Juliet in August (12 page)

“Don't say anything,” Norval says, “unless you know where my daughter is.”

Norval can see Kyle struggling to remember the night before. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

“In her room?” Kyle finally says, hopefully but without much confidence.

Norval shakes his head.

“Have you checked the truck?” Kyle asks.

“No,” says Norval. “How about you make yourself useful and do that?”

He watches Kyle walk around the side of the house, and he waits for him to come back. When he does, Kyle stands at the corner of the house without coming all the way into the backyard and says, “She's not there,” and then he says, “Actually, my truck's not there, either.”

“Oh, for Christ's sake,” Norval says. He turns and goes back in the house, leaving Kyle outside. “You know this marriage is doomed to failure, don't you?” he says to Lila.

Lila looks as though she might cry. Norval doesn't care.

“I'm not kidding, Lila. Think about the baby. The poor kid doesn't have a chance.”

She says, “I know they're young—”

Norval interrupts. “Some young people are responsible, Lila. Face it, these two aren't. Neither one of them. The baby would be better off raised by wolves.”

Now Lila is angry. Norval can see he's gone too far.

“You listen here,” she says. She aims one of her manicured fingernails in his direction to help make her point. “I know as well as you this is not a perfect situation. But that baby is our flesh and blood, and I'm not going to let it go to be raised by strangers. Besides that, I read an article—in
Chatelaine
, Norval, that's a credible magazine—and girls who give up their babies almost always regret it later. So you'd better make the best of this, because they're getting married and Rachelle is giving the baby up over my dead body.”

It dawns on Norval that Lila has had quite a bit to do with Rachelle's decision to get married, and not just so she can stage-manage a big production. He hadn't realized she felt so strongly about this. Maybe Lila is right. What does he know about these things?

“I'm going to work,” he says.

“I hope you're planning to get dressed first,” Lila says.

Norval is surprised by the sarcasm. Lila hardly ever uses sarcasm—that's been his domain.

He goes upstairs and dresses (Lila has his clothes laid out: summer-weight khaki pants, a blue shirt, a tie, and a lightweight sports jacket), and before he leaves he says to her, “You're probably right, Lila. I don't know anything about this business of teenage motherhood. But surely you can see why I'm worried.”

“Of course I can,” Lila says. “But you just let me take care of Rachelle. Here's what you can do.” She hands Norval a piece of notepaper with cheerful-looking purple flowers across the top.

“What's this?” he asks.

“It's the list, Norval. The things we discussed last night, the church renovations. You just take care of the list and I'll handle the other. Rachelle is likely at Kristen's. I'll track her down and we'll have a talk.”

Norval folds the notepaper in half and puts it in the pocket of his khaki pants.

“Aren't you going to read it?” Lila asks. “You might have questions. Points of clarification.”

“Maybe Rachelle and Kyle could get some counseling,” Norval says.

“They don't need counseling,” Lila says. “They just need to grow up a little.”

A little,
Norval thinks,
will not do it,
but he's said all he can say.

He steps out the front door and finds Kyle sitting dejectedly on the top step. Kyle looks up and is about to say something, but Norval beats him to it and says, “Let me give you a bit of advice, Kyle. A wise man knows when to keep his mouth shut.”

Norval heads down the sidewalk toward Main Street and the bank, resisting the temptation to look back. He knows that he would feel some sympathy for Kyle, and God knows he doesn't want sympathy entering into this whole situation. Not unless it's for himself.

Small Talk

When morning finally comes, Willard Shoenfeld goes inside to the kitchen and Marian is there, as always, with the coffee perking on the stove and the frying pan ready for his eggs. He thinks back to the pre-Marian days when he and Ed ate cornflakes every morning and burned themselves a couple of pieces of toast.

“How do you want them this morning?” Marian asks, and Willard says, “Over easy, I guess.”

The eggs are ready in minutes, and Marian slides them onto a plate, adds two slices of perfectly browned toast, then hands Willard his breakfast. He's in a bit of a stupor. Marian asks if something is wrong.

