All Things Cease to Appear (16 page)

They were good workers. They started early, before eight. She’d hear them out there, scraping off the old paint. The hot sun got hotter and hotter but they never complained. By noon their T-shirts were dripping with sweat, though only Eddy took his off. He often had a cigarette in his mouth, squinting against the smoke in his eyes. She found herself studying him, peering out the windows as she did her chores. When she stood beside him she could smell his sweat, the detergent in his clothes. A few times, she caught him looking down her blouse when she leaned over to pick up Franny, holding her necklace, the gold cross, between her teeth.

At noon, she’d bring out lemonade and sandwiches and Franny would hand out the cups. They were sweet with her and watched her squat in the mud puddles, making pies in little tins. Here, Cole, she’d say, offering him one. It’s good pie.

Really? Is it chocolate?

Franny nodded. Want more?

Sure, why not make it two?

On their breaks, they played tag with her, running around the field, riling up the butterflies. The transistor radio going. The soft earth under their bare feet. Once, they chased a rabbit, which dove into its burrow. Shh, Cole shushed, crouching down.

He won’t come out, Franny said.

We have to keep real quiet, Eddy whispered, and they all crouched in the silence as they waited.

The rabbit came out, twitching its whiskers, and Franny screamed with delight.

Again they chased it and again he outsmarted them, vanishing into the underbrush.

They were unusual boys, she thought. Polite, sincere—broken. There were things she noticed: Cole’s halfway smile, like he was sorry for enjoying the work. His brother Wade as stoic as milk, thoughtful, courteous, a little clumsy. And Eddy a shifty poet, an operator, rarely meeting her eyes. When he did, you couldn’t look away.

Cole was Franny’s favorite. He’d just turned fourteen, still willing to be a boy. Together they made roads and castles and moats in the mud, and sailboats out of rhododendron leaves, with masts out of twigs. He wore a corduroy jacket, a size too big, and frayed at the wrists. She nicknamed him Professor. He was tall and skinny but had big shoulders and square-shaped hands. A born football star, she thought, but too gentle for the sport.

What do you want to be, she asked, when you grow up?

He shrugged like he’d never thought about it. I’m already grown.

She turned to Eddy. What does your father do?

Not a whole lot. He cracked a bitter smile, and she dropped it.

His eyes were like the blue of forgotten soldiers. Without him noticing she would watch him. A strong face like Achilles, she thought, mythical, epic. How patiently he treated Wade when helping him complete simple tasks he should’ve managed easily, she thought, by himself, or how gently he prodded the kind, thoughtful Cole to take credit for his good work. Somehow, the three of them seemed to come from an older time.

One morning, Wade arrived with a wooden contraption in his arms. It’s for Franny, he said. It’s a swing we can put up for her.

Wade’s good at making things, Eddy told her. It’s what he does best.

His brother looked away, but she caught his smile.

Touched by the gift, she said, Thank you, Wade.

That’s all right.

The small-seated swing, made all of wood except for the chains, had a bar that would slide down in front of Franny to keep her from falling out, and they hung it out back, in the tree.

I want Cole to push! Franny cried. Push me, Cole!

Swinging back and forth, she dropped her head back to gaze up at the sky. Look up there, Momma? The tree was like a jigsaw, the missing pieces filled with sky.

What kind of tree is that, Eddy?

That’s just an ordinary old tree. Oak, I think.

There’s a pear tree, too.

Yes, ma’am. Put ’em on your windowsill and they’ll get ripe.

The deer love to eat them. Late one night, I saw four of them standing there, eating to their hearts’ content.

Yeah, they know what’s good.

—

AT THE END
of the day they swam in the pond, stripping down to their undershorts and tossing their clothes in the grass. Leaves on the bottom had turned the water brown. Holding her mother’s hand, Franny stepped down to the shore, disrupting whole neighborhoods of frogs, her little feet disappearing in the soft mud.

Cole twisted through the water like a sea lion. Can she swim yet?

Almost. We’re working on it—right, Franny?

I can swim, she insisted. Look, Momma, a turtle. She crouched down to watch the creature pushing through the grass, moving slowly under its heavy brown shell, a weary monk.

Have you been in yet? Eddy asked, climbing out.

I’m too afraid. I don’t like when I can’t see the bottom.

Can’t feel it, either. Too deep. It’s a mystery. He smiled.

I guess I don’t like mysteries.

Gets hot enough, you’ll swim.

We joined a club. They have a pool. She regretted this the minute she said it.

I didn’t figure you for the type, he said.

My husband plays tennis.

He smirked. Watch out for those people.

What do you mean?

They think they own this town.

Okay. Thanks for the warning.

He looked at her. You don’t seem like you really fit.

No?

She waited for him to say more, but instead he sat down beside her and put on his shirt. He took his cigarettes from his pocket and lit one.

You’re different, he said. From other girls.

I’m older, she offered. I’m a mother. It changes you.

He glanced at her briefly, with affirmation. You’re a good mother.

Thanks, Eddy, that’s nice.

I’m not trying to be nice.

No?

He dragged on the cigarette, looking out at the pond. Tell me something, Mrs. Clare. You like it out here on the farm?

You don’t have to—

Catherine. His eyes were cold, a little angry. She thought of all of the girls who’d seen that same expression and tried to change it.

Yes, I think so.

Are you happy?

I don’t know, she said. What’s happy?

He looked away from her, then put his hand down in the grass beside hers. They were almost touching. You’re asking the wrong person, he said. I’m no expert on happy.

Someday You’ll Be Sorry

1

MAYBE IT STARTED
with her. That first time he saw her. Maybe because they’d bought the farm. Or because she’d opened the door that time and he’d stood there like an idiot with his hands in his pockets, saying he could work. Just wanting to be near her, to be close. Her eyes, maybe, because they were gray like his mother’s.

I’m Eddy, and this here’s Cole.
We used to live here, our mother died in this house.

This look on her face, thinking it over, then bending down to the little girl, her necklace swinging, and pulling her onto her hip, the white shades moving all at once, the sun flipping through.

She was somewhere in her twenties, not all that much older, and he was taller and bigger anyway. He wanted to hold her.

She looked at him again, with something in her eyes that seemed like hope. And he felt something twist in his gut.

—

THAT FIRST NIGHT,
walking back to Rainer’s place, his brother started to cry, and Eddy had to hold him a minute.

She was nice.

Yes, she was, Eddy told him.

I want to go back.

We will.

When, Eddy?

Tomorrow. Okay, buddy?

A state van was parked in front of his uncle’s house. The men, fresh out of jail, lurked and spit. One had a lazy eye and a carny smile. Parole like your birthday after fifteen years inside. People called him Paris, like the city. I’m just a roamer, he said, tapping the side of his head. I been all over this world.

There was a horn at his feet, a beat-up trumpet. He looked older than he probably was, with skin like lager, hair all white and curly.

Cole said, My brother plays.

Nah, I’m just fooling with it.

Paris smiled a little and handed him the horn. Let’s see what you got.

Eddy held the instrument. It had a story to tell, the old, dull brass warming in his hands. He brought it to his lips and blew a little, played a tune he knew well. She had a nice sound to her.

Yup, you stuck with her. Paris shook his head. That the only kind of love that don’t go away. I feel for you, brother. Ain’t nothing they can do for you now.

Paris proclaimed himself a man of darkness who’d found the light in prison. He’d been in and out his whole life.

They all find Jesus in prison, his uncle told him. What else they got to do?

He’d go back into the dorm to see him, the cots lined up like in an army barracks. Paris sitting on the edge of his with his elbows on his knees, staring at his hands like they were lumps of clay and he was trying to figure out what to make of them. I couldn’t find nothing to do, he told Eddy. Nothing but sit here.

My uncle’s putting you to work.

I can work, the man said. I got no problem with that.

He had a small black Bible beside him on the bed, its cover as soft as felt, and he’d marked his place in Revelation with a ribbon from his daughter’s hair that he let Eddy handle. The ribbon was pink and shiny and a little frayed. The daughter lived somewhere down south, worked in a truck-stop cafeteria. Paris had eyes like unpolished shoes, scuffed with wear. He played love songs, ballads. The blues. With everything he had he played the blues. You got to live hard, he told Eddy, taking hold of his shoulder. You got to live for her, he said, touching the rim of the horn. I don’t see you got much choice.

