Lost Nation (48 page)

“How could that be?”

“Think upon it. As you said, I could have gone west. Or south. I could have taken ship to Europe, South America. I had access to such funds. As far as I know that money still lies in my accounts. But I remained in New England. I would not allow myself the luxury of any life but one that reminded me. No. That word lacks sufficient strength for what I was about. Each day I was determined to face myself as I was, as I am. A man capable of the most heinous of actions. Who expected no forgiveness. Not from you or any of the others or even that incredible old silent Lord. But forgiveness from myself. For what is unforgivable, all of it. And there was plenty. Have you considered it from that position, that possibility?”

Cooper was no longer angry but the eyes were still Betsey’s. When she was confused and perturbed. Cooper took time, mulling this, then said, “I suppose a man might feel he had no choice but for such self-abuse, and consider it not choice but duty. A man of terrible crimes he somehow escaped but who nevertheless was stricken by them. Is that the sort of thing you mean?”

“Yes.”

Cooper nodded, still troubled by this vision. As if a comprehension was opening ever wider to him but could not fit it to the man before him. Finally Cooper went on, “And after you left word came out bit by bit of the other business you were up to. And surely you felt a terrible guilt when Mother and Hazen died. And there’s not the least triteness intended when I say you idn’t the first man to find himself in such a mess. But few choose to flog themselves naked in the wilderness over
it. And there was the other thing, you so easy leaving the children that remained. As if your guilt was more important than Sarah Alice and me. I was just a baby missing my mother. Who my sister did her best to substitute for. But Sarah Alice. She was a young girl, only what—twelve, thirteen. Such a horrible thing to do to her.”

Here it is, thought Blood.

Cooper went on. “To leave her at such a time. I can still barely comprehend it. What possessed you to care so little for her? I’ll make you angry but I don’t care. It was selfishness, pure and simple. From all I heard, all I learned, the most I can figure is flat-out selfish. Nothing grand or noble about it. That’s what I see.”

Blood was quiet some time. Clearly the truth had been kept from them. How now to proceed, to reveal that monstrosity of himself. He realized at this point they had found him, revealed themselves, and remained mostly untouched. Fletcher had learned an unpleasant aspect of himself but the years would reduce the pain of it, be it a part of him or overcome. But they had won, was what he was thinking. Young men intent on facing the dragon and returning home. And perhaps he should allow that. Rid himself of his perverse pride and let them vanquish him. If nothing else it might serve to get them moving, although again he expected he would need anger for that. And like that the anger was there.

He was on his feet then, hitching himself back a couple of paces to face easily them both. Already with some satisfaction because his coming up near toppled Cooper who caught himself with one hand, remained crouched but guarded now. Good, thought Blood.

Blood said, “Listen now. I’ll tell you some truths. Hear me and consider carefully and you’ll see there are gaps in what you know—some only I can fill. I will be simple and plain, as you asked. I have no expectation for any form of forgiving. It will be years and families of your own before you may understand. And even then, pray to God, your grasp will only be partial. For some actions can only be fully comprehended by the man who commits them. To know truly their aftermath. Meditate upon that a moment.”

His eyes away from both boys he went round to the bucket, filled his cup and drank it down. As he drank he looked at Sally. Her face was composed and she nodded. As if she understood all he was about to
undertake. He filled the cup and carried it back, thinking she knew more of him than his sons did.

The short walk was good for his leg. He felt strong.

Cooper had moved to the log so he and Fletcher were side by side. A reflexive defensive reorganization. It suited Blood. He stopped before them. Everything was tactical at this time. Blood had the swift understanding that this was the day of his life. Nudged behind that was the lesser understanding that he might die soon, perhaps this very day. This did nothing but enforce him.

He said, “We begin with the day Cooper’s mother and your elder brother died. It was an accident. So I appear free of blame. Except for this—Betsey Marsh was a superb sailor, the storm was standing well off the horizon. So what happened? Something unsettled her, was troubling her, something of sufficient torment to divert her from her usual keen engagement. There was only one thing sufficient to cause that distress. She had lost the affection and attentions of her husband. Of myself. How she learned this was simple—she was a woman of great inner strength and as you pointed out I was hardly the first man with a happy wife and family to take the occasional tumble with a tavern girl. So it was more than that. It was this, a terrible thing: I had grown cold to her. My affection was withheld, at most perfunctory. The simple kindness within a marriage had gone out of me. I believed myself in great crisis of the soul—I could not order things in perspective, attach moral value to my actions—but in fact I was merely selfish. I continued my ways and rebuffed my wife. She never reproached me in even the most cunning of ways. All she did in response was to continue her affection—on the rare occasion requested she always undertook gladly her wifely obligation. She placed my needs and concerns above her own. Which I not only disregarded but became short and ill-tempered with. To the point of shrewd abuse. So ask yourselves, what so distracted her the day she died? It was an accident but I might as well have stove the boat.

“So where was I that afternoon my wife died? You believe it’s simple. I was with this boy’s mother. With Molly. But I was intoxicated with her. I could not get enough of her and had ceased the usual precautions—let us give them their true name—I no longer skulked as most men do. She overwhelmed my mind, my thinking, as if I had been a boy, one closer to her own age. She was young, younger I believe than
either of you be. Consider that. What did she make of this man, old I’m sure in her eyes and married as well? I do not know. For smitten as I was I would know nothing of her, I cared nothing for her thoughts, her hopes, what she wanted in life. In short I treated her as a puppet, a toy for my own use and pleasure. Take that behavior and add it to the damage I was inflicting upon my wife, join the results of my absolute selfishness and you begin to see the monstrosity of myself emerging. One woman to satisfy my lust, the other to keep home and table, but of both I would have nothing beyond. For only thus could I stand apart and not be bothered by the cares and hearts of others.

“Now we come to the final part I suspect you know nothing of. That has been withheld, perhaps not only from you but all others as well. For there is only one other that I can be certain knows and she was not mere sole witness but victim.

“That afternoon when I left Molly the final time I returned to the house in a passing shower, the timid end of a summer storm. And learned that the dinghy was lost, that Betsey and Hazen were missing. By nightfall it was clear they were drowned. Then we had to wait, to see if the tides would deliver them or not. It was three days I believe—it could have been four. I sat mute and motionless throughout that time, not sleeping, nor taking food. I was allowed this because it was believed to be grief. And it was but of a sort peculiar and without honor. I sat in great silent self-pity, that I had brought this to pass, that I had brought this upon myself. I could barely conjure their faces for fear of a wild raving, which I could not allow. For that would have revealed what it was I mourned. Not the death of my wife, the mother of my children, my helpmate and partner in life. And not the boy, his laughter and pleasure and future all lost. But only myself, my life a ruin of my own making.

“And then they were found. A morning tide left them on the stones. I shall be brief to come to the final part. Urged by your sister, I viewed their horrible remains and then deserted the house, unable to assume the duty and responsibility that might have restored me in the eyes of others, perhaps even allowed me a measure toward restoring my own life. Instead I quit. I deliberately took myself into the mean streets of the town and indulged in a gruesome drunkenness, a gin-haze of some days that I descended until all was lost—I was in a blackness that to this day I have no recall of. Except for how and where I returned.

Blood paused. Fletcher was very still, for the moment at least overwhelmed by this version. Cooper was somewhat otherwise, as Blood expected. There was an agitation growing in his eyes, an awareness slowly peaking toward outburst, anger. Blood thought You wait boy—not yet.

So he went on, his tone unchanged, strident, demanding. “Somehow through that blackness of the lost I made my way back to the house. Where I woke to a bright morning. But even as I woke bits of my entrance into the house the night before came back to me, fragments of a wretched lucidity, fragments confirmed by my location. I looked about the room and all was destruction, a final verification. It was then I left.

“When I entered the house that night I discovered your sister. Sarah Alice, who no doubt, on top of all the other duties thrust upon her tender years, had been worrying over my absence, perhaps fearful that I had taken my life in grief or been set upon by the gangs of boys that reigned over most of the port streets at night. But who heard me come in, fumbling, staggering, falling. And crept down in her nightgown to assist me, to offer me help, perhaps even to weep that I was home and safe. And I looked up and saw her on the stairs. At first I thought she was her mother—the resemblance of the two was strong. But by the time I fell upon her, I knew who it was. And still I proceeded. I carried her as she began to fight me, as she realized my intent. Her fists against me as effective as butterflies. I carried her not to my own bed but to hers. She fought me, then, there, hard but briefly. I tore the gown from her and while she whimpered and pleaded, trying to cover herself with a sheet, I destroyed the room. Chairs, her writing desk, chests of drawers, all of it I smashed to kindling. So she would know my capacity for devastation before I visited it upon her. Which I then did. What greater violation can take place between man and woman than it be between father and daughter? There is none. To have outright murdered her would have been less.”

Blood said, “That’s my account.” He was done. All in. But for their response. He drank the last of the water and tossed the cup down.

He took his eyes from the boys, lifted his head. It was late morning, gaining noon. The day had warmed. He was hungry—a thing almost barbarous. The body urges onward, he thought.

Cooper and Fletcher glanced at each other, a silent consultation. Then Cooper spoke, his tone strange, mild. He said, “It’s passing strange. I
suspect you’re right—it will be years before I understand all you just told. However much is truth or not, it’s truth to you. I feel a pity. But still, it’s passing strange. In the spring, a man came through, one of those I mentioned earlier, to inform you was headed far north, up to the Connecticut Lakes country, the wild country, with a cartload of trade goods. Fletcher and I talked about it. Not only did we know where you was bound, but the sound of it suggested you’d be here some time, most likely long enough to catch up with you. As you can imagine, and it doesn’t dispute your account, everyone in the family counseled against it. Some quite strong. There was tears shed in the attempt to dissuade us, even threat of losing positions in the House, being disinherited. But those were from Uncle Proctor and while he meant it in his anger he also knew he didn’t have that power. The paperwork’s secure and you know who engineered that. So there was considerable opposition to the plan. But for two. Do you care to guess who those two might be?”

Blood was breathless, his chest hammered. He wished he could sit but knew he must remain standing. He would learn what he might and then there was his final job. Blood recognized the easy tone of Cooper’s voice. It was his own—the one he would employ to lead a man on. Blood suffered. He said, “No.” Shit he sounded feeble. He roused. “I’ve spoke plain to you. Do the same.”

Cooper said, “The first was Great-grandfather. Who encouraged us to go. Who said it was well past time someone hunted you down. Who, I realize just now, is probably the only one knows enough, not just the details but knows life, enough to do the sums and understands, much as can be, how you think. Do you agree?”

Blood was quiet, his teeth set so his jaw ached. He dreaded what was coming. He simply nodded.

Cooper stretched his arms before him, then swung one leg over the other knee and crossed his arms over his chest. Blood watched this transformation as if watching himself. Understanding the boy had concluded the situation was in his hands. Blood waited.

Cooper said, “The other who urged us along was Sarah Alice.”

“No,” said Blood, his voice drained from him.

“Why yes. When we visited her and told her our plans she was pleased. She wanted us to find you.”

“How can that be?” His voice stronger, cautious of the trap.

“Well,” Cooper said. “She’s well settled. Married to the son of Samuel Phelps. You may recall him—he owns the forges and now a foundry that we do business with. She has children, two little girls. Elizabeth and Susan. You’re a grandfather, Father.”

“She denies my actions.” It was not a question.

“Ah,” Cooper considered this. “I could not use those words. She told us another story.”

“What other?”

“Of how you went missing. No one could find you. She told how all the relatives tried to console her, both sides of the family, Marshes and Bolleses all but how she could look at them and see their own sorrow and what was worse, pity for her. The pity that she might well be an orphan. All she had was me and I guess that gave her something to cling to, an obligation she could take as her own.”