Willard can't get the picture of Marian in her nightgown out of his mind, the way she opened his bedroom door, and he wonders if he should just say,
It's okay, you know. You do what's best for you.
But he can't; he's paralyzed. He says, “No, nothing,” and he dips a corner of his toast in the deep yellow egg yolk. “You've eaten?” he asks, just as he asks every morning.

Marian nods, as always, in response to his question.

Willard takes a bite of his toast, expecting pain to shoot from a lower molar up into his face because of his toothache dream the night before, which still seems real. No pain, though. He savors the perfect over-easy eggs, eating one piece of toast with the eggs and saving one to slather with raspberry jam.

Marian is now standing at the sink with her back to him, leafing through a cookbook.

Perhaps if I start a conversation,
Willard thinks.
About anything at all. Try,
he thinks.
Try to say something.

“I do enjoy my breakfast,” he says.

Marian turns to look at him. He fears he's said something stupid.

“Do you?” she says. “So do I.” Then she returns to her recipes.

Well, that's it. Willard can't think of anything else to say. He spreads some of Marian's homemade freezer jam on his remaining slice of toast and tries to plan his day. There's the new movie to pick up at the bus, and a few repairs he should make to the fence. Some kids tried to light fire to it one night a few weeks ago. They'd barely gotten the kindling organized and the match lit when the barking dog had awoken Willard. He'd looked out his bedroom window and seen just enough to know what was going on. He pulled on his pants, and when he got to the living room he saw that Marian was already up, looking out the picture window.

“I think they've started a fire,” she said. “The fence on the east side.”

“Damn kids,” Willard said.

He keeps a fire extinguisher handy for times like this, and he'd grabbed it while Marian flicked the yard lights on. The drive-in was flooded with light and, sure enough, about half a dozen kids jumped into a truck, some into the cab and some the box, and roared off down the access road. The dog was going crazy by now, running in circles and barking wildly in the middle of the sandy drive-in lot.

Willard hopped on his ATV and drove, the dog running along behind, to where the fire was trying hard to get started. When they got there, flames were licking up the sides of one fence panel, but they were quickly squelched when Willard turned the fire extinguisher on them. The fence was still standing, but he'd have to replace three or four boards. The dry grass was burned to the ground along the fence. This was the real danger, with section after section of dry grassy pastureland running to the north. “Damn stupid kids,” Willard said again, and then he told the dog once more what a good dog he was. He'd gone back to the garage for a shovel, and then he'd spent an hour shoveling sand onto the grass along the fence to make sure the fire didn't flare up again.

When he returned to the house at three in the morning, Marian was still up, watching through the window. She wanted him to call the Mounties in Swift Current, but Willard figured that was pointless. The kids were long gone, and he wouldn't be able to give any kind of useful description. Marian made a pot of tea and put a plate of cookies on the table. At three-thirty, they'd gone back to bed.

Willard is getting plenty tired of this nonsense. He's of the conviction that the kids of Juliet don't know the value of either work or money, and don't have enough to do, especially in the summer when school's out. He'd like to think the town kids are the main culprits, because surely the county kids know the dangers of a prairie fire. The land is tinder dry and a small fire wouldn't stay small for long. It's not just the drive-in they'd be burning down. He's amazed by their stupidity, whoever it is who's doing this. Maybe it's drugs.

When Willard has finished his breakfast, he takes his plate to the sink. Marian is at the counter, assembling ingredients to bake something.

“Willard,” she says.

He stops, his hand holding the plate in midair above the sink.
Here it comes,
he thinks.

Marian picks up a measuring cup and then puts it down again.

“I just want to say that I know for a fact you are a kind and generous man,” she says.

Willard waits for more; that was the good news, now comes the bad. But Marian picks up the measuring cup again and dips it into a canister of flour, and then pours the flour into her big mixing bowl. She begins to hum. That appears to be all she's going to say, at least for now.

Willard carefully sets his plate among the cups and cutlery already in the sink.

“Well then,” he says, and goes outside to begin his fence repairs.

DESERT DWELLERS

 

Drift

When Lee was a boy, he developed a passionate but not very scientific interest in deserts and oases and Lawrence of Arabia. Back then, the words
Gobi
and
Sahara
were enough to send him into an imaginary world where he lived in a nomad's tent with a desert moon overhead. Even the Mojave (not so far away, Lester told him, you could drive there in a few days if you wanted to) had exotic possibilities, with its scorpions and Joshua trees. The Little Snake Hills couldn't compete. They were simply a good place to pretend you were in a real desert.

As Lee lies on his back in the former schoolyard and watches the horse graze, he thinks about Lester's
Ancient Lands
anthropology books, a set of six written by an early-twentieth-century English adventurer. The books—themselves now ancient—are still in a bookcase in the living room, along with several out-of-date atlases and World Book encyclopedias, collecting dust like everything else in the house since Astrid died. He recalls one favorite book on northern Africa and the Middle East that he'd read so often the pages started to fall out, and Astrid had to bind them together again with tape and an elastic band. He'd been drawn to the book's hand-colored photographs in pastel pinks and blues, punctuated occasionally by a brilliant red flower or a bit of gold jewelry. His favorite photograph depicted a Bedouin family sitting in a little courtyard in front of their open tent, smiling for the Englishman, with sand dunes rolling on to eternity behind them.

The text that accompanied the pictures was equally intriguing. Lee would copy the English explorer's dramatic pronouncements onto slips of paper and glue them into a scrapbook, along with pictures cut from magazines and articles photocopied from the library in Swift Current. Once he'd gone into a travel agency and asked for tourist brochures and the agent had given him a booklet on travel to Egypt. It contained several glossy photographs that he'd cut out and glued into the scrapbook, but the text in the brochure had been uninteresting. It couldn't compete with the mythical captions from Lester's books, which Lee memorized as though he were memorizing voice-over lines from a documentary movie:
The Arabs who inhabit these arid wastes are very different from the pale townsfolk. They are a hardy race, descendants of warriors.
Another favorite:
The desert wastes might be likened unto quicksand, for old civilizations, religions, and cities have been engulfed by those fine tawny particles that trickle through one's fingers like water.
That one made him wonder what was buried in the sand hills down the road. Arrowheads maybe, the bones of domestic and wild animals, rusty old farm implements, nothing as exotic or colorful as artifacts from a buried Bedouin encampment.

Then there was the day when Lester came home with the news that Willard Shoenfeld had bought a real camel. That this desert creature existed in reality was remarkable enough, but that one now lived close to Lee, right here in Juliet, was astonishing. At every chance, he rode his bike to Willard's to see Antoinette, and he regularly spent his allowance on camel rides. Willard seemed happy to have a sidekick who appreciated Antoinette as much as he did, and Lee asked him endless questions: how she got her name (“After that fancy French queen”), how fast she could go (“About as fast as molasses on a warm day in March”), how long she could go without water (“Won't know until I take that pack trip I've been planning”). Lee and Willard could barely contain their amusement whenever Ed got too close to Antoinette and they heard the gurgle in her throat that meant she was preparing to spit at him.

When Antoinette disappeared, Lee shared Willard's distress. After she'd been missing for a week, Lee asked Willard again how long he thought she could go without water. Willard said, “Don't worry, there's lots of water out there for her.” But Lee persisted—he even used the word
hypothetically
—and so Willard told him it was a myth that camels can go for weeks without water and that a camel will lie down and refuse to get up after only four or five days of thirst.

“Why do they refuse to get up?” Lee asked Willard.

“They give up hope,” Willard said. “They just lie down and decide to die and you can't talk them out of it. Of course, some camels are special. The real athletes. They can go longer. Not the pampered camels, though.”

Lee was thinking that they needed to find Antoinette right away because she was a pampered camel. He worried in bed at night that Antoinette might not be able to find a slough or a dugout, or that she might be afraid to go down into one of the coulees with a spring-fed creek running through it. He pored over library books looking for evidence of ordinary camels going longer than a week without water, but he couldn't find anything that told him one way or another what to expect of Antoinette.
A camel is the lifeblood of those crossing the desert,
was all he could find,
with its ability to go without water far surpassing that of the horse
. That had given him some hope.

Lee wonders if Willard ever thinks about Antoinette and what happened to her. No sign of her had ever been found despite the fact that CBC Radio had done a story on her disappearance. Willard had eventually given up looking and decided she'd been stolen, but Lee thinks she must have died. He imagines Willard out there in the sand all by himself, looking for his camel. He wonders if he searched this far north where the dunes are big, the size of a two-story house.

He wouldn't mind having a closer look at the dunes, now that he's here. They're just across the road. A quick look while he's waiting for the Lindstroms to stir wouldn't cut too much into his day.

“How about it, buddy?” he says to the horse, who lifts his head and then goes back to grazing. Lee tightens the cinch on his saddle, letting the horse know they're moving on. He offers the horse another drink from the pail that's hanging on the pump, and takes a long drink himself. Then he hoists himself into the saddle. He can feel the beginnings of saddle burns and bruises.

He sees a Texas gate to the southwest and passes onto the Lindstroms' pasture lease. Almost immediately the grazing land is overtaken by sand. Huge dunes rise up out of the grass and sage, gently sloping formations with sharp-edged shadowy ridges along the tops. Lee can't recall the last time he was here—high school probably—and the dunes would have shifted since then, but they look the same, the curving shapes, the way they roll as far to the west as he can see, sometimes connecting one to another. The sand's surface is pristine except for the delicate wind patterns of ripples and waves. He looks back at the horse's tracks, which form a line of cavernous holes. He likes the way the tracks mark his trail, but at the same time he regrets that he's marring the perfect surface.

He remembers the time Lester brought him to the big dunes when he was five or six years old with an empty cardboard box, and he wouldn't tell Lee what it was for. When they got to the top of a dune, Lester broke the box out into a big flat square and let Lee slide down on it, as though he were tobogganing down a hill in winter, as though the sand were snow. “So that's what I did when I was a boy,” Lester said when they were on their way home.

Lee tries to picture Lester sliding down the dune, calling out in Norwegian to his father who never did learn English. It's hard for Lee to imagine Lester doing anything as frivolous as sliding down a sand dune on a piece of cardboard.

Lee urges the horse to the top of the nearest dune and feels chunks of sand breaking away as the animal propels himself upward. From the crest, he can see the panorama of the Little Snake Hills. To the north and east, the miles and miles of rolling pasture. To the south and west, a patchwork of grass and sand. The tall metal frame of a gas well in the distance announces modernization when everything else looks more or less as it must have a hundred years ago.

There's a controversy brewing over the oil and gas interests. The ranchers fear that the rough access roads will break up the network of shallow roots holding the sand in place and cause the pasture grasses to lose way to the force of wind. Lee's been to several meetings in town, although he sat at the back of the room and didn't say anything because the government officials and environmentalists and representatives of the oil and gas companies were all terrifyingly good at talking. A few local ranchers had prepared statements about the importance of preserving their pastures and were brave enough to read them, and Lee was moved by their heartfelt presentations. He wished he'd had the confidence to present a statement himself, do Lester's memory proud.

Lee guides the horse down the western slope of the dune without really making a conscious decision to go farther west. The horse's ears are forward as though he's curious about what is ahead. The sun warms Lee's back and he notes the spectacular color of the morning sky, the intricate designs everywhere around him in the sand. He feels the steady cadence of the horse moving under him and it seems right that he continue on; he hardly gives it a thought.

“Atta boy,” Lee says aloud for no reason other than to say something to the horse, who turns one ear in his direction.

As the day begins to heat up, Lee imagines the silhouette the two of them would make for anyone gazing east toward the sun—a man and a distinctively Arab-looking horse in a distinctively desertlike landscape. A photograph, he thinks, for his childhood scrapbook. He almost wishes someone were around to snap the picture, but then again not, because he likes the idea of being alone out here with only a horse for company. He just hopes that Lester isn't watching from above. Watching him waste time on a workday.

Scandal

When Vicki pulls up in front of Karla Norman's house she says, “Okay, kids, behave yourselves,” and then all six of them pile out and head up the walk toward Karla's front door. They pass three polished and gleaming muscle cars lined up in the drive, all of them belonging to Karla's dad, whose name is Walter but he's known around town as TNT. He lives with Karla because he's had a stroke and is in a wheelchair. Karla is often seen in front of her house with the garden hose and chamois cloths and Turtle Wax as she shines the cars while her father watches from the shade. “And don't stare at Mr. Norman,” Vicki says.

The rooster from next door is sitting on Karla's bottom step and he flaps out of the way and onto the lawn as they approach.

“Sorry to show up without an appointment,” Vicki says when Karla opens the door, “but I was wondering if you could give Lucille's hair a quick cut? She's got gum in it and she'll scream blue murder if I try to comb it out.”

Karla holds the door for them to troop inside. “Someone's coming in half an hour for color,” she says, “but I should have time.” She invites the kids to watch TV with her father, who sits small and crumpled-looking in an armchair facing the television. You'd never guess in a million years that he'd somehow earned his nickname. His wheelchair is beside the armchair and Daisy heads right for it and sits in it.

“Hi, mister,” she says.

“That's Mr. Norman to you,” Vicki says, “and you should ask him if you can sit in his chair. It's not a play toy, you know.”

“Dad won't mind,” Karla says. “Will you, Dad?”

Daisy is looking at him, waiting for an answer. He nods and she settles back, her small hands on the wheels as though she might wheel herself around the room. The other kids line up on the couch, all but Lucille, who has taken Karla's hand. Mr. Norman stares at the twins as though he thinks he might be seeing double.

“What's he watching?” Martin asks Karla.

“I'm not sure,” Karla says. The channel appears to be set on a game show of some kind. “We can switch it maybe. Dad, can we find something the kids will like?”

Her father indicates with his shaky hand that the kids can have the remote control. Shiloh reaches over and picks it up from the arm of Mr. Norman's chair and finds a cartoon channel.

“Will that be all right?” Vicki asks.

“He doesn't really care what he watches,” says Karla. “Except football. He loves football.”

Karla takes Vicki and little Lucille down the hall to the bedroom that has been converted to her salon and lays a board across the arms of the chair for Lucille to sit on.

“Up you go,” she says as she lifts the child onto the seat.

Vicki can see Karla is trying to find a place to start. Lucille is busy looking at herself in the big round mirror. She scrunches up her face and then sticks her tongue out.

“How short?” Karla asks Vicki.

“I think you'll have to go pretty short,” Vicki says. “Maybe we should just shave her head.”

“Oh, I don't think we'll have to go that far,” Karla says. “Okay then, Lucille, what do you say we make you look like a pixie?”

Lucille nods.

As Karla begins to cut, she points out the goldfish bowl in front of the mirror to keep Lucille occupied. “How'd you do this, anyway?” she asks. “There's gum everywhere.”

“I chewed it up first,” says Lucille.

“Well, that makes sense, I guess,” says Karla. “It always helps to have a plan.” She runs her fingers through Lucille's fine hair, trying to find all the bits of sticky gum.

“So who's up next?” Vicki asks just to make conversation. “Not that it's any of my business.”

“Lila Birch,” Karla says. “You know her daughter Rachelle is getting married? Lila wants me to do the wedding, which is good, I guess, a nice chunk of change, but I'm getting sick of hearing about it. You'd think it was a royal wedding. She wants me to come to the house for styling in the morning—or perhaps the girls will need to come here if they want color, she's getting back to me on that—and then to the church for last-minute touch-ups before everyone walks down the aisle. And then she wants me to travel into Swift Current with the wedding party for the photo session. That will be at four o'clock, and then I might be needed before the dinner and dance as well, if the dos are getting tired. That's what she calls them—‘the dos.' Anyway, not to complain. Like I said, nice chunk of cash. I'll have to hire someone to sit with Dad all day, though.”