Part 18 (2/2)

paths that animals or people looking for golf b.a.l.l.s had made. The ground sloped slightly downward, and once you were through the irregular wall of bushes you could see a bit of the river-the river that was in fact the reason for the sign at the gate, the name on the clubhouse. Riverside Golf Club. The water was steel gray, and looked to be rolling, not breaking in a chop the way pond water would do, in this rush of weather. Between it and us there was a meadow of weeds, all of it seemed in bloom. Goldenrod, jewel-weed with its red and yellow bells, and what I thought were flowering nettles with pinkish-purple cl.u.s.ters, and wild asters. Grapevine, too, grabbing and wrapping whatever it could find, and tangling underfoot. The soil was soft, not quite gummy. Even the most frail-stemmed, delicate-looking plants had grown up almost as high as, or higher than, our heads. When we stopped and looked up through them we could see trees at a little distance tossing around like bouquets. And something coming, from the direction of the midnight clouds. It was the real rain, coming at us behind this splatter we were getting, but it appeared to be so much more than rain. It was as if a large portion of the sky had detached itself and was bearing down, bustling and resolute, taking a not quite recognizable but animate shape. Curtains of rain-not veils but really thick and wildly slapping curtains-were driven ahead of it. We could see them distinctly, when all we were feeling, still, were these light, lazy drops. It was almost as if we were looking through a window, and not quite believing that the window would shatter, until it did, and rain and wind hit us, all together, and my hair was lifted and fanned out above my head. I felt as if my skin might do that next.

I tried to turn around then-I had an urge, that I had not felt before, to run out of the bushes and head for the clubhouse. But I could not move. It was hard enough to stand up-out in the open the wind would have knocked you down at once.

Stooping, b.u.t.ting his head through the weeds and against the wind, Mike got around in front of me, all the time holding on to - 180*

my arm. Then he faced me, with his body between me and the storm. That made as much difference as a toothpick might have done. He said something, right into my face, but I could not hear him. He was shouting, but not a sound from him could reach me.

He had hold of both my arms now, he worked his hands down to my wrists and held them tight. He pulled me down-both of us staggering, the moment we tried to make any change of position-so that we were crouched close to the ground. So close together that we could not look at each other-we could only look down, at the miniature rivers already breaking up the earth around our feet, and the crushed plants and our soaked shoes. And even this had to be seen through the waterfall that was running down our faces.

Mike released my wrists and clamped his hands on my shoulders. His touch was still one of restraint, more than comfort.

We remained like this till the wind pa.s.sed over. That could not have been more than five minutes, perhaps only two or three.

Rain still fell, but now it was ordinary heavy rain. He took his hands away, and we stood up shakily. Our s.h.i.+rts and slacks were stuck fast to our bodies. My hair fell down over my face in long witch's tendrils and his hair was flattened in short dark tails to his forehead. We tried to smile, but had hardly the strength for it.

Then we kissed and pressed together briefly. This was more of a ritual, a recognition of survival rather than of our bodies'

inclinations. Our lips slid against each other, slick and cool, and the pressure of the embrace made us slightly chilly, as fresh water was squished out of our clothing.

Every minute, the rain grew lighter. We made our way, slightly staggering, through the half-flattened weeds, then between the thick and drenching bushes. Big tree branches had been hurled all over the golf course. I did not think until later that any one of them could have killed us.

We walked in the open, detouring around the fallen limbs.

The rain had almost stopped, and the air brightened. I was - 181*

walking with my head bent-so that the water from my hair fell to the ground and not down my face-and I felt the heat of the sun strike my shoulders before I looked up into its festival light.

I stood still, took a deep breath, and swung my hair out of my face. Now was the time, when we were drenched and safe and confronted with radiance. Now something had to be said.

”There 's something I didn't mention to you.”

His voice surprised me, like the sun. But in the opposite way.

It had a weight to it, a warning-determination edged with apology.

”About our youngest boy,” he said. ”Our youngest boy was killed last summer.”

Oh.

”He was run over,” he said. ”I was the one ran over him.

Backing out of our driveway.”

I stopped again. He stopped with me. Both of us stared ahead.

”His name was Brian. He was three.

”The thing was, I thought he was upstairs in bed. The others were still up, but he 'd been put to bed. Then he 'd got up again.

”I should have looked, though. I should have looked more carefully.”

I thought of the moment when he got out of the car. The noise he must have made. The moment when the child's mother came running out of the house. This isn't him, he isn't here, it didn't happen.

Upstairs in bed.

He started walking again, entering the parking lot. I walked a little behind him. And I did not say anything-not one kind, common, helpless word. We had pa.s.sed right by that.

He didn't say, It was my fault and I'll never get over it. I'll never forgive myself. But I do as well as I can.

Or, My wife forgives me but she 'll never get over it either.

I knew all that. I knew now that he was a person who had hit rock bottom. A person who knew-as I did not know, did not come near knowing-exactly what rock bottom was like. He and - 182*

his wife knew that together and it bound them, as something like that would either break you apart or bind you, for life. Not that they would live at rock bottom. But they would share a knowledge of it-that cool, empty, locked, and central s.p.a.ce.

It could happen to anybody.

Yes. But it doesn't seem that way. It seems as if it happens to this one, that one, picked out specially here and there, one at a time.

I said, ”It isn't fair.” I was talking about the dealing out of these idle punishments, these wicked and ruinous swipes. Worse like this, perhaps, than when they happen in the midst of plentiful distress, in wars or the earth's disasters. Worst of all when there is the one whose act, probably an uncharacteristic act, is singly and permanently responsible.

That's what I was talking about. But meaning also, It is not fair. What has this got to do with us?

A protest so brutal that it seems almost innocent, coming out of such a raw core of self. Innocent, that is, if you are the one it's coming from, and if it has not been made public.

”Well,” he said, quite gently. Fairness being neither here nor there.

”Sunny and Johnston don't know about it,” he said. ”None of the people know, that we met since we moved. It seemed as if it might work better that way. Even the other kids-they don't hardly ever mention him. Never mention his name.”

I was not one of the people they had met since they moved.

Not one of the people amongst whom they would make their new, hard, normal life. I was a person who knew-that was all.

A person he had, on his own, who knew.

”That's strange,” he said, looking around before he opened the trunk of the car to stow away the golf case.

”What happened to the guy who was parked here before?

Didn't you see another car parked here when we came in? But I never saw one other person on the course. Now that I think of it.

Did you?”

- 183*

I said no.

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