I ran out to see what was happening and saw the telegram in her hand. I felt so guilty. We'd had a first telegram ten days before—one that said Robert was missing in action after the invasion at Normandy. The infantry had landed at Omaha Beach on the sixth and no one had seen him since. I'd
hid
that telegram, Amy. I'd hid that one because I knew what she'd do. I just knew. But I hadn't thought about when this one would come. And this one said Robert was presumed dead. It was so much worse."

"But, Robert was—"

"Please." Henry held up a hand. "Let me finish my story." He forced breath into his lungs, then made himself struggle onward. "My mother took to her room. She wouldn't come out, no matter what Grandpa or I said. She cried al night and in the morning"—he took another deep breath

—"in the morning, Grandpa and I found her unconscious—the pil bottle empty on her nightstand. I fetched the doctor from town, but he said Mother was comatose. She wouldn't wake up, Amy. I prayed that night—I prayed that we'd never got the telegram, that everything was like it was before.

And darned if it didn't come true. The very next day, the summer started over. The prayer erased away what had happened to us like whitewash over a dirty wal . We began again."

"You poor mother," Amy said.

Henry stiffened. He'd often felt sorry for his mother in her grief, but since that night, anger mixed with his pity. How ready she'd been to just leave him behind, how ready just to give up. "It was hard for al of us."

Amy was watching him."Henry, what if Robert wasn't kil ed?" she said in a tentative tone.

"That's what I prayed about," Henry said.

"No, you prayed for the telegram not to come, but what if your brother was alive? Wouldn't your mother be okay? I mean, there'd be no reason to try to hurt herself, right?" Amy's eyes looked luminous in the porch light. She was so hopeful, so naive.

"Are you're saying I prayed for the wrong miracle?"

She shook her head. "I need to tel you something. I think it's going to be hard for you to take—but listen—Robert didn't die in the war. That's what I wanted to tel you the other night, but I couldn't."

Henry's mind whirled. "What are you saying?"

"I don't know if it's right to tel you about what happens in the future—your future that is, or what—but I know Robert survived," Amy said.

"Seriously, Henry."

He closed his eyes. "How do you know Robert survived?" he said, barely able to form the words.

"I found it in an old newspaper article. At Normandy, he was captured by the German army. He wasn't kil ed. He lived to be an old man.

Look!" She thrust a piece of paper at Henry.

Henry didn't take the paper from Amy. He couldn't look at it. He didn't know what to think—whether to be happy or to be angry. He thought of his brother walking up the drive, his duffle bag on his shoulder, and his mother running to meet him with tears streaming down her face. He thought of fishing at the creek with Robert, of talking with him about life and girls. Of hiking up to the old mine and hunting for soapstone to carve. There were so many things he missed about his brother. Joy and loneliness flooded him. And fear. Stil the fear.

"I wish you hadn't told me this," Henry said, after a moment.

Amy's face reddened and she set the paper between them on the bench. "Why wouldn't you want to know that your brother didn't die?" she said, matching his angry tone.

"So Robert lives. Does that mean my mother doesn't take the pil s when she gets the telegram?" Henry said. "Does that mean she doesn't die?"

"You don't know that she dies! You know that she slipped into a coma. That's not the same thing, Henry. And what if you told her the telegram was a mistake? What if you told her that Robert is alive?"

"And expect her to believe that the U.S. government was wrong? Why would she believe me? She would be heading for that jar of pil s just the same. You don't know how she is."

"So, maybe she won't believe you at first, but maybe it gives her hope. Hope enough to hang on until the army finds out its mistake and Robert comes home to her, to al of you."

"Hope left her long ago," he said.

"And did it leave you, too?"

Henry got up from the bench and went to lean on the railing of the porch.

Amy fol owed, taking a place beside him. "Don't you think you deserve to live more of a life than just this summer?"

"Amy, I can't take the chance that Mother wil hurt herself."

"And that you'l go into the service," she replied softly. "If time goes forward, you'l be off to war like Robert."

