The Legacy (24 page)

“Well,” she shrugs, “it just seems so odd, after all these years. Taking up with him again . . .”

“We’re not
taking up with him
. But we are neighbors now. For the time being, anyway. He’s . . . well. He’s not really much different, and neither am I, so . . .” For a terrifying moment, I think I will blush.

“He was so in love with Beth, you know. Back when they were twelve,” Mum says, staring into the past and smiling. “They say you never forget your first love.”

I down the last of my champagne, get up to fetch the bottle. The heat of my blush remains, moves up to my nose, threatens to become tears. “Come on. These spuds won’t peel themselves!” I smile, proffering a paring knife at her.

“How long will Beth rest for?”

“A hour, perhaps. Long enough to dodge the potato peeling, that’s for certain.”

M
y eyes strain against the gathering dark. It’s not yet five o’clock but my feet are indistinct. They snag on tufts and twigs and roots that I can’t see. I’ve come to fetch Eddie. I make a pass of the camp but all is quiet. I am still not sure who each vehicle belongs to, and they look so tight, so closed up against the world that I am too afraid to go knocking on doors, asking for Harry. I cut into the woods but the darkness is even deeper here. I should have brought a torch. Night is coming fast; the light feels exhausted.

“Eddie!” I call, but it’s a pathetic sound. I can see the strict formations of the search teams, going through these woods twenty-three years ago. Five days after he vanished, but still they kept trying. Their faces grim; the dogs pulling at their leads. The crackle and click of CB radios.
Henry!
Their shouts were loud and clear but stilted even so, as if self-conscious, as if knowing the name was hurled in vain, would only reach their own ears. The weather was foul that weekend—it was the August bank holiday, after all. The tail end of Hurricane Charley, lashing Britain with wind and rain.
“Eddie!”
I try again, as loudly as I can. The quiet, when my clumsy feet go still, is astounding.

I come out of the woods beyond the dew pond. The barrow is a vague growth on the horizon. I skirt the edge of the field, along the fence, back toward the house, and slowly I see figures coming into being by the water. Two large, one small. I heave a lungful of air, feel a chill slide down my back. I had not known how afraid I was. Harry, Eddie, Dinny. They could be the three protagonists of a boy’s own story, and here they are, at the dew pond. Skimming stones in the near dark on Christmas Day.

“Who’s that?” Eddie says, when they notice me. His voice sounds high, childish.

“It’s me, you muppet,” I say, mocking my own fear at his expense.

“Oh, hi, Rick,” he says. Harry gives an odd hoot—the first real sound I have heard him make. He runs around the water’s edge to me—big clumsy strides. I hold my breath, wait for him to slip, stumble in, but he doesn’t. He presents me with a small stone, flat, almost triangular. I can just about see his smile.

“He wants you to have a go,” Dinny says. I walk carefully around to them. I turn the stone over in my hand. It is warm, smooth.

“I came to get Eddie. It’s time he was in—it’s pitch black out here,” I say to Dinny. I feel prickly, endangered. The water is nothing but a blackness at our feet.

“You just need to give your eyes time to adjust, that’s all,” Dinny tells me, as the others go back to their stones, the flat black water, the counting of white blooms in the gloaming.

“Still, we should go back. My parents are here . . .”

“Oh? Tell them hello from me.”

“Yes, I will.” I stand next to him, close enough for our sleeves to touch. I don’t care if I am crowding him. I need something near enough to catch, something to anchor me. I can hear him breathing, hear the shape he makes in the echoes from the pond.

“Aren’t you going to skim that stone?” He sounds wryly amused by the idea.

“I can hardly see the water.”

“So? You know it’s there.” He looks sideways at me. Just a silhouette, and I want to put my hands on his face, to feel if he’s smiling.

“Well, here goes.” I creep to the edge, find a firm footing. I crouch, swing my arm, and when I let go of the stone I follow it, toward the surface, toward the obsidian water.
One, two, three
 . . . I count the splashes and then I stumble, my vision skids vertiginously, my feet slide over the edge of the bank and I gasp. What a place, I have sent that innocent stone to—what darkness.

“Three! Rubbish! Harry got a seven a little while ago!” Eddie calls to me. I feel Dinny’s hands under my arms, the reassuring weight of him pulling me to my feet. Panic fluttering in my chest.