—

AT NIGHT
he went up to the wires. There was this path through the trees, and wires stretched lazily in every direction. You had all this beautiful country, and then the wires appeared, buzzing, and people got upset. Maybe because they realized they weren’t as safe as they thought, tucked away in their little stupid lives. Bottom line: people were afraid of death, most of them were. Not him, though. He wasn’t particularly afraid.

Sometimes this mangy old dog came out of the woods to follow him. It had kind of a bashed-in face. But it knew him, Eddy could tell. It would trail him at a distance, just two creatures sharing the night. They probably thought about the same things—the smell of the ground, the hard wet dirt of the trail, the grass thick as his shoelaces and long enough to trip you. Black and wiry-haired, the dog showed his teeth when he went along like he was smiling, his tongue hanging out of his mouth as long as a shoehorn. He’d look at him like: What am I doing here? Eddy shook his head and thought, Don’t be asking me philosophical questions. He walked on as far as you could up to a plateau and stood under the trapeze of buzzing wires while the dog went around him a few times making dog noises, and Eddy said, Quit your fussing and sit. The dog ignored him, then lifted his head like he’d heard something, and a moment later Eddy could hear the train.

—

YOU COULD WALK
right up to the house and they never knew. You could look right in the windows. They kept it lit up like a music box. You could hear Franny running around, screaming or laughing, like little kids do, and Eddy thought these were the best sounds ever. He could see Mr. Clare emptying a box of books in his grandfather’s old room, taking out each one and examining it like some priceless object before placing it on the shelf as if it were rigged with dynamite. He watched her in the kitchen, doing something at the counter, her hair piled up on her head. She was wearing what had to be one of her husband’s cast-off shirts, with a banker’s stripes, and cutoffs, and she had a great pair of legs, long and tanned, her elbows pointing as she fixed what he realized was a sandwich. Again, he thought of his mother, whose life was already over and had ended without much consequence. That was the real tragedy.

—

SHE’D STARTED
a garden and was up to her ankles in dirt. Eddy approached slowly, like he wanted to dance, and took the rake. Here, let me help you.

I want flowers, she said. Lots and lots of them.

We’ll get you flowers. He turned to his brother. Right, Cole?

Cole nodded.

I love tiger lilies, don’t you?

Sure.

What about you, Cole?

Well, I guess daisies.

Their mother had liked daisies. She was always sticking them in water.

Let’s plant some daisies, then, Mrs. Clare said.

They were different. They’d come from the city, but they weren’t like the other people who came up here. For one thing, they weren’t rich. Most of the city people had money. They’d buy summer places. You’d see them in town. They were ornery and undeserving. But the Clares were different. She was.

Anyway, Eddy was working for them now. This was business. She didn’t know they’d grown up here on the farm. She hadn’t heard any of the stories and he wasn’t planning on telling her.

This was work, he thought. Nothing more or less.

If she wanted flowers, he’d make sure she had them. As for the other feelings he had for her—they were not allowed. His mother had taught him right from wrong; he knew his boundaries. There were some lines you just didn’t cross.

Now pull out all these weeds, he instructed his brother. I’ll give these beds a good raking.

With agile hands, Cole tugged out the weeds. Not one escaped him. Eddy stood watching him. His little brother had things on his mind. Life and all its injustice. You could see it when he frowned at the ground, yanking out some knot under the earth. At first, working here had seemed like a good idea. But now Eddy didn’t know. He’d catch Cole gazing up at their mother’s window like he was waiting for her to look out and say this whole thing had been a big mistake. He couldn’t get past it. Most nights he cried himself to sleep. Everything they knew had changed. All you had left were old memories, pictures in your head, postcards from the person you used to be once. After a while you weren’t even sure they were yours.

2

ALL THAT SUMMER
it was warm afternoons and her lemonade and the little girl and Catherine’s yellow hair in the wind and her bony white feet in the grass. She had exquisite feet. She said he could call her Cathy if he wanted. She said her parents did. She didn’t mention her husband. He got a feeling with her. He’d watch her when she sketched. She was always sketching something—the trees, the old tires, Franny’s rain boots, the house—and she was good at it. Used a blue pencil for almost everything. She did Cole’s face, his pointy chin, his cheekbones, his pretty eyes. She did Wade’s hands nestled in his lap like sleeping doves. Let me do you, Eddy, she said.