Henry's heart stil ed. "What's that got to do with it? You want me to ship out?"

"No, of course not! Mae lost her love, Joe Hansen, in the war. She's stil sad after al these years. You think I want that? To lose you like she lost her Joe and never love again?"

"I don't know anything about Joe Hansen and your auntie. Why are you—wel —what's the big idea with al of this, anyway? I thought you cared about me, and now you're tel ing me to move on. The other night, you told me you didn't want me to go."

Amy's eyes darkened. "There's no
big idea.
I thought you needed to know that Robert was alive. Since I found out, I felt dishonest carrying that truth around. When you care about someone, you don't lie to them. That's not love."

"You know al about that, huh?" he said, in a harsher tone than he meant.

What was left of her composure crumbled.

The sight of tears wel ing in Amy's eyes made Henry feel like a heel. "Look, can't you just let me alone now?" he said. "You told me what you had to get off your chest, and now you're free." He turned away, unable to look at her anymore. He didn't want to think about what she'd told him, how she wanted him to go on without her.

"I thought you'd want to know," Amy repeated, her words ragged.

Henry let out a deep breath. "It doesn't change anything for me. Not a thing."

"But it could," Amy said. "Your mother deserves to know he's okay."

"I'm not going to let anything happen to her, to this," he said, gesturing to the farm. "You go on home." Coldness crept into his voice, and he hated himself for it.

"Look, Henry, wil you at least understand that I'm not tel ing you this because I want you to leave me," Amy said, moving toward the porch stairs. "I had to tel you."

"Go on to your sunny, bright future," Henry said in a quiet voice. "I won't be there." He didn't look up, but he heard Amy sobbing as she ran down the porch and into the night. Her sudden absence was like a slap in the face, and Henry took it gladly.

He knew in his heart he deserved it.

***

His coffee was cold when Henry returned to his place at the kitchen table.

"What'd you do to that sweet girl to make her run off like that?" Grandpa said, setting down his cup.

"Nothing," Henry said. The lie flushed his cheeks.

"Hogwash."

Henry kept his eyes on his coffee cup. "Al right, she's sore at me. It's not a mountain, it's a molehil ," he said.

"That girl cares for you," Grandpa said. "I didn't raise you to be cal ous."

"I wasn't being cal ous. We've had a misunderstanding, that's al ." He took a sip of coffee, hoping that was the end of the conversation. But Grandpa kept on.

"Son, I haven't seen you that starry-eyed over a girl in ages. Why would you treat your sweetheart that way?"

"She's not my sweetheart," Henry said, adding
anymore
in his mind.

"Hogwash," Grandpa said again. "You love that girl, and she's fool enough to love you back."

Henry glanced up at Grandpa, considering his words. Maybe he did love Amy. Maybe that's why this hurt so darn bad. The thought of never seeing her again burned an angry fire inside of him. "Wel , she's through with me," he muttered.

"Son, I heard some of what the girl said."

Henry swal owed another sip of coffee, avoiding his grandfather's stare.

"Were you fighting about your brother? She said something about him. How does she know your brother?"

"Amy doesn't know Robert. She just thinks she does," Henry said. He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to ease the headache he felt forming.

"I heard her say he's alive," Grandpa said, his eyebrows drawing together. "What would she mean by that?"

"She's making conversation. Of course he's alive," Henry replied.

"Actual y, we don't know that," Grandpa said. "We don't know anything for certain about the operation over there. The men and even some of the women nurses lose their lives every day. That's the evil of war, son. It costs human lives."

"As far as I'm concerned, he's alive and wel and fighting alongside the other brave men." Henry's voice was icy.

"Why are you talking about your brother?" Mother stood in the doorway, dressed in her pink dressing gown. Her eyes were red and bloodshot, her hands shaky as she steadied herself against the jamb. "Has something happened?"

"No, Mother," Henry said. "Come have a seat."