“Not a great night for swimming, I think,” Dinny murmurs. I shake my head, glad he can’t see my face, the tears in my eyes.

“Come on, Eddie, we’re going in,” I say. A ragged edge to my voice.

“But I’ve just . . .”

“Now, Eddie!” He sighs, solemnly presents Harry with the rest of his stones. They make a warm, cheerful noise as they change palms. I walk away from the edge, back toward the house.

“Erica,” Dinny calls to me. I turn, and he hesitates. “Happy Christmas,” he says. I can tell this is not what he had intended to say, and even though I wonder, I don’t feel strong enough to ask right now.

“Happy Christmas, Dinny,” I reply.

Losing

1903–1904

T
he summer swelled and Magpie’s body ripened in time with it, seeming to expand by the day as her baby grew. She moved with an odd grace, as purposefully as ever but never suddenly, neatly angling her new width around the furniture and through the narrow door of the dugout she shared with Joe. Caroline watched her. She watched, and she wondered, her heart full of suspicions that she went from discrediting to confirming to herself twenty times a day. And more than anything, she was jealous. She felt sick and weak and full of something dark and bitter each time she saw the growing inches of the Indian girl’s body. And if anything could have driven her from the house and out into the summer sun, it was this.

The wooden house just could not keep out the heat as the thick brownstone walls of New York had done. And, Caroline reflected, when it was hot in New York, it was never as hot as this, and she had never before had to be active in such temperatures. But Magpie’s composure and Hutch’s exhortation to her at new year were at work upon Caroline’s mind; so one day, which dawned slightly overcast and a little cooler than usual, she decided to get out of the house. She packed a basket with a newly ripe melon, some biscuits and a bottle of tonic water, tied the ribbon of her sun bonnet in a bow beneath her chin, and set off for the nearest neighboring farm, which belonged to an Irish family called Moore. It was six miles to the northwest and Caroline, who had no idea what it felt like to walk six miles, had nonetheless overheard Corin say that a man might easily walk four miles in an hour. Setting off early, she thought, she would be there in time to take coffee and maybe a bite of lunch, and then back again in plenty of time to help cook dinner. She told Magpie where she was going, and squared her shoulders when the Ponca girl gave her a level, incredulous stare and blinked slowly, like an owl.

She walked for an hour, at first admiring the flowers on the horsemint and wild verbena and gathering a posy to present to the Moores, but soon found the basket a dead weight on her arm, bruising her skin. She was slick with sweat in spite of the clouds, and felt it prickling her scalp underneath her hat. Her skirts were fouled up and wadded together with sandburs and thistle barbs, and they swung ponderously around her legs, tripping her. The sandy ground, which undulated gently, pulled at her feet and was more strenuous to walk across than she’d thought. She battled slowly up a long rise, certain that from the crest of it she would see the neighboring farm. She could not. Breathing hard, she saw the landscape roll away into the distance, as far as the eye could see. Putting the basket down, she turned in a slow circle, staring into the unbroken horizon. A hot wind blew, making waves in the long grass that looked, in the distance, like a green and gold ocean. The wind carried the scent of dry earth and sagebrush and it moaned a low note in her ears.

“There’s nothing here,” Caroline murmured to herself. Something rose up in her then, something like panic, or anger. “There’s
nothing here
!” she shouted, as loudly as she could. Her throat felt raw and dry. The wind snatched her words away, and gave her no answer. She sank onto the prairie and lay back to rest. An endless sky above her, and endless land all around. If she did not rise again, she thought, if she stayed where she was, only wild dogs and buzzards would ever find her. It was an irresistible thought, a terrifying one.

Walking back at last, having never reached the Moore’s place, Caroline nearly missed the ranch. She had veered to the north by a mile or more and only happened by chance to see smoke rising from the chuck hut to her right, where a silent Louisiana Negro called Rook would be cooking dinner for the ranch hands. Turning south, Caroline’s legs wobbled with exhaustion. Her mouth was parched and her face, after a day in the harsh light and hot wind, was tight and stinging. Behind her she could feel the vastness of the prairie spreading out, watching, and beyond the ranch the grasslands stretched away to every point on the compass. The corrals, fences, wheat and sorghum fields her husband had mapped onto the land were pitifully small. The ranch was an island, a tiny atoll of civilization in an endless patchy sea, and when she finally reached the house, gasping for breath and scattering wilted flowers behind her, she shut the door and burst into tears.

T
hat night Caroline lay awake, in spite of her exhaustion. The clouds cleared as night fell, and the moon rose luminously full. It was not this that kept her awake, but the knowledge, the new understanding of how vast and empty the land she now lived upon truly was. She felt swallowed up by it; tiny, invisible. She wanted to grow, to expand, to take up more space somehow. She wanted to be significant. The air inside the bedroom was smothering, thick with the lassitude of summer. Beside her, Corin snored softly, his face pressed into the pillow, arms flung out to his sides. The moon caught the contours of the muscles in his arms and shoulders, and the sharp line where the tan of his neck became the pale of his back. Caroline rose, took a spare blanket and went outside.

She spread the blanket among the fecund orbs of the watermelons and lay down upon it. Something scuttled away into the foliage close to her face, and she shuddered. There were no other sounds, though her ears strained to pick up any movement from the bunkhouse, any sign of an approaching ranch hand. Then she pulled her nightdress up until it covered only her breasts, leaving the lower portion of her body bare to the night sky. Her hipbones stood proud, casting shadows of their own in the silvery light. Her heart beat fast in her chest, and she did not shut her eyes. Stars scattered the sky. She began to count them, lost her place and started again, and again; losing all idea of how long she had lain there and where on earth she was. Then the door banged behind her and she heard uneven steps, and Corin grabbed her beneath her arms and pulled her into his lap.

“What is it? What’s wrong?” Caroline gasped. Painted in grays and blacks, Corin’s face was pinched with fear and his eyes were wide. Seeing her awake and well Corin let her go, exhaling heavily, and put his face into his hands.

“What are you doing out here?” he mumbled. “Are you all right?”

“I’m . . . fine. I just . . . it was so hot in the bedroom . . .” Caroline hurriedly pulled her nightdress down.

“But it’s just as hot out here! What are you doing—why were you naked?” he demanded. Alarmed, Caroline saw that he was shaking. She bit her lip and looked away.

“Moonbathing,” she said.

“What?”

“I was moonbathing . . . Angie told me it might help,” Caroline said quietly. She had sneered inwardly at such superstition when their neighbor first mentioned it, but now it seemed she would try anything.

“Help with what? Love, you’re not making sense!”

“Help a woman to get pregnant. To lie with the moon shining on her body,” Caroline said, shamefacedly.

“And you believed her?”

“No, not really. Not really. It’s just . . .
why
aren’t I pregnant yet, Corin? It’s been over a year!” she cried. “I don’t understand.”

“I don’t understand it either,” Corin sighed. “But I’m sure these things happen when they’re good and ready, that’s all. A year is not that long! You’re young and . . . it’s been a big upheaval for you, moving out here to be with me. It
will
happen love, please try not to worry.” He tipped her chin up with his fingertips. “Come back inside now.”

“Corin . . . why were you so afraid just now?” Caroline asked, as she rose stiffly to her feet.

“What? When?”

“Just now, when you found me out here. You looked so alarmed! Why? What did you think had happened?”

“There was a woman, on the other side of Woodward a couple of years ago . . . never mind. I just thought something might have happened to you. But you’re fine, and it’s nothing to worry about . . .” Corin reassured her.

“Tell me, please,” she pressed, sensing his reluctance. “What happened to the woman?”

“Well, apparently she felt the heat badly, like you do too, and she was also pining for her home back in France, and she took to sleeping out in the yard to keep cool, but one night . . . one night she . . .” His fingers grasped the night air, searching for a way to tell her without telling her.

“She what?”

“She cut her own throat,” he said, in a rush. “Three children waiting for her indoors and all.” Caroline swallowed convulsively, her own throat closing at the thought of such violence.

“And you thought I’d . . . done that to myself?” she breathed.

“No! No, love, no. I was just worried for you, that’s all.” He ushered her back into the bedroom and said he would wait up until she slept, but soon his soft snores began again, and still Caroline’s eyes stayed fixed upon the ceiling.

