After River (14 page)

T
HE HEADLIGHT BEAMS
stab through the blackness, cut it wide open and leave a gash of white-lined highway as we plunge into the night. They're out there. I can't see them, but I can feel the mountains as we speed from summit to summit through the rugged Cascades.

The roads are bare; the snow hasn't arrived yet. Still, I am certain that if the invisible peaks looming over us are not dusted in white, they soon will be. Before long snow banks will flank the highway. Banks that can grow to heights taller than this bus.

Snow was a constant in our lives for four to five months of the year while I was growing up. Every winter our farm became a labyrinth of trenches between the house and the outbuildings. Most mornings Dad had to clear the yard between the barn and the dairy with the tractor; the plow blade pushing the mountains of snow into the front pasture.

The snowfall was unusually heavy the year River came.

‘Man, I've never seen so much white!' River called out to me as he trudged his way through the fresh powder after the first overnight storm.

‘Ha! Just wait,' I puffed. I lifted my shovel and tossed a load of snow from the walkway over my shoulder.

‘Here, let me do that for you,' he said and reached for my shovel.

‘No, I like this job,' I leaned on the handle and nodded at the porch. ‘Get your own,' I laughed.

‘Ah, a women's-libber,' he grinned. ‘Good for you.'

Fat flakes fell silently onto his wool cap and shoulders. They landed on his cheek and thick lashes where they melted from the heat. And I felt myself melt as he reached over and brushed off my face with his woollen mitten. Even in the cold I could feel the blush rise. I lowered my head and dug my shovel in while River turned and ran up the porch steps. Then just as quickly he was back. We worked side by side on the path as the snowfall thickened, making a mockery of our progress.

Over the months I had become used to River's presence. More than used to it. I couldn't imagine my life or my family without him. I saw him almost every day and except for the times he went on his juice fasts–‘to clear body and mind,' he said–he shared most meals with us. It was hard to remember a time when he didn't sit across the table from me.

After we reached the gate River looked down the road. ‘Good thing the milk truck's four-wheel-drive,' he mused. ‘Or we'd have to hook up the horses to pull us into town.'

‘It wasn't so long ago that we did just that,' Dad answered him from the porch. ‘And sometimes we still do. Eh, Nat?'

Before I had a chance to respond, Dad called out to River, ‘Looks like ya missed breakfast.'

‘That's okay,' River answered as Dad came down the steps.

‘Natalie and I like this job.' He grinned at me, then handed me his shovel so that he could take the thermos and a brown paper bag from Dad.

‘Toast,' Dad nodded at the bag. ‘Can't have my co-pilot starving.'

I watched as they walked together over to the truck, the sound of fresh snow crunching under their boots with each step. River peered into the bag and said something I couldn't hear. Dad threw his head back and laughed out loud. They looked so at ease with each other that it made me smile.

Lately I had noticed that River and Dad took longer and longer to deliver the milk each morning. Morgan and Carl had noticed too. Dad brushed off their teasing. He told them that when he stopped to pick up his newspaper at Gentry's they stayed for coffee so River could get to know the locals. River never disputed this explanation, but I had a hard time imagining Dad leaning over his paper at the counter, pretending to read, while River chatted it up with Mrs Gentry or the other patrons.

Yet, even though Dad told River he could take the weekends off, each day the two of them went together on the milk route.

Except at Christmas. Early Christmas morning Mom and I carried quilts and blankets down to the front of the barn as my brothers harnessed up the horses. Like every other year Mom would ride along in the milk truck with Dad for the Christmas Day deliveries, while my brothers and I followed behind in the flatbed sleigh.

I threw the blankets onto the loose hay on the sleigh when the door above the dairy opened.

‘What's this?' River stood at the top of the stairs, tucking his long blond hair into his wool hat. He looked from one of us to the other while our entire family stood waiting with smirks on our faces. We had deliberately kept this part of Christmas a secret to surprise him. We all knew he was missing his mother and grandfather and hoped our Christmas morning tradition would take away some of the sadness of not being with them for the holidays.

‘Merry Christmas,' I sang along with everyone, excited at sharing this day with him.

River looked up at Boyer, who stood up on the sleigh, holding the leather reins. ‘So what's happening?' River asked.

‘Hop on and you'll find out,' Boyer called down.

‘It's a hay ride,' I added needlessly, then felt my face redden.

