After River (20 page)

I
KNEW BEFORE
I reached home, before I stumbled through the bottom field, weaving through the hulking forms of sleeping cows, their black and white hides reflecting the light of the full moon. Before my bruised and battered body climbed over the snake fence onto the road, before I saw our porch light burning. And I knew before I crept into our dark, empty, house and locked myself in the bathroom. Mr Ryan was right. I would never tell.

I was forever bound to him by our shared secret. I would tell no one, not my mother, my father, my brothers, or the police. I would never feel the relief of revenge. I would never whisper words into the darkness of a confessional to the waiting ears of a priest who would grant absolution from a forgiving God. My penance would be to carry this ugly secret alone.

And even after all these years I still cannot tell my daughter.

‘Mom?' Jenny's voice calls me back. ‘Mom. We're here.'

I look around. While I was lost in my dark memories, we had entered town, driven through a silent Main Street and up the hospital hill. We are parked in the wide circular driveway in front of the Alpine Inn.

The Alpine Inn. Such a ridiculous name for this regal old two-storey stone and brick building. Surely they could have come up
with something more original, more fitting for this place that at one time was Our Lady of Compassion, School For Girls. For years now it has been a bed and breakfast. The dormitories, which once housed the too-young expectant mothers, have been divided into a number of separate rooms, each decorated in paisley and gingham country charm. The enclosed walkway, which once led to the hospital, is gone now. The privacy hedges no longer exist. Except for the Virginia creeper vines reaching up to the corners, the building stands bare and exposed to the street, no longer needing to hide its existence from the world.

Next door, the hospital, a larger version of this building, stands unchanged on the exterior. But inside, nuns no longer glide up and down the halls in wimples and silent efficiency. There is no maternity ward, no surgery floor. Due to the government's centralization of health services the hospital is mostly offices, extended care, and emergency now, not much more than an outpost, a first-aid station.

I look up to the third floor windows to where my mother sleeps. My heart lurches. Suddenly all I want is to see her. Until now I have managed to ignore the nagging thoughts that I might not make it in time, that I could be too late. Now I need to see her, to touch her, to be certain.

‘I want to go up and see Mom before I check in,' I say. ‘Do you think we can go in this late?'

‘There's a night buzzer,' Jenny answers. ‘I've already warned the nurse that we're coming.'

We leave the car and cross the lawn that separates the two buildings. ‘I wish you'd change your mind,' Jenny says, taking my arm in hers, ‘and stay at my house.'

‘I want to be close to the hospital. Besides, I already have a reservation at the Inn.' I squeeze her arm. ‘Just let me get through this, Jenny.'

She shakes her head, but says nothing as we approach the front doors of the hospital.

‘So, when are Morgan, Ruth and Carl getting here?' I ask in an attempt to change the subject.

‘Some time tomorrow. They're all staying out at the farm with Boyer and Stanley.'

Boyer and Stanley. She says those names as easily as if she were talking about an old married couple. And, in fact, of course she is. Jenny has always accepted her uncle, his partner, his homosexuality, as naturally as her love for him. And why shouldn't she?

But I wonder if she can possibly imagine how different it was for our generation. Does she realize homosexuality was a criminal offence in Canada up until 1969? Would she be surprised to learn that as late as 1965 a Canadian man was sentenced to life in prison, simply because he admitted to being homosexual? Or, unbelievably, that it was not until June of this very year, 2003, that a United States Supreme Court decision finally and full decriminalized homosexuality across America.

Unlike Jenny, I did not grow up in an era of acceptance. I had to learn it.

I
N THE HARSH
bathroom light I filled the deep claw-foot bath with steaming water. I pulled off my torn clothes, clothes that must never be allowed to find their way into the laundry for my mother's eyes to read. I tossed them into the corner. I would hide them in the crawl space under the eaves in my bedroom until I found a chance to burn them in the basement furnace.

I lowered myself into the hot water and scrubbed my body until it was numb in a frantic attempt to wash away the evil, the memory, and let it swirl down the drain with the dirt and the blood. I sat hugging my knees as the bath slowly emptied. Then I turned the water on again and lay against the sloped porcelain back. I let the water fill to the overflow, let it slowly crawl up and cover my entire body until only my nose and closed eyes were above water. I lay immersed, allowing my body to float suspended, in a world without sound, without light, without hurt. I wanted to stay there forever. I wanted to sink down and let it claim me.

I pushed away the visions and the cries of outrage that wanted to bubble up. I could not, would not, give them voice. It was all I could do, all I must do, to live with the torture of this secret eating at the lining of my stomach, my throat, trying to find a way out, to scream to the world,
‘Look! Look what has happened to me, what was “done”
to me.'
I refused to give the beastly act a name. I would keep it caged, locked up in darkness, give it no voice to whimper in self-pity. And I would give no one the right to look at me with eyes filled with sympathy while they hid their revulsion, and their curiosity, for the imagined acts of violence they allowed themselves to visualize being committed on my body.

No I would not be a victim–his victim.

I even allowed myself to fantasize for a moment, to indulge in the bittersweet thought of making him a victim. Before I locked myself in the bathroom, when I was certain that the house was empty, I had picked up the wall phone by the fridge. The dial tone sounded loud in the silence of the dark kitchen; the clicking of the rotary dial seemed to take forever for each of the four numbers of the local Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment.

At the sound of a voice on the other end of the line, I whispered, ‘Check the gravel pit,' and then quickly put the phone back on the hook. Yes, I would keep the secret, but as I lay in the bath I imagined Mr Ryan trying to explain his half-naked condition to the police. But even these thoughts brought no comfort. I sunk lower totally submerging myself and concentrated on the ringing silence in my water-filled ears.

The bath water had cooled when I felt vibrations ripple through my watery cocoon. I lifted my head. Footsteps pounding up the porch steps, the kitchen door opened, more footsteps followed. ‘Natalie?' my mother's voice called out. Her knuckles rapped on the bathroom door, ‘Natalie, are you in there?'

I tried to find my voice, not sure what tortured sound would escape and find its way up into my throat and out of my mouth. I was surprised to hear the flat normality of the ‘yes,' that finally came.

‘She's home.' I heard the relief in her voice. Heavy footsteps hurried from the kitchen.

Behind her my father asked, ‘Where's she been? Doesn't she know everyone's been out looking for her?' The anguish of worry hardened his words.

‘It's okay, Gus,' my mother soothed him. ‘You go with Boyer. I'll talk to her.'

‘What was she thinking, running off in the dark like that? Letting everyone chase after her.' A mumbled trail of his words disappeared behind the slamming of the screen door.

‘Are you okay?' Mom asked from the other side of the bathroom door.

‘I'm fine,' I answered. ‘I'm–I'm just taking a bath.'

I wanted her to go away–I wanted her to come in and sit on the edge of the bath and talk to me like she did when I was young, our shared femininity an island in a house full of males.

I wanted her to leave me alone–I wanted her to take me upstairs to bed and tuck me in like a child, tell me everything was going to be all right, then lay beside me until I fell asleep, the heat from her body keeping me safe and warm.

‘Do you want a cup of tea?' she asked.

Tea. My mother's solution to every crisis. Oh, how I wanted that to be enough. To sip milk-and-sugar-laced tea once again in our exclusive ritual of ‘girl' time, to have her read leaves that told of only good things. But the time for that was passed, was part of another life.

‘No, thanks. I just want to go to bed,' I called out, hoping she would leave the kitchen.

I waited a while, then pulled the plug and climbed out of the bath. I took my time, rubbing myself dry, ignoring the complaints
of my aching body, while the water drained. I cleaned the bath, making sure there were no traces left there to cause wonder. Then, wrapped in a bath towel and clutching the bundle of clothes close to my chest, I opened the bathroom door. My mother sat at the table waiting, a teacup rising to her lips.

I could not bring myself to look into her eyes. I reached for the handle of the stairway door. ‘Good night,' I murmured and pulled it open.

The china teacup clinked into the saucer. I expected her to ask where I'd been, or why I had run off. The questions never came. Perhaps Boyer had told her everything, or perhaps, as she always seemed to, she just knew. Or perhaps she was too relieved to care. Or too worried, because the words she did say, the words that cut through my feigned apathy were, ‘River's lost.'

Lost, how could he be lost?

‘From what I understand they got separated when they were searching for you,' Mom said. ‘When Boyer finally returned to the cabin, River wasn't there. But his things still are.'

I watched Mom's face as she spoke, looking for signs of anger, or even surprise, that instead of being gone, as she told me he was, River had been at Boyer's cabin. But I only saw worry in her eyes.

‘Boyer was certain that eventually you would come home,' Mom said, ‘but River isn't as familiar with these mountains–doesn't know every ridge and gully the way we do.'

I didn't know what to say. Nothing. There was nothing I could say. There was no accusation in her voice, but I knew, as I was certain she did, that if anything happened to River, it would be my fault. I was the reason he was lost. ‘Boyer and your father are going back out on the horses to search for him,' she told me.

A few minutes later, I watched from my bedroom window as Dad
and Boyer led the saddled horses from the barn. Mom hurried out with a thermos and a first-aid kit. Dad stuffed them in his saddlebags, and then he and Boyer rode up the road towards the back field and out of sight.

I crawled into my bed. Curled up in a ball under blankets and quilts, I lay shivering while Mom sat alone downstairs.

I prayed. I prayed for River to come back safe. Somewhere in my prayers was the beginning of acceptance. I realized I could not stop loving River, any more than I could have stopped loving Boyer when I was six years old and learned that you can't marry your brother. I would just have to learn to love River in the same way.

Before long I heard Morgan and Carl arrive home from town. ‘We'll go help search,' they said simultaneously after Mom had told them about River.

‘No,' she insisted. ‘No you won't. We don't need anybody else wandering through the bush tonight.' Her voice was firm. ‘Someone has to be here to do the milking in the morning.'

‘Oh, he'll show up by then,' Morgan assured her.

But he didn't. There were no answers to my prayers, all our prayers, that night. Before dawn, Dad came home. Alone. He joined Morgan and Carl in the barn. Full udders will not wait while emergencies are resolved.

Downstairs my mother took refuge in routine. I dressed quickly in a flannel shirt and shapeless pants and joined her. We cooked breakfast in silence. Breakfasts that would grow cold on platters. Uneaten bacon wrinkled in filmy white fat, and eggs congealed and hardened, while my brothers rushed off to join Boyer in the search. I went with Dad to deliver the milk.

We rode into town without speaking, both of us lost in our own thoughts. It had been so long since I had gone with him on the milk
run. Would my father remember our routine on Colbur Street? How could I ask him to deliver to the Ryan house? How would I find the strength to walk up onto that porch?

I didn't have to worry. When we pulled up in front of the Ryans' house it was dark, all the curtains closed. A piece of white paper was stuffed into one of the empty milk bottles on the step. I knew what the note would say before I dashed up onto the porch and grabbed the bottle then hurried back to the truck and slammed the door.

No more milk!

 

Two members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police detachment stood in our kitchen talking with Boyer when I came in after we returned from the milk run. I froze at the sight of them, but they hardly noticed me as I edged past them.

These were the same fresh-faced policemen who often found their way out to our table for afternoon or midnight snacks with our mother. They stood now with their hats in their hands, their faces serious beneath identical white-scalp crew cuts.

‘It's too early,' the taller RCMP officer was saying.

‘Too early?' Boyer said. ‘He's been missing since last night.' He sat on a kitchen chair lacing up his hiking boots. Mom stood beside him staring at the officers, her arms folded.

‘Well, he's a grown man,' the officer answered. ‘Now if it was a child that would be different. But an adult? An adult has to be missing forty-eight hours before we can organize a search. Who knows why he took off? Maybe—'

‘He's lost,' Boyer interrupted without looking up. ‘He's in trouble.'

‘Isn't he a draft dodger?' the other officer asked.

‘Conscientious objector,' Boyer sighed as he tugged at his laces.

‘Well, maybe he went back to the States. Maybe he decided to slip across the border and go home.'

‘His things are still here.'

‘Okay,' the taller officer said brushing the non-existent hair back from his forehead. ‘If he doesn't show up by tomorrow, we'll bring in a tracking dog—'

‘It could be too late by then,' Boyer said. He stood up and stalked out of the kitchen, the screen door slamming behind him.

Dad caught him on the porch. Through the screen, I saw him put his hand on Boyer's shoulder, ‘Go get some sleep, son,' he said. ‘I'll go out with Carl and Morgan after we grab some lunch.'

While Dad and Boyer spoke out on the porch the two officers stood, caps twisting in their hands, looking out of place and uncomfortable in the heat of our kitchen. Mom walked over to the sideboard in the corner and turned her back on them as if they weren't there.

‘Must have been quite a full moon last night,' the shorter one said, searching for words that would return our kitchen to a place where they had often found respite from the tensions of their job.

‘People traipsing through the bush, wandering around in the dark. You wouldn't believe who we picked up skulking around last night with his pants down–literally.'

My stomach lurched. I glanced over at Mom. She stood at the sideboard slicing bread with the determination of withheld anger. The remark had no effect. She was in no mood for local gossip. She spun around, pushed her way past them, and slammed the plate of bread on the table.

‘Look, Mrs Ward,' the taller officer said. ‘As soon as we call a search, as soon as we put out a missing person's report, we have to notify Customs, the authorities in the States, the FBI, and, well, do
you really want to alert them if this fellow is trying to sneak home for a visit?'

‘He's not,' she said. She moved to the stove, her back once again to them, dismissing them.

It was the first time I witnessed my mother not invite someone who was in our kitchen at mealtime to join us.

 

The gossip vine of a small town has its advantages. When the word spread that River was missing, a few people came out to help search. Very few. Mom always said you can tell your friends by those who show up in a crisis. Even more telling are those who don't. She wondered aloud about all the young people, all our friends who had come out to ride horses, to party at the lake, to dance out in the sunroom, who practically lived at the farm on weekends and holidays. Where were they all now?

Jake came, though not to search. ‘I'm too old to be climbing these hills,' he grumbled, but he quietly took up the slack helping with chores and milking.

Even while the search continued, the routine of the farm had to be kept. Cows had to be milked and the bottled milk had to be delivered daily. The following morning more empty milk bottles waited on porches with notes instead of quarters inside. By the end of the week we would lose ten more customers.

On Thursday afternoon, Morgan went into town to pick up the grocery order. When he came out of the Super Value, he found written in the dust on the side of the truck the words
HOMO MILK
! and
FAIRYLAND
!

The next night someone climbed up on our gate and spray-painted the words
FAG FARM
! onto the Ward's Dairy sign. In the morning, Dad took the sign down and burned it. It was never replaced.

The anonymous phone calls started that evening. I cringed the first time I heard a muffled voice promising us ‘hell and damnation'. Each time Mom answered the phone only to slam it back down, I knew she was hearing similar threats. And still there was not one word spoken in our house about the root of those rumours. As we rushed past each other, frantically doing what we could during those days, no one questioned the accusations about Boyer's sexuality. No one asked how and why the rumours started. No one questioned my part in all of it.

As the rumours spread, rumours that I knew could only have begun their ugly web of gossip from one house in town, there were those who ignored them.