She wondered. She wondered where Corin went all day. It had never occurred to her to think about this before. He always gave an account of his day over the supper table, but how could she know that he was telling it true? How could she know how long it took to round up strays, to pursue rustlers, to brand the new steers, to set the stallion Apache to a brood mare, to mend fences, to plough or sow or reap the wheat fields, or cut hay, or do any of it? And Corin could, of course, send Joe anywhere if he wanted him out of the way. And Magpie had often already left, by an hour or so, before Corin came in for the evening. There were times, plenty of times, when she had no idea where either of them might be. And the way he had touched Magpie, that time—the way he had put his hands on her at the Woodward gala. These were Caroline’s thoughts as she lay awake, and as she sat in the ringing silence at the end of each day, waiting for Corin’s return. When Caroline saw her husband, her fears vanished. When she was alone, they flourished like weeds. Her solace was Magpie’s plainness, as she saw it. The coarseness of her hair, the fat on her figure, the alien planes of her face. She noted these things and called to mind Corin’s praise of her own beauty.

But one hard August day when a high, spiteful sun was bleaching the grassland, even this solace was taken from Caroline. Magpie was at the kitchen window, standing sideways so that she could lean her hip against the bench as she peeled carrots with a short, sharp blade. She was singing, as usual, her expression soft and her hands busy. Caroline watched her through the doorway from the main room, from behind a book she was supposedly reading, and a falter in the quiet song made her blink. Magpie stopped peeling, her gaze falling out of focus and one hand going to her distended belly. A tiny smile twitched her lips and then the song and the work continued. The baby had shifted, Caroline realized. It was awake, alive inside the girl. It was listening to its mother singing. Swallowing, Caroline put her hand to her own stomach. It was more than flat, it was concave; there was no welcoming fold of flesh, no fulsome vitality. She could feel her ribs and her hipbones, wooden and sharp. How dry and hard and dead her body seemed, compared to Magpie’s. Like the dead husks, the chaff that the men beat out of the wheat. She looked at the girl again, and then her throat went tight and for a second she couldn’t breathe. The sun streaming in through the window caught the gloss of Magpie’s thick, black hair; the wide, bowed curve of her top lip; the high slant of her cheeks and eyes; the warm glow of her skin. Magpie was beautiful.

Before dawn the next day, as Corin stirred and began to wake, Caroline went on soft feet to the kitchen. She poured him a cup of cold tea and cut two thick slices of bread from yesterday’s loaf, which she spread with honey. She presented him with these offerings as he sat up, blinking in the charcoal glow of near-day.

“Breakfast in bed. I always used to have breakfast in bed on Saturdays,” she told him, smiling.

“Well, thank you. How grand I feel!” Corin cupped her face in the palm of his hand, and took a long draft of the tea. Caroline propped the pillows up against the wall behind him.

“Sit back for a moment, love. You don’t have to rush out just yet,” she urged him.

“Putting off a chore never got it finished faster,” he sighed, ruefully.

“Just five more minutes,” she begged. “Try some of the bread. I spread it with that honey Joe collected for us.”

“That man is a marvel with bees,” Corin nodded. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Just walks right up to the nest and puts in his arm, and never once takes a sting.”

“Some Indian magic, perhaps?”

“Either that or he’s just got the toughest hide of any man alive,” Corin mused. Caroline thought of this—of Joe with his unforgiving black eyes and skin like the bark of a tree. She shuddered slightly, wondering how Magpie could bear to bed herself with him.

“Corin?”

“Yes?”

“You know, it’s been more than a year now since we were wed and, well . . . we never have been back to go swimming again, like on our honeymoon.”

“I know. I know it, Caroline. It’s so hard to find the time,” Corin said, leaning his head back against the wall, his face still languid with sleep.

“Can we go? Soon? I just . . . I want to spend the day with you. The whole day . . . we hardly ever do that! Not with all the work you have to do.”

“Well, I don’t know, Caroline. There’s just so much to do at this time of year! We’ve got the stupidest bunch of beeves as I’ve ever had on the ranch and they’ve been busting through the fences every chance they get, wandering off and getting themselves stuck in the creek and caught up in wire and I don’t know what else. Maybe in a week. In a week or two . . . how about that?”