Etta and Otto and Russell and James (21 page)

Once there, he sat on the bed, awake, up. He wasn’t tired at all. He listened to the rhythmic rustle of his paper gown moving with his breath, to the click of a clock, to the rise and fall of the wind outside, like singing. Except it was too long and regular and thick to be wind. Too solid. Otto went to the window, opened it as far as it would open, three inches, and listened again. Familiar, nostalgic. He carefully felt his way around his ear’s bandage until he found the end, then unwrapped it around and around until he felt the air and sound on it, twice as loud, starting low, then rising up, then falling down again. Coyotes, said Otto, to the room, the clock, the wind. Like home. He pulled the room’s one armchair across and around so it was facing the window, sat down in it, and listened.

A
t midnight the first nurse knocked gently on the door, then opened it a crack. Midnight check-in, he whispered. Then, noting the empty bed, Etta, you’re up?

Yes, but I’m fine, said Otto.

You moved your chair.

Yes, but it wasn’t heavy.

Okay. Call me next time. To help.

Okay, said Otto, as the nurse closed the door and left him alone again.

O
tto was still in his yard, still beside the raccoon and the trout, when his neighbors, the ones with the girl with the guinea pigs, pulled out of the slow parading line of vehicles along the lane and down onto Otto’s front drive. Otto recognized the car, dark blue, large and practical. It pulled all the way up to where he was sitting, carefully negotiating the sculptures. The back door opened first and the little girl jumped out. HelloMisterVogel! she said, then ran past to the raccoon, stroked it once down to the end of its tail, then cut back across to the wolf, petted it cautiously between the ears, then away toward the grouse, and so on. She was with the gophers before her parents were out of the front doors of their car. Afternoon, Otto, said the girl’s father.

Afternoon, said Otto.

Afternoon, Otto, said the mother.

Afternoon, said Otto.

Guinea pig treating you well?

Yes, quite well. She mostly sleeps and licks.

Yeah, said the father.

Tell me about it, said the mother.

Doesn’t look like Russell’s back yet, hey? said the father.

No, said Otto. He’s not. He’s way up north.

I see, said the father.

In any case, said the mother, I’ve brought you something. She reached back into the car, into the backseat. They’re fairly wilted now, but, well, I thought you might still want them anyway. She brought out a coffