The Legacy of Eden (6 page)

My grandfather used to have a
thing for unhappy women. He could sense them a mile off and he was always
drawn to them, because they didn’t expect much and were always more than
appropriately grateful for what they could get. But more than that, unhappy
women, when you made them happy, relished the thing like a cat basking in a
pool of sunshine: they unfurled, they blossomed and their smiles of
incredulous delight at this transformation always gave Cal a surge of pride
in his own abilities. It made him feel like a good person, before he
remembered otherwise.

They would meet a few miles down
the road from Aurelia, during the day so that Lou was out at the practice or
when he had been called away for a series of home visits. Anne-Marie would
park her car behind a turnoff into a clearing shielded by the long prairie
grass and Cal would meet her there in his Chevy. They would go to secluded
woods, sometimes on long drives to nowhere, where they would park in any
cloistered place they could find. They would stay there for hours. My
grandmother often said later that she lived for those drives, though she
would never have indicated as such to Cal. She knew she could not push him,
but she heard tales of Walter getting sicker and she would listen to Cal
talk of Oregon and what he planned to do when he got back and she would
wring her hair in her hands to stop herself from screaming at
him.

She waited on those drives for
the moment of inspiration to come, just like it had with Lou. She knew
better than to force it, but still she worried. She could not bear the idea
of Cal going back to Oregon and she stuck in her house with her husband,
looking up night after night over the dinner table and finding him sitting
there at the end.

Irritatingly, he had grown
kinder to her since the garden party. Since the night she had broken down
sobbing and choking in their car he had been more tender, more concerned.
She had tried to endure it as best she could.

So she sat there in the car with
Cal waiting for a sign, keenly alert for whatever guise it may present
itself as, while he stroked her skin under his hands and called her
Lavinia.

And then finally it
came.

Cal struck her so hard across
the mouth that he broke the skin on her lip and she bled into her teeth. She
saw him lean back, his face ashen, and he stared down at his fingers while
self-revulsion contorted his features. Without a word she got out of the car
and began to walk. It was ten miles from where she had parked her car. She
waited for Cal to come after her but he didn’t. She heard the engine of the
car roar behind her but the sound faded away. So she walked the ten miles
and in that time she thought over what had happened.

Now my grandfather was not a man
who ever lifted his hand to a woman, nor would ever again, save once years
later when he would strike his daughter so hard she would fall and catch her
temple on the table corner as she went down. He would stare at his hand then
in the same way as he had looked at it now with Anne-Marie. What shocked me
when I first heard these stories was not only that my grandfather, when
provoked, could lose all sense of reason and restraint, but also that these
provocations existed in the first place.

Maybe this may seem strange, but
if you ever met my grandfather you would not have believed it of him. He was
a man who was so temperate his perpetual state was placid. It was helped by
his drinking surely, but never did his manner or nature ever tip those
scales except for three times in his life. Once was when his mother died,
once was now in a car parked outside Sunrise Wood and the last time would be
in his kitchen in the spring of 1968. But at the time Anne-Marie knew
nothing of this. What she did know was that she had said something that,
without even realizing it, had flipped a switch in the man beside her, so
that for a moment he ceased to exist. She hadn’t even seen it coming; there
had been no warning. One minute they were talking; the next, the back of his
knuckles had slammed her lips against her teeth. So she went over in her
mind what she could have said to set him off.

They had been talking about his
father. He was the one who had brought it up.

“Doctor came over
yesterday.”

“Lou?” she asked.

“Yeah.” He shifted in his seat.
“They say it’s not long now.”

“Oh.”

“He wanted to see me up in his
room.”

“Who? Lou?”

“No, Pa.”

They fell silent. She curled her
hand around the open lapel of his shirt.

“Did you go?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“Why not?”

His chest rose and fell under
her cheek. Try as she might she couldn’t hear his heart through the
shirt.

“I haven’t spoken to him in
sixteen years.”

“Well, you must have now that
you’ve come back.”

“No, not at all. I’ve seen him
but I haven’t said a word to him.”

“Oh. Why?”

“I don’t know. I kinda like
seeing him suffer.”

She lifted her head then and,
curling a finger under his chin, she made him face her.

“Why do you hate your pa so
much?”

“Doesn’t everyone hate their pa
a little?”

“I don’t know my pa to hate him,
and your sister and brother don’t hate him.” She added cautiously, “Julia
doesn’t hate you.”

“That’s because she hasn’t been
raised on hell.”

“It don’t look like hell to
me.”

He jerked his head away from
her.

“Do you know about my
ma?”

She shook her head.

“She died. A while ago now. She
got sick, drank some contaminated water and she died in the same bed that
he’s dying in. She’s buried on the farm. I lowered her coffin in the ground
with my brother.” He paused to lick his lips and then settled back into his
seat and stared ahead again. It was late in the afternoon. Lou had been
called away to a conference in another county so they had stayed out later
than usual. Their skin took on mottled hues of orange and pale pink from the
sunset pouring through the windshield.

“The day of her funeral I was
nineteen and I left home for good. I went up the drive and I just kept
walking. No one stopped me, no one called after me. I slept rough,
hitchhiked, took a shower when I could, lived without it when I couldn’t. I
didn’t even know that I was leaving when I was, but I guess my feet knew
better. I knew my pa wouldn’t give a shit. He told me as much, that he
wanted me out of the place when Ma died. He said he didn’t want me under his
roof no more. I been thinking on that for years. It could have been any one
of us, it just happened to be me.”

He was still staring straight
ahead. My grandmother knew that he’d almost forgotten she was even there.
She didn’t care. She sat there watching him, barely moving, her breath
shallow and uneven. He heaved a great sigh and when he spoke his voice was
flat in a low monotone.

“We had always done chores
around the farm, but then when I got to be sixteen Pa started to really
teach me the ropes. He was always talking about the farm and leaving it to
me and Leo and how we should manage it, and what we had to do for it. He was
sick with love over the place, all the more because he only won it from his
boss due to sheer sweat. And boy, did he make sure that we sweated over it.
He thought it would make us love it as much as him. And we did, I guess. We
didn’t really have a choice.”

He narrowed his eyes as he
remembered.

“When I got to be eighteen he
started giving me more responsibility. I was glad of it. I wanted to do
things right. And to be sure, I never saw any other life for myself other
than the one he laid out before me. So careful to follow only in his
footsteps, neither shifting to the right nor looking to the left. Dead
center,” he said as he sliced his hand slowly through the air in front of
him.

“We used to use this pesticide
during the crop dusting. And one time I was in charge of it. I’d seen it
done a hundred times. Small thing, no-nothing thing. Only dangerous if you
were careless. On one of the wheat fields near the stream we have a small
stone well. Hardly a well, more like a built-up pool. Us kids used to drink
from it in summer when it was hot and we were in the fields and too tired to
go back in the house for water. During the crop dusting we always covered
the well. And I remember…I remember putting the big stone tablet on top of
it before I started the dusting. I remember it so clearly. I picked it up,
and to be sure that thing was heavy, but I heaved it up on there all the
same. I did, I know I did, I remember doing it.

“Ma used to come down to us. She
used to help sometimes in the field when we had a lot a work to do. Not
often, but she was always one to get her hands dirty. Ma, she grew up on a
farm in Indiana with six brothers, she was—” he laughed “—she was a heck of
a woman. Sometimes she’d try to tell Pa how to farm and they’d have these
blazing arguments about it, real hammer and tongs. She didn’t give a shit if
he smacked her on the mouth and told her to hush up—she always had to have
her say.

“One day she came down to see me
and Leo when we were busy doing some chore and I can see her now, leaning
against the well. They all said she had to have drunk from it, weren’t no
other way that she could have gotten how she did. But if she did…well…Leo
said he saw her drink from it but I didn’t see it. She got sick the next
day, took to her bed a few days later and never got out of it. Piper nursed
her the whole way through, and she was only thirteen. It didn’t take long
for her to die. She was gone before she knew it. Before we knew
it.”

He nodded and bit his lip,
rocking his neck back and forth as he finished. She looked him up and down
for a moment.

“She was young, you know. She
was only forty when she died.”

“Is that why you left then?” she
asked.

He was struck dumb. He blinked
in assent.

“God, I hate this place,” he
muttered. “I wish to God I’d never come back. It weren’t by choice me
leaving. That son of a bitch. I may not have been a kid exactly when I left
but you know at the time I’d never even been out of the state? Farthest I
ever got was Des Moines once for a state fair for chrissake!” He braced his
hand against the steering wheel and began to chuckle to himself. She shrank
back in her seat as he twisted his face this way and that, struggling with
his memories.

“Son of a bitch. I’m glad it
hurts. I see them all, our neighbors, all wondering why I’m back, wondering
why he’s asked me back here now. They don’t know how to greet me. Before it
was fine, I was the black sheep, a killer,” he growled, “but now he’s asking
to see me like some prodigal son and they’re confused. They can’t figure it
out, but I can. I know why he asked me back and I don’t give a shit. He
wants me to join Leo on the farm. Be a Hathaway again. Well, that’s his
vision, not mine. I’m waiting and just when he needs it the most I’ll pull
the rug out from under him, I’ll let him die knowing it all went to hell
with him. I’ll have me a real good day.”

“Oh, Cal,” she said, touching
his shoulder. “I’m so sorry.”

She paused.

“It weren’t your fault. He
should have known better. He should have known it was just an
accident.”

There.

A second later—was it a second
later? Wasn’t it less, half a moment, in an instant and his knuckle had
slammed into her mouth? Her body cracked against the window with the force.
He had screamed at her but at the time she didn’t register. Her hand was at
her lip in an instant, she was too shocked initially to feel pain, but she
saw his knuckles ripple under her blood as he withdrew.

And that was how she found
herself walking down the side of a road now, only eight and a half miles
left from where she had parked her car.

What went through her mind at
that moment? Was it anger? Was it hurt and betrayal? Was it shame at her own
foolishness?

She conjured up the last thing
he had said to her as he struck her. She hadn’t realized it at the time, but
she heard it clearly as she thought on it now.

“I put the lid on the well!”
he’d screamed.

So no, none of these emotions
went through Anne-Marie as she walked. She held her hand to her aching jaw
and lifted the corner of her lips ever so gently in a smile. She was not
angry, she was elated. She saw her opportunity.

I wonder now if I am being
unkind to her. Perhaps too much has been colored by what I know would
eventually happen to allow me to ever present her in a way in which she
could have been innocent, or good. I am too used to seeing her as the
villain. But, as she used to say, she was made, not born. Firstly by those
who came before us in her life, and now years later by me in memory. I want
to say that she didn’t think those things, or feel those things, that it all
came out later under duress with due cause. But that’s a lie. It was always
there brewing, it had to be. She took to it too easily.

Just like I did when my time
came.

Chapter 4

WHEN CAL CAME home, the first thing he said to his sister was, “Did anybody call?”

Piper paused in her stirring of the mixing bowl to take stock of her brother.

“No,” she said carefully. “You expecting somebody?”

“No,” said Cal.

He drew out a chair at the table and sat down heavily.

“Where’s Julia?” he asked after a moment.

“She’s out back in the garden. I gave her some of my old toys and stuff. She’s having fun.”

“I think we should be going soon,” said Cal quickly. Piper’s wrist wavered momentarily, before she continued to beat the spoon against the bowl.

“Before Pa dies?”

“Why does that even matter? Who cares if I stay or go before then?”

“Pa will.”

“Screw Pa!”

He drawled the words out in his rage, strangling them in his throat so that they emerged stretched with fury. He put his hands up to his hair and held his crown in his hands. Piper saw the blood on his knuckles.

“You want to tell me something, Cal?” she asked.

He stood up abruptly and went out of the kitchen.

“No,” she said, continuing to stir, “I didn’t think so.”

Three days later he began to panic. He wondered if she would tell her husband. He had certainly given her cause to, and that busted lip would need some explanation. He prowled the farm waiting for Lou to show up. He told himself he didn’t care. He could more than handle Lou Parks. He told himself that people could talk and his siblings could look at him with disgust and it wouldn’t affect him. He would be gone soon anyway. He told himself he was used to exile.

But still he woke up in the night, his mind already crowding with voices tumbling over themselves to be heard first.

He tried calling her once, but he realized he had nothing to say even if she should answer. He saw that he had gotten himself into a mess, but he comforted himself with the knowledge that all he need do was bide his time until his father died and then he could leave. He counseled his heart to be patient, to be patient and to forget. Forget that he had struck her; forget her skin under his hands.

Forget that he missed her.

Piper saw the restlessness in Cal and she tensed. Against her will and much to her self-disgust, she began to wish her father would hurry up and die. She had tried to sound out Lou Parks on the subject. He would only shake his head and say, “He’s holding on. For what, I don’t know, but he’s holding.” Piper nodded in assent, but this only made her worry even more. She knew what her father was holding on for and she knew Cal wouldn’t give in. She had hoped that her brother’s resolve would melt, or that her father’s strength would wane, but she saw now that neither would do as she wished and so one afternoon as she was washing her father’s soiled sheets, she made up her mind and asked God to help her and then to forgive her.

Leo had stopped coming up to the house as much, so she went out to see him in the barn. She brought a plate of roast beef and mustard sandwiches as a peace offering.

“I already had lunch,” he said as his eyes brushed past the plate.

“I’ve come to ask you a favor.”

“Oh,” he said, wiping his hands on a rag. “Shoot.”

“I need you to talk to Cal.”

Leo began to laugh as he turned away from her. She grabbed his arm and swung him around.

“Enough. You want Pa to go, then you listen to me. The only reason why he is holding on up in that bed is for Cal. That may hurt you but it’s true nonetheless. The only way he will go is if Cal will speak to him.”

“For what?”

Piper sighed and cradled the plate.

“I think he wants forgiveness,” she said, looking down.

“For what?” asked Leo slowly. Piper sighed.

“For sending Cal away all those years ago. What happened to Ma could have been an accident, Leo. You used to think so.”

Leo’s voice when it came out was curdled with venom. “And now Pa does, too, that it?”

“I don’t know,” said Piper, exasperated. “All I know is Cal is itching to leave, you’re itching for him to leave, Pa’s itching to die and it’s about time somebody started to scratch these things out before they do some real damage.”

“Here’s me thinking you were enjoying your little family reunion.”

“Take Cal into town when you go and get the horse feed. Talk to him.”

“And say what?”

“Jesus H. Christ, do I have to think of everything?!” She bit her lip and steadied her voice. “Do it this afternoon.”

She made as if to walk away.

“Leave the plate on the bale,” said Leo after a pause.

If you asked my aunt Julia what her earliest memory was, she’d tell you that it was of her mother’s decapitation. She was lying.

Later on she would admit to her husband, Jess, that she didn’t really remember anything too much about the accident, or her father picking her up at the hospital, or being covered in her mother’s blood. She would say that she had the feeling the memory was there but that for some reason she just couldn’t get to it. Some part of her wouldn’t let it spring into life. That was the closest she ever got to trying to understand her own psychology.

Her first real memory was of her father’s second wedding. She remembered the smell of the courthouse, how polished the woods were and her feet dangling as they scuffed along the floor while she waited for them to finish. She could recall her aunt Piper holding her, the pressure of her fingers on her waist and how Piper’s body had heaved with Julia’s as she gave a great sigh when her father had kissed her new mother. Piper would say that it was the first time Julia had ever met her.

But here she was wrong, because unbeknownst to her, Julia had met the woman who would be her stepmother four months earlier, as she had lain sobbing on the dust floor outside the local feed store.

In the car on the way there she had sat in the back watching the views change in the windows. According to my father and uncle, she used to say that whenever she sat in cars as a child she always felt as if her mother were right there next to her, her head severed from her body, her hands limp, the top of her neck slewed with the bone creating a pyramid of blood and flesh at the top. How she could have known this—when she didn’t remember the decapitation itself—is anyone’s guess. Perhaps it was a dormant memory that occasionally sprang into life. Or perhaps it was simply her imagination of what the physical effects of a decapitation might be. If so, you would have thought that she would have envisioned a clean, neat severing, not the crude hewn state she saw. Whatever the reason, it later became a valuable weapon against her younger brothers. But a year before the first one was born, she sat in the back of her uncle’s truck, so intent on not looking at the last surviving image of her mother beside her, that she did not hear the stilted conversation of the men who sat up front. All she knew was that suddenly the car came to a stop and with the unspoken promise she had assumed her father had made to her of licorice laces beckoning, she climbed out of the car, careful not to disturb the dress of her mother beside her as she left.

When they got out of the car she skipped ahead into the store, only to be severely disappointed. There were no jars of multicolored candy, no licorice laces in red and purple spools. The place smelled and everything seemed dull and boring. She felt she had been betrayed and so she did what she would always do in the face of disappointment. She threw a tantrum.

Her father was angrier with her than usual. Normally he would gaze at her in a cool, collected way until he eventually gave in or she exhausted herself. But this time he slapped her on the back of her legs, hauled her up by the arm and dragged her out of the store, her legs curling underneath her as she tried to kick out in anger and frustration, and then quite suddenly he dropped her; he just let go and the slam of earth on skin made her sob stick in her throat. The silence for the both of them seemed eerie, but while she looked up at him, he was looking somewhere else.

My grandmother said that the moment she saw Julia curled up on the floor next to her father, staring at him obstinately, snot and drool spitting from her lips and nose, she knew she did not like her. It was not the mess the child had made of herself, it was the way she had looked from her father to her, and how when she had seen that his attention had been caught by someone else, her eyes narrowed and she spat out another spit trail that curled under her chin.

“I didn’t know you would be here,” Cal said when he finally found his voice.

“I was out getting groceries,” said Anne-Marie.

Cal saw her lips covered in rouge and the swell of the jaw beneath the heavy makeup. He reached out to touch her and she shrank back, and glanced over her shoulder quickly to see if anyone had been watching. He snaked his fingers through his hair in frustration.

“I thought about calling,” he said.

“I am glad you didn’t.”

She was so cold as she stood there waiting for him to finish, as if he were just another piece of nuisance she had to climb over before she could carry on with her day. It angered him, this aloofness of hers. It made him want to smack her again just to get a reaction. Suddenly he began to feel sick.

“I don’t know what…I don’t—”

She continued to stare at him, her foot rubbing against her ankle in impatience. Beside him he felt his daughter shift and her shoe scuffed against his heel with a small kick. He looked down at her and saw her glare back at him. Her knee was bleeding.

“Please don’t talk to me again,” Anne-Marie said finally.

He panicked. “Lavin—”

“Don’t you
ever
—” She took a step forward and he saw more clearly the yellowish swirls near her jaw. “
Ever
call me that again.”

She walked away, passing Leo as he came out with a bag of horse feed. Leo saw his brother standing there, his mouth open, looking at the doctor’s wife and his niece sprawled on the floor, her left knee bleeding, her face bright red as she stared with hatred at her father.

“Cal?” he asked. “What are you doing?”

Cal looked down at his daughter and with one hand pulled her up. She cocked her bad knee for effect as she stood but he didn’t seem to notice.

“Will you take Julia back for me, please?” he asked.

“You thought any more on what I said?” asked Leo as he cradled the feed.

“Yeah, I—I listened.”

Leo paused. “Okay,” he said finally. “Let’s go, girl,” he said to his niece.

What happened next no one really knows. There was to be a lot of speculation that surrounded the events of the next sixteen hours for some time afterward. Everyone had their own theories. Leo believed Cal had been planning it all along, Piper believed that the opportunity presented itself and Cal was too weak to say no. My grandmother believed it was destiny. I don’t know what I believe.

Because it was so unexpected, so shocking, that it has never really made sense. Trying to rationalize it now could only be accomplished through conjecture and imagination. All I know is that my grandfather was a man who felt things deeply. He hated that about himself. He tried not to grow attached, but he was simply a man to whom burdens came easily, and every time he tried to shrug them off, the weight of his guilt would burden him all over again. So here is what I think happened.

I think he was afraid. Afraid of who he was and what he wanted and what he didn’t want to be.

I think he was tired of fighting for what he wanted, tired of fighting himself for wanting those things in the first place and tired of feeling guilty for all of the above.

I think he wanted to settle. I think he wanted it all to stop. I think he knew that life had a will of its own and for the second time he was willing to be borne along by it. I think he reasoned that he was a man, not a boy this time, and he could deal with things better.

I think he was sick of feeling like a failure.

Piper cooked dinner for herself and Julia that evening. She made a chocolate pecan pie for dessert that Julia wolfed down in sullen self-pity. She put her niece to bed and checked on her father, before going to bed herself at around eleven. Cal still wasn’t home. The next morning she fixed breakfast, changed her father and gave him a sponge bath. She enlisted Julia’s help in the chores, but gave up after her niece kept crumpling to the floor in mock agony on account of her “bad leg.” She went to check on her eldest brother, but when she knocked on the door he didn’t answer and when she tried the handle, it was locked. She assumed he was still asleep.

She went to bring Leo some lunch. He was down by the crops on the far side of the farm near the stream. When she gave it to him, he nodded in thanks before jerking his head to the left of her.

“See that?” he asked.

Piper turned. Against the well was the stone slab cover. Now broken, the pieces were splayed against the base of the well.

“What happened?”

Leo shrugged. “Don’t ask me.”

This was before she discovered that Cal had gone to speak with their father. This was before she would check in on Walter at six to bring him supper, when she would find him, eyes gazing upward and unseeing, his mouth half-open with a fly crawling across his upper lip.