River's blue eyes crinkled into a smile as he glanced over at Mom standing beside the passenger door of the milk truck. ‘What about the milk route?' he asked.

She smiled back at him and sung out, ‘This is my seat today, River. You go with the kids.' Before she climbed into the cab she looked up at the sky. Stars still twinkled in the grey morning light. She took a deep breath of the crisp air, ‘It's going to be a perfect day,' she said and climbed into the cab. As the truck pulled away she leaned out the window and called, ‘Don't fall off now.' She said that every year.

Boyer clicked his tongue. The horses leaned into their harnesses and strained forward. River reached under my shoulders and boosted me up, then threw himself onto the sleigh as it began to move.

He crawled up beside me and rested back against the empty wooden boxes stacked at the front of the sleigh. ‘And what are these for?' he asked.

‘You'll see,' I said.

The horses tossed their heads, fighting the first taste of the bits. Clouds of white vapour puffed up from flared nostrils. Rows of silver bells attached to their manes jangled when they surged forward. As we picked up speed leather harnesses creaked and shifted against horsehide while the sleigh runners glided along soundlessly on the hard-packed snow.

The warm musty fragrance of horse sweat and the sweet smell of hay cut the sharpness of the morning air.

‘This is my favourite part of Christmas,' I shouted above the bells.

‘And now it's mine too,' River shouted back. He put his arm around my shoulder and hugged me to him. And despite being bundled up I imagined I felt the warmth of his body through my heavy woollen coat.

When the sleigh slowed down on the first hill, I felt a sudden shove from behind. The next thing I knew I was tumbling into a sea of snow, Morgan and Carl's laughter following me. I surfaced and blew out a mouthful of powder as River landed next to me. He rolled over and laughed. He laid back and stared up at the clear sky for a few moments. ‘Wow,' he breathed. ‘Neat.'

As the sleigh crested the hill he sat up and offered me his hand and we pulled each other up. Like snow-crusted penguins, with arms straight out at our sides, we tottered back to the sleigh. Before we jumped on, River nodded to me, and by unspoken agreement we pelted Morgan and Carl with the snowballs we had hidden in our mitts.

When we pulled off South Valley Road, we all huddled together beneath the quilts as the sleigh glided along the empty highway.

In town, the horses trotted behind the milk truck as Dad and Mom made deliveries. The whole town appeared to be sleeping under a thick white blanket. Yet, at every house we stopped doors flew open. Dad's customers, many in dressing gowns and pyjamas, greeted us with choruses of Christmas wishes. Handshakes and hugs were shared as the sun rose in a clear blue sky. Hot toddies, Christmas cookies and presents were pressed into our hands. By the time we'd finished the bottom half of town
the wooden boxes on the sleigh were brimming with gifts and Christmas baking.

Hand-knitted mittens, caps and scarves filled an entire box. Fruit cakes, cookies, squares, homemade jams and preserves filled the others.

River laughed out loud as Morgan and Carl sorted through the bounty and offered up treats. ‘Man, all this on top of your Mom's mountains of Christmas baking? Whatever will you do with it all?' he asked as he popped a butter tart into his mouth.

‘You'll see,' I answered.

When we reached the end of Main Street, Boyer took off his gloves, cupped his hands together and blew into them. Then he turned the reins over to an eager Carl. I rode between River and Boyer as the horses started the climb to the top part of town. We sat with our legs dangling over the side while River talked about Christmases growing up in Montana. I listened, mesmerized by his voice, as he shared his memories.

‘You're so lucky to have a large family,' he told us. ‘Pretty hard for an only child to go on a hay ride. But what I did love about Christmas was going carolling. Every year on Christmas Eve, Mom and Granddad and I went from farm to farm visiting and singing Christmas carols.'

‘We can do that,' Morgan called and started singing, ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas'. Everyone joined, even Boyer, our voices ringing out in song as we glided along the snow-covered streets of town. I wanted the moment never to end.

But it did. As soon as we turned onto Colbur Street.

We stopped in front of the Ryan house. Elizabeth-Ann came hurrying out, carrying a tray of mugs and calling, ‘Merry Christmas everyone!' Her mother followed with a steaming jug. Mrs Ryan
chirped her season's greetings while she poured hot chocolate into the mugs her daughter held up.

‘Well, if it isn't the famous Wards.' Mr Ryan called out from the open door where he stood in his dressing gown. ‘Atwood's favourite family. And their long lost American…uh…nephew isn't it?'

‘Cousin!' Morgan and Carl cried at the same time, then laughed.

‘So,' Mr Ryan asked coming out onto the porch, ‘does that make you kissing cousins then?'

I shivered and shrank back between River and Boyer.

River looked from me to Mr Ryan. ‘Well, by gosh, sir. I guess it does,' he said in an exaggerated drawl. He turned and smiled down at me. I saw his eyes flicker for an instant over to Boyer, before he took my face between his mittened hands and planted a loud smacking kiss on my cheek.

Morgan and Carl hooted while I sat there momentarily stunned at the touch of River's cheek.

‘Well, although I'm sure the ladies like the new milkman here,' Mr Ryan's slurred voice continued, ‘I must say I miss the pretty little milkmaid coming to my door.'

Mrs Ryan finished pouring the last mug and glared up at her husband as he stood on the edge of the porch steps, a drink in his hand. She shook her head. ‘Go back inside, Gerald, before you catch a cold,' she sighed. ‘Or fall down,' she added under her breath.

At the same time both River and Boyer placed their arms protectively around my shoulders. Before the sleigh jerked forward Elizabeth-Ann passed me the last mug and said, ‘You're such a lucky duck, Natalie Ward.'

I recognized the envy in her eyes as we pulled away. And as the cocoa and the heat from my brother and River's bodies warmed me, I snuggled even closer.

When the milk route was completed, when the wooden boxes on the sleigh were full-to-bursting, we came to a stop before the building next to the hospital. Mom and Dad climbed out of the truck. They came back to the sleigh where Morgan and Boyer handed them each one of the full boxes. I jumped down and reached for one too.

River passed the box to me, his eyes watching Mom unlatch the heavy wooden gate between the hedges. ‘Our Lady Of Compassion, School for Girls', the sign above the gate read. But by then, even River knew what the stone building next to the hospital really was.

‘Is this all going here?' he wondered out loud.

‘Yes,' Boyer told him as he pushed more boxes to the edge. ‘Every year we take most of our Christmas haul from Dad's customers to the home.'

Morgan snickered and said out of the side of his mouth, ‘Yeah, kind of ironic given how everyone in the town gossips about this place.'

River jumped down and grabbed a box. Boyer did the same. When they started to follow us Dad glanced at Mom with a cocked eyebrow. Mom hesitated for a moment, then continued through the gate. ‘All right,' she called back. ‘But just to the front doorstep. Even that will probably throw the nuns into a tizzy. But I'm sure the sight of a few handsome young men will give the young ladies peeking out the windows some Christmas cheer.'

Carl stayed at the reins. When Morgan made no move to leave the sleigh, River called back, ‘Aren't you going to come along to add to the young ladies' Christmas thrill?'

Morgan shrugged his shoulders then said, ‘Why not?' He jumped down and grabbed a box from the sleigh. He hurried after us, his
out of tune voice rising in another round of, ‘We wish you a Merry Christmas'.

We all joined in the singing while we deposited box after box on the front steps of the school.

O
NE NIGHT IN
January, Boyer announced his intention to fix up the old miner's cabin by the lake. I looked up from my plate. No one at the table seemed surprised. Except me.

‘What for?' I asked.

‘To live in,' he said. ‘I'm going to move out there.'

‘No!' I blurted without thinking. I glanced quickly at River, wondering how childish I must have sounded.

Boyer ignored my outburst. ‘I'm almost twenty-four,' he stated. ‘It's time I had my own place. It's less than a ten-minute walk, Natalie. Besides, it's not as if you won't still see me every day.'

The thought of Boyer not being upstairs in the attic room left me with an empty feeling. Yet, for the rest of the winter I became caught up in the plans formulated at our kitchen table. In the spring I joined the work bees along with my brothers, Dad and River. After school and on weekends there were more than enough spare hands busy with hammers and saws. Before long a framed addition with a small bedroom and bathroom was added onto the side of the log cabin.

In April, Boyer moved in. I sat in the cab of the pick-up truck between him and River on the day we drove out with the final load. As we crossed the meadow in the afternoon shadows I thought that
the ancient apple tree, which stood so close to the cabin, looked like a sentry keeping guard. Branches curled over the roof like gnarled fingers, possessive of their charge. When I was a child it wouldn't have taken much to convince me that this moss-covered dwelling on the edge of the forest belonged to some witch or wizard of my bedtime fairytales. But it was Boyer's home now. Over the last few months he had turned the old shack into as cozy a nest as his sanctuary in the attic.

