Digging Out (28 page)

W
hile the soup is simmering on the stove, Mam goes upstairs to check on Da. I need air badly, a stretch, a look at the sky. I start out in one direction—up toward the cemetery—but almost immediately turn and walk in the opposite. Once again, it is like I am being pulled by something unearthly, and before I know it, I am standing in front of the Joneses’ front step. I have to physically restrain myself, put my hand over my mouth, in order not to call out, “Hallie!”

I hesitate before walking up to the door, partly hoping no one will be home. When the door opens, I want to see little Niko on the stairs, his shy way of smiling just for me. But little Niko is no longer little Niko, and Mrs. Jones, no longer yellow-haired and unlined She stares at me for a moment, then throws her arms around my neck.

“Alys dear!” she says squeezing me tight. “I can’t tell you how wonderful ‘tis to see you. Can you come in? Oh, do come in. Tell me absolutely everything about you, dear.” She wraps me up in her arms and ushers me into the house I know as well as my own. “When did you arrive and how long will you be staying? Come in, come in. Mr. J is in the garden. He’ll be so glad to see you, too.”

The kitchen table is already set for two with a flowered cloth and colored serviettes in silver rings, two candles; I smell the comforting aroma of meat roasting. How have they managed after all they’ve lost to keep such friendliness and warmth alive? Why didn’t I stay in touch with her?

The obligatory cup of tea, and then Mrs. Jones is sitting across from me, her warm hand on mine.

“How
are
you doing, Alys? Tell me all about your family. Your husband. What does he do? Tell me what it’s like to live in the States.”

I’m not so good at hiding things these days, and Mrs. Jones can see it in my face.

“Oh, Alys dear, whatever is wrong?”

I shake my head, not wanting to open it all up again. She rubs my hand. “Perhaps I can help?”

Before I know it, before I can shore myself up, I say, “He died. My husband Quite unexpectedly almost a year ago now, while I was out of town. In front of our eight year old, Hannah. She had to handle the whole thing with him on her own.”

“Oh my goodness, sweet Alys. How terrible. I’m so, so sorry. Doesn’t seem to be easy for anyone, does it?” She leans over and puts her arms around me as I cry. “There, there. There now, dearie,” she whispers. “I s’pose the good news is that if anyone knows how to comfort a child, it’s you. D’you remember how wonderful you were with Niko? No one could have helped him through like you did. And of course, time helps. Not that we ever forget.” She clicks her tongue and rubs my shoulders. “We never forget, do we? But we somehow learn to live alongside it.”

“It was my fault,” I whisper, surprising myself.

“What, dear? Your husband’s death was your fault?”

I shake my head again and again. “No, Hallie’s.”

“Oh, Alys, sweetheart, it was nobody’s fault …”

“If I hadn’t insisted on buying our milk, if I’d let her do it instead of me, if I’d let her queue up with me …” I am sobbing.

“Alys, Alys’” Mrs. Jones has gotten up and is cradling me in her full, soft arms. “It wasn’t your fault. Please you mustn’t think this. My God, Alys, have you been carrying this around with you all these years? Dear, dear Alys.” She rubs my back until I’ve stopped crying, then pulls a hankie from the sleeve of her cardigan.

She smiles at me. “Okay now?”

“I didn’t want to do this. I’m so sorry.”

“Now, now, Alys. I’m glad you did. Now it’s out. It’s terrible that you’ve been holding on to that all these years. You must know there
was nothing you could do to save Hallie. It was her time, like. We know that. And so must you. It’s been so many years now, and life is short enough, Alys. Let these thoughts go, please, dear.” She pats my hand.

“And what about your children, Alys darling. How are they doing now?”

I catch my breath and then I tell her all about Dafydd and Hannah. Feeling better as we talk, I notice a vase of yellow roses on the sideboard in front of a photo of Hallie, confirming for me that Mrs. Jones must be the one who had put the flowers I saw on Hallie’s grave.

Finally, I ask about Niko, who she says is living in Newport now. He and his wife run an ice-cream shop. “Homemade creams and ice lollies,” Mrs. Jones says. They have two children; one, named Hallie, is four, and the other, named Gregory, two years old. “Harry and I see them about once a month.”

Mr. Jones comes in from the garden, immediately cracks a wide smile and says, “My goodness me, it’s Alys Davies. I’d know you anywhere. What a nice surprise. Why, you haven’t changed an iota.” He takes off his gardening gloves and hugs me up into his huge frame, lifting me off my feet like a child, putting me down squarely, taking my hands in both of his big ones and looking at me closely. “You look good, you do. Healthy and full of life” And so does he. He is not stooped by age, his shoulders still wide, his hair still a wispy blond, like Hallie’s.

Mrs. Jones doesn’t mention my outburst, but continues to stay close, her hand on mine now that I am sitting again. She listens as Mr. Jones asks me all about my life in California. He says how proud of me he is, how glad he is to see how well I am doing.

“And how’s your father doing, then?” he asks.

“All right, it seems. Well, that’s actually a lie. He’s dying. Mam is handling it, or I should say, it seems like she is. But he’s dying. He was a little better yesterday.”

Mrs. Jones nods, her eyes full of tears. She shakes her head as if trying to change the subject.

“Are you here long enough for us to arrange a dinner with Niko and his family? I’m sure he would love to see you.” We make a tentative date for next Monday night.

I hesitate before taking my leave, asking if it’s okay to see Hallie’s
room. As we walk up the stairs together, I think I smell Hallie’s familiar lemony scent, and a million memories flash through my mind. Mr. and Mrs. Jones have made her room into a guest room for their grandchildren. There are photos of the kids and their colorful crayon drawings are tacked on all the walls. Sitting on the corner win-dowsill, in a small silver frame, is a photo of Hallie when she was about six, standing tall and smiling.

Back at Mam and Da’s, Evan is sitting with Mam at the kitchen table. Seeing them together gives me a moment’s taste of what it would have been like had I stayed. Both their features live in Dafydd, and it’s clear that no matter where I’ve gone or what I’ve lived, we are a family. I wish Dafydd were here. I miss him. And Hannah. Six more days until I return to Los Angeles and then another week before I fetch Hannah home from Colorado. I am not ready to leave any of these people and be alone again, to have to face the problems of Gabriella and Isabel.

“The soup smells wonderful,” Evan says, in that way I remember he always had of making me feel I’ve accomplished the impossible. He rises and comes toward me, both of us hesitating a bit, perhaps because of Mam’s presence. “How are you?” he asks, with some new warmth, perhaps also because of Mam’s presence.

The affection I feel for him is caught in my body like a frog in my throat.

“Da’s asleep,” Mam says from her place at the table. “I’ve asked Evan if he will join us for tea. We could take our bowls up later and eat with him. I hope that’s all right, Alys.”

“Of course,” I say, looking up quickly into Evan’s translucent blue-green eyes and then quickly away.

“Did you have a nice walk?” he asks.

“I went round Hallie’s.”

“Ah.” He nods, and nothing more needs be said. I can see he understands.

“Evan was just saying about your little girl, Hannah,” Mam starts. “And I was wondering how she is doing without her father.” Evan’s presence seems to free Mam up. I don’t know how to answer, still feeling vulnerable and teary from being with the Joneses.

Evan comes to the rescue. “I told your mam that Hannah is enjoying herself at camp in Colorado.” Does Mam even know what
camp is? As I found telling Evan, it is not a common thing to do in Wales, to send your child away to a summer camp. To send your child away anywhere.

“She must be a very brave little girl. To lose a father is a lot. Especially at her young age.” She pauses and adds, “I was also thinking you are very brave, to have let her go away, I mean, during a time that must be ever so hard for you.”

My eyes fill. “It
was
hard for me to let her go. But she is very strong and she was determined to go.”

“It’s both a blessing and a curse to have a strong daughter,” she says, looking straight at me.

My body goes still.

“What I really mean is, hard as it has been without you, I’m glad you are strong-willed. It has been good for you.” She bows her head and looks down at her hands. “But… I have missed you.”

“Mam …”

Evan moves back, giving us room.

“Oh, Alys,” Mam says, starting to get up. I put my hand over my mouth, embarrassed that I am falling apart in front of her, in front of Evan.

“I’m sorry, Mam. I don’t mean to be crying. I know you have your hands full now. It’s just’”

Before I can finish my sentence she is beside me, holding me. I am very small, crying in her arms. My body shakes and the tears keep coming until I feel I have dissolved in them, dissolved in my mother’s arms.

