Etta and Otto and Russell and James (18 page)

T
he next day Etta took her lunch an hour earlier than usual, arriving at the station just in time to join the lineup of siblings, parents, and Russell, who squeezed up to Harriet so she could fit in. They’d arranged themselves so as to have a bench at one end, where Otto’s father could sit, legs and arms strapped. Grace Vogel’s eyes darted to and from Etta as she slipped in, but she said nothing.

I’ll be back soon, I know, said Otto. I’ll see each one of you soon, I know.

Be bravest, said Ted.

Don’t cry, I’m not crying, you don’t cry, I’m not crying, you cry every time, I do not, you do, said Ellie and Benji.

It’s stupid that you all go, said Emmett.

Be careful, said Harriet.

Be very careful, said Clara.

Try to stay kind, said Marie.

I love you, said Etta, so quiet Otto only half-heard.

Remember us, said Russell.

Remember what I said, said Harriet.

Please, said his mother.

Don’t lose yourself, said his father.

And Otto kissed each one on the left cheek, only hesitating a second to squeeze Etta’s hand, and his mother’s, then took his bag from Harriet and got on the train that was waiting for him, its only passenger from this stop. On board, just before pulling away, he wrote

Your

Otto.

backward on the window in the dust and grease.

T
hey stayed in that formation, all lined up, after the train had left, watching the space where it had been until Otto’s father, from his spot on the bench, said, Right. Back to work now, everyone. Then they dispersed, Russell giving a ride to Ellie and Benji on his horse, while the other Vogels crowded into the truck, smaller children inside the cab, bigger ones with their father in the back, with Grace Vogel at the wheel. Etta walked by herself back to the factory, pulling her hair up under its scarf as she went. You wait and you work, she whispered to herself, you wait, and you work. Her stomach turned backflips, stitched, kicked.

15

E
tta and James walked along the river, and there were more and more towns and crowds. Etta took the things they asked her to, a button, a photograph, an arrowhead, a ring, and, once they were through, always asked James the same thing,

Is anybody following us?

And he always answered the same way,

No.

And they’d make their way back somewhere wild to sleep.

We’re going to have to cross this river soon. It’s widening, becoming ocean.

I know, said Etta. I’m just waiting for the right bridge. The bridges so far had all been concrete and steel and full of cars. That’s no way to cross water.

We could swim
, said James.

But the banks were high and steep. The current unknown.
I could get down there
, said James,
I could help you.

Two more days, said Etta, glancing down the sheer drop. If there’s no good bridge in two days.

But there was a bridge, the right sort of bridge, by the end of the first day. Dark wood in a latticework of beams all around, covered, so
the inside was shadowed and damp. An old railroad bridge, said Etta. This will do.

I don’t know
, said James.
I don’t like it.

It’s beautiful, said Etta. It’s good.

No,
said James.
You can’t see all the way through it, there’s darkness in the middle. No.

We have to, said Etta.

I’ll swim
, said James.

Down there?

Yes. It’s easy, for me.

And I’ll meet you on the other side.

Yes. I’ll smell for you on the other side.
James tripped lightly away, back and forth in a wide crisscross into the gorge, knocking small rocks and flower petals down into the water as he went. Etta tapped one foot on the bridge’s first plank, to test for rot, then stepped onto it.

She proceeded like this, slow and careful, testing then stepping, further and further along toward the bridge’s dark midpoint, as James zig-zagged below. She kept her left hand out, moving it along the planks that made up the bridge’s wall. She wondered if her grasp could possibly be firm enough to hold, should her feet give way. Grasp, test, step, grasp, test, step, to the middle of the bridge, where it was completely dark. Grasp, test, step. Grasp, stop. Her left hand hadn’t hit the cool grain of wood this time, but, instead, something warm and soft and regularly textured. Wool. Moving up and down ever so slightly. Breathing. A shoulder.

Etta, it said.

Jesus! said Etta.

I’m sorry.

Christ!

Don’t be scared, it’s just me.

Just who?

Me, Bryony.

Even though it was already pitch-black, Etta closed her eyes. Bryony. Was this a name? Was this a familiar name? James? she said.

No, Bryony. The shoulder moved. A hand placed on Etta’s outstretched arm. The reporter, from before. Do you remember?

The feel of the shoulder was the pressed wool of a burgundy business suit. Yes, said Etta. Of course I do. Bryony. Are you here for another interview?

No, said Bryony.

Are you from here?

This bridge?

Well, maybe. This area.

No, I can hardly speak French at all. I’m here because, well, I’ve been following the story. And the crowds. I’ve been in the crowds, each time, just in the back.

You never said hello, said Etta.

I’m sorry, said Bryony. I was gathering courage.

Did you want to give me something to carry with me? asked Etta.

Yes, said the reporter, that’s it, exactly. I do. She paused. The pressed-wool shoulder lifted up and down in a sigh. Etta, she said, I’m so sick of everybody else’s stories.

Have you brought me stories?

No, myself.

Yourself?

I’ve brought you myself. I’m ready to come with you.

Oh.

Okay?

Okay.

The reporter Bryony walked along the right-hand side of the bridge, with her right hand along the wall, and Etta continued along the left. They held hands across the center. Do you think you could hold, asked Bryony, if one of my boards gave way and you had me in your hand?

Probably not, said Etta. But they continued like this anyway, all the way across the bridge and into the squinting sunlight on the other side.

T
hey mostly walked without talking. There were fewer towns on this side of the water and things were quieter. Every time they reached a turning point, a lake or road or diversion, Etta would stop, look around, then spit on the ground and rub the saliva into the dirt with her shoe. The third time, before a ridge they’d have to go around one way or another, Bryony said, Why do you do that?

For James, said Etta. So he can find us.

But, three hours after they’d crossed the bridge, there was still no sign of him. Etta, who had been counting seconds under her breath, stopped again. Do you think the river current is very strong, back there? she asked.

The river we crossed? The Saint-Laurent?

Yes.

I don’t know. It’s very big.

And deep?

And deep.

Okay, said Etta. And they kept walking.

Before they camped that night, Bryony wanted to make a fire.

We can’t, said Etta.

Why not? It will be cold at night. If not now, soon.

James doesn’t like them. He’s afraid.

Oh, said Bryony. Okay.

Etta tore up wide strips of moss and laid them green side down over the reporter to keep her warm instead of having a fire. Before falling asleep, swathed in the heavy green scent, Bryony said, It would be impossible, Etta, for you to get down there, even if we did go back.

I know, said Etta.

You shouldn’t feel bad, said Bryony.

I know.

Okay.

Dear Otto,

I’ve enclosed some caribou fur here. Feel it, just feel it. Isn’t that something? Isn’t that different from a horse or cow or cat or dog even? Isn’t it the greatest thing you’ve felt in a while?

It’s starting to get colder up here. I’m thinking about making a coat. A Netsilik woman has already made me a hat. She does that. Sits in her house on the route of the caribou and makes hats from the ones that fall down or behind. Her house was full of this fur. To keep it warm in autumn and winter she said.

But I should be home before then.

Sincerely,

Russell

Otto tapped the fur out from the bottom seam of the envelope. It fell in little clumps, the way he had always imagined his own hair would, one day; though, at eighty-three years old, he still had the same full, white, head of it he’d had since he was seventeen. He pushed the scattered clumps of fur into a pile and ran his fingers over it, then picked it up and rubbed it between his thumb and forefinger. Thicker than a cat’s or deer’s, softer than a dog’s or coyote’s, in one direction it was effortless and comforting, in the other it caught against the grain of his fingerprints.

H
e was coughing a lot, now, these days. At first Oats would jump and cower behind papier-mâché-Oats each time, but now she just carried on licking or chewing or sleeping, not interrupted or bothered. And mostly Otto didn’t pay it attention anymore either,
the little spasms washing over his body as regular as waves. He really only noticed at whatever point in the morning or night or day that he decided he had to try to sleep, when, with the closing of his eyes, he became acutely aware of each little thing in his body, of each cough reverberating like a timpani roll, of his heart accelerating self-consciously like an accompanying snare. He’d catch sleep in the tiny snatches between. Five seconds, ten seconds, two seconds, collected and piled together like the clumps of fur from Russell, which he kept on the counter beside the mixing bowls, ready for his next project: a full-size caribou onto which he would paste the fur, on the head, around the eyes.

O
tto got on the train and felt the pull of the ground under his feet, along the tracks, again, all the way to the edge of the country, then got off and onto a boat, which slipped across days and nights of drills and false alarms and real alarms, taking his turn at spreading the boot prints off the deck with a mop or a rag, singing and laughing, then dropping and lying flat against the planks at the call of the captain or someone else as something shot at them from above or below or beside and being grateful for the mopping, and, there, with his cheek picking up the grain of the deck, feeling like he might, just, if he listened hard enough, hear his parents talking or dancing just above or below all the shots and shouts. His hair stayed the same, this time, as he stepped off the boat, legs untrusting of solid ground, and swung his duffel bag, with dust from his mother’s farm still in the creases, up into the matte green truck in a pile with the bags of all the others, who then bumped along side by side, knees touching, on the final leg of their journeys, this time.

The truck dropped Otto off in a small stone and sand village a few miles east from where he’d left his regiment, just over two weeks before. Does that mean we’re winning or losing? he asked Gérald, who was showing him where he’d sleep, in an abandoned church vestry.

It means we’re still moving, said Gérald. Back and forth, back and forth. We’re not fighting with these boys, we’re dancing.

Their numbers were thin. There was the gradual dripping away of those injured or lost, and there were the three who had not come back from their leave, whose families and wives swore they hadn’t
heard or seen anything of them. We’re getting reinforcements sent in soon, said Gérald, chewing at a bit of skin near his little-finger nail. In a couple of days, just after you’ve all had a chance to readjust again. Gérald hadn’t gone home; he’d chosen to stay, to hold and watch things until Otto and the others came back. I prefer to imagine what going home could have been like, instead of knowing what it really would have been, he said. I sat out here on my own, out on watch eight p.m. to eight a.m., and I imagined I was sitting with my wife all night, night after night after night, and
mon Dieu
she was beautiful, and it was so simple and so easy.