As we pulled up to the door, ebony wings rose from the branches above the roof. Harsh voices barked with annoyance at the interruption as the flock of crows took to the sky.

Boyer looked up through the windshield. ‘Corvine?' he challenged me.

‘That's easy,' I scoffed. I spelled the word out, then said, ‘An adjective, pertaining to the crow.'

Boyer opened his door and climbed out of the truck. He shoved his hand into his jeans pocket and came out with a dime.

‘I'm too old for that,' I said, suddenly feeling embarrassed at having played this childhood game in front of River.

Boyer tossed the silver coin to me, ‘Too good, maybe,' he said, ‘but not too old. Never too old.'

River gazed up and began counting the crows as they winged through the sky above the lake. ‘Seven crows for a secret never to be told,' he said quoting the last line of the old nursery rhyme.

If I believed in omens I might have shivered at his words. But at the time, if I shivered at all, it was at the thought of my own delicious secret, my feelings for River, which had only grown over the winter.

‘I'm sure this old shack has many untold secrets,' Boyer said as he pulled down the tailgate and started to unload the truck.

Inside, he lit the gas lamps. ‘Propane will do until I can afford to bring out hydro lines,' he had said when he installed the propane lights and stove.

I've heard it said that cars come to look like their owners. Well, to me, Boyer's new home already looked like him. More exactly, it felt like him, warm, comforting, and safe. The glow from the yellow light reflected on aged wood. I'd spent hours beside Boyer cleaning and re-chinking those square-hewed logs, only to have him place bookshelves against most of them.

As I unpacked and organized the array of novels, which filled most of the boxes, it occurred to me that Boyer had created this space as much as a home for his book collection as for himself.

The heavy wooden door closed and River came in. Over the winter I had watched with envy as Boyer and River's relationship developed into a quiet friendship. Up until that time I'd never seen him spend so much time with anyone except our family and Father Mac.

‘That's the last one,' River said placing the box on the table. He breathed an exaggerated sigh and picked up a hardcover book from the top of the box. He looked at the front cover then turned it over to study a photograph of President Kennedy on the back.

‘It's hard to believe that in November it will be four years since he was killed,' he mused, then handed
Profiles In Courage
to me. ‘I'm curious,' he said. ‘What was it like up here–for Canadians–then? How did the news affect you when he was assassinated?'

‘I was only twelve,' I said, conscious of River's eyes on me as I spoke. ‘I don't think I really understood it then.' I thought for a moment trying to recall how I felt that day. ‘I remember our principal coming into our classroom and announcing that President Kennedy had been shot. We were let out of school early. Mostly
what I remember was the shocked, even frightened, expressions on the faces of all the teachers huddled outside while we waited for the bus.'

And I remembered Boyer's grim face as he drove everyone home. The following days were the only times I ever saw him spend hours in front of the television. We all sat solemnly in our living room and watched the events in Dallas play out over and over again.

Boyer pulled a chair up to the table and sat down. ‘I was stunned,' he said quietly. ‘Like most Canadians, I think, I knew we had lost a friend. I remember his visit to Ottawa in 1961. Fifty thousand people gathered on Parliament Hill, trying to catch a glimpse of him and Jackie. I think many saw him as a cross between royalty and a movie star, rather than as a politician. When he died, we mourned him as if he was one of our own. It
felt
as if he were our own.'

The hiss of the propane lights filled the silence. After a moment River spoke. ‘I was in my twelfth grade history class when the announcement came over the PA system. Our teacher laid his head on his desk and waved us from the classroom. The halls were eerily silent as we filed out. No one spoke. Even locker doors were opened and closed carefully, silently.'

The shadows grew in the room as River continued. ‘That night I met with three of my buddies, Ray, Frankie, and Art. Before Ray's father left for work he placed a bottle of whisky on the coffee table. The four of us sat in front of the TV until the test pattern came on. Then we sat in the dark trying to make sense of it all. Which, of course, couldn't be done. It was surreal. None of us wanted to accept that he had been murdered so easily. We were convinced it was the Russians. We all wanted something bigger to blame than the skinny little man they arrested. As the night wore on, and the whisky
bravado grew, talk turned to the possibility of war. And to enlisting. Ray and Art already planned to join up as soon as they graduated. They saw it as a career choice. But neither Frankie, nor I, had any intention of becoming universal soldiers. Yet, the strange thing was there was a moment, a moment when I thought the Russians were behind it–that it could have really meant war–when I imagined myself in a uniform, with a gun in my hands.' He shook his head slowly at his admission.

‘Half of us ended up wearing that uniform,' he said. ‘Ray was no surprise. But Frankie? Frankie was such a gentle soul. His family had a chicken farm only a few miles from ours. He wasn't going on to university, so he talked to his priest about refusing the draft on religious grounds. The priest convinced him to serve. As a conscientious objector, in a noncombative role. Sure, noncombative, but you still go through boot camp–learn to carry a gun.' River leaned forward and studied his hands. His hair hung loose around his face.

‘I got a letter from Ray last spring,' he said without looking up.

‘Three days after Frankie arrived in Nam, he and Ray ended up together on a medical supply boat on the Mekong River. They were caught in a sniper attack and ordered to take arms. As Frankie shouldered his gun he begged, “Please God, don't let me kill anyone.” As the last word came out of his mouth, a bullet hole appeared in the middle of his forehead. Ray wrote that as Frankie slumped to the deck he was smiling.' River sighed then said, ‘I guess his God answered his prayer.'

He looked up and tucked his hair behind his ears. ‘Ray's still over there,' he said. ‘He'll probably come through this unscathed–come home a hero. I hope he does anyway. He deserves it. Anyone willing to risk everything, to die for what they believe in is a hero. Frankie was a hero. The boys–men–over there are all heroes. It's the politicians, the leaders willing to sacrifice young men for their own
political games, who are the cowards. Thank God we still have Robert Kennedy to stand up to Johnson and his lies. When Bobby's president, he'll put an end to this war.'

The room grew silent once again. After a few moments Boyer asked, ‘And your other friend?'

‘Art?' River smiled. ‘He tried to volunteer. He failed his medical. An inner ear problem. He cried like a baby when he was denied enlistment,' he said. ‘And then there's me. I hid away in university. Nice and safe in classes. Until Norman Morrison lit that match.'

Unconsciously River again reached into the box on the table. He pulled out a small cloth covered book and let it fall open in his hands. I recognized the yellowed pages of
A Book of Treasured Poems
. Boyer's favourite.

Boyer shifted in his chair. ‘Have you ever regretted your decision?' he asked.

River studied the pages in front of him. ‘I don't regret protesting the war,' he said, then looked up and met Boyer's eyes. ‘But, of course, I'm sorry I had to leave my home, and that I had to give up my education.'

After a moment he let his gaze return to the book. He started to read out loud:

‘“For Those Who Fail”, by Cincinnatus Miller,' Boyer added without a moment's hesitation. ‘Poet laureate, Oregon. Early nineteen hundreds.'

River shook his head in wonder. ‘Do you know every poem in this book?' he asked.

‘Yes, he does,' I answered knowing Boyer would never acknowledge this.

But my brother quickly changed the subject.

‘So what are your plans?' he asked. ‘Do you think you'll ever go back? To university, that is.'

I was startled by the question. Up until that moment I hadn't thought about River leaving, but suddenly it made sense. Of course he would not stay forever. I waited nervously for his answer.

‘I have a trust fund from my grandmother that matures when I am twenty-four,' River said. ‘When I first came up here I thought I would get to know Canada by travelling around doing odd jobs. But I'm content to stay here if your family will put up with me until then. When I come into my trust I guess I'll apply to university in Vancouver or Calgary.' He smiled at Boyer. ‘Which one do you think is best?'

Boyer shrugged. ‘I haven't given it much thought.'

As they spoke I did a quick mental calculation. River was twenty-one. In three years I would be finished high school. For the first time I considered going to university.

But it was Boyer to whom River directed his question. ‘Well, why don't you? Why don't you think about coming with me?'

‘That's not an option.' Boyer attempted a laugh.

River stared intently at Boyer as if he were weighing his thoughts. After a moment he said quietly, ‘You once asked me how I could deliberately give up a university education. But isn't that exactly what you're doing?'

‘It's not the same thing,' Boyer said looking taken aback by River's remark.

‘Isn't it?'

Boyer avoided his eyes. ‘All the education I need is right here,' he said and waved at the books surrounding us.

‘And the real world is out there,' River nodded toward the window.

‘Just be certain you're being honest with yourself, man. That you're not using the farm–or your father–as an excuse to avoid that world.'