"Thank you, no. I'l stand," she said.

"Don't be sil y, Alma. Take a chair," Grandpa said, getting up and escorting her to the table. "Let me get you a drink of water."

Henry and his mother sat in silence, looking at each other across the table for a moment, and then Grandpa returned with the glass. Mother took it from Grandpa and paused. Henry watched her pat her robe pocket, probably searching for her pil bottle. She came up with a handkerchief and Henry relaxed in his chair.

Mother wiped her eyes and then drank some of the water. "I want to know what is happening to us," she said, turning to Henry. "I want to know why I can't go down the road. I want to know why we always seem to have enough to eat, but I never ride into town for supplies. I want to know why I never get any letters from Robert—or anyone else, for that matter. It's as if I've been sleepwalking through life. The more I thought about it, sitting in the quiet by myself today, the more I started to wonder about al these peculiar things, Henry. Can you explain it to me? Or am I going as plum crazy as I feel?"

Grandpa took his seat at the table. "You're not crazy, Alma. Sometimes, I swear I must be doing the same thing every day. I know every checker move Henry ever played. Everything seems familiar, from the way my carrots grow in the garden, to the direction my pipe smoke curls every night."

Henry felt panic rising inside him and a sick, strange feeling starting in his stomach.

"Wil you please help us understand?" Mother asked. "I want to know, son. I need to know the truth. You seem to be the only one who knows what that is."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Without meaning to, I slammed the back door of the trailer. The theme of the nightly news show was playing loudly from the living room. I jammed my heavy coat onto the rack and kicked off my boots. Rain dripped from my hair down the back of my neck, and my dress felt heavy on my skin. I had to get out of it. Wanted to rip the pins from my hair and smear this damn lipstick off my mouth.

Katie whined from her dog bed, then got up and ran over to me, sniffing.

"Down, girl," I said, pushing her off me. "Leave me alone."

Mae woke from her deep sleep in her recliner. "What? What's happening?"

"Nothing," I lied, breaking the promise I'd made to Mae only hours before. I went to the bathroom and plucked out tissues. I squished makeup remover on them, rubbed the scarlet stain from my lips, and then went to work on my mascara. It was halfway down my face, anyway—half from the rain and half from Henry. He didn't want me there. Hadn't been glad I'd told him about Robert. Hadn't done anything I expected.

I wet a washcloth and scrubbed my face, trying to keep from crying more over some dumb guy from decades ago. I patted dry with a towel and then pul ed the pins from my hair, dropping them into the drawer one by one. In my room, I stepped out of the dress, leaving it in a circle on the floor. It was good to throw on a T-shirt and sweatpants, and when I appraised myself in the mirror, blotchy face, reddened eyes, and hair hanging down like normal, I felt better.

Here was the real me. I wasn't some girl in 1944. I was just me in a trailer now. And that was al I was. I didn't have a boyfriend from the past.

I didn't have anyone who could hurt me. Anyone who could make me believe it was okay to trust them and then throw me away.

"Sweetie, what's going on?" Mae said from her chair as I came back into the living room.

"I'm done with the clearing," I said.

"You're done with the ghost of Henry Briggs?" she said with a knowing look.

"He's not a ... oh, never mind," I said. I went into the kitchen and fired up the teakettle. Maybe he was just a ghost. Maybe that was truly why he didn't want to cross over to my side or even finish living his own life. Weren't you a ghost if you were afraid to move on?

Mae lumbered into the kitchen. "You want to talk about it?" she asked.

I rummaged in the cabinet for tea. "No, Mae. I don't think so."

"You say that, but I don't believe you. Talk to me."

I looked at her sitting there at the table. It was like seeing her for the first time. This big, gray old woman who was wil ing to believe my crazy story about ghosts in the back field. This lady who had taken me in and done her best to give me space. This aunt who talked more with me than my own mother had. Or at least she tried to talk with me, when I wasn't running off to chase some fantasy in the mist.

"Oh, sweetie," she said.