Mam reaches into her apron pocket and gets her handkerchief. She wipes my eyes and holds it up to my nose, and like a small child, I blow.

“There, there, Alys,” she says, patting my arm. “There, there. It is hard to be losing a husband and a father all in the same year. It seems utterly unfair that you should ever have to lose anything else again in your whole life.” Her words open a place inside that has been shut down for a long, long time.

Later on we eat dinner with Da. He has been using the oxygen mask but while Mam feeds him it hangs loose around his neck. Da is relieved that Doc Rogers is coming again later. “I think I’ll ask him for some painkillers,” he says.

“Are you in pain now, Arthur?”

“A bit.”

“Where, then? Is it something I can massage?” Mam’s expression is full of her own pain. “Your da’s not had much pain before now, then,” she tells me again. “At least not in the lungs, coughing or short of breath, until just now Others who have had the black lung have had pain sometimes for years and years, and trouble breathing. Right, Arthur?”

As I sit with them, tough as the situation is, and as many years as we have been apart, we seem to manage together. Mam and Da are in this hard time together. I can feel their deep partnership. And I feel mostly at home, with Evan, too, as if he has always been near, in the back of my mind, in the quiet of my heart. But now I can admit it out loud to myself. Of course, as soon as I do, the cold black terror surrounds me. Someone else can be taken away from me. Such a familiar feeling, this darkness rising, turning all hope away. It seems even more haunting in Aberfan.

After dinner, Evan asks if I want to go round the pub and have a drink with some friends. “You might remember Oscar Jeens. Worked in the mine with Parry and me. He lives with little Sophie Greenway.”

I remember a lot about “little Sophie.” She stuck her tongue out at me more than once when we were little and had turned her back on me when we’d gotten older. She was younger than I by a few months and, like Parry, drew beautiful pictures. Sophie had drawn a picture of all the children who had died in the disaster for their parents. Of course, I also remember that years later she’d had an abortion, and the father turned out not to be Oscar Jeens, who was her boyfriend back then, too. It was quite a scandal. When I’d found I was pregnant, it was because I knew she’d had an abortion that I’d considered one.

“It won’t be a late night,” Evan promises. “Just a few blokes from the choir and their wives Might even be fun for you to see some of the old-timers.” I wasn’t at all sure about that.

As we leave the room, Da raises his hand, and Mam says, “Have a lovely time.”

Outside, Evan takes my arm. It surprises me.

“Do you remember how to play darts?”

In the dark, smoky pub, someone is strumming a guitar. Evan leads me to the back, where a group of people gather round a small table. Two men toss darts in a corner.

As we approach the table, the men all stand, holding out their hands across it, transferring cigarettes to ashtrays or mouths to shake Evan’s hand. The smoke is thick. Of course in California, smoking is banned in restaurants and bars. One black-haired man affectionately claps Evan on the back and offers him a cigarette. I think about having one, but don’t. Evan introduces me to everyone, including “little Sophie” Greenway, who now has long red hair with a tightly curled fringe at her forehead and blue eyes made up in dark liner with heavy mascara.

“I remember you,” she says. “You were just a snip of a thing when you left, and you aren’t much changed except maybe your hair is longer and there’s more of it.” She smiles, appearing to be friendly, but I hear something else in her comment. Maybe I’m just being overly sensitive. “I like your boots,” she adds, which makes me immediately uncomfortable since my casual clothes cause me to clash with the rest of the women, who have on silk blouses and nice slacks or skirts. “Where’d you get them? Texas? Montana?”

I wind my long, unruly hair into a knot at the back of my neck, wishing that I wore makeup, eyeliner, a skirt—anything that might make me look more formal. “California,” I say. She eyes my jeans and T-shirt.

“What’ll you drink?” Oscar asks me. I look around at all the bottles of ale and Guinness gathered on the table. I hate beer. Especially warm beer “White wine,” I say, and once again I’m embarrassed. Evan, seeming to sense my discomfort, steps in “We’ve just had a huge dinner at the Davies house. I’ll actually have a glass of wine as well.”

As the group continues to order, Evan goes off to throw some darts. Sophie’s friend Enid says, “You live in the States, like?”

“California,” I say again, this time with a smile.

“California. That’s why you’re so brown. That’s a long way from here. Is that where you went when you left here? Do you live anywhere near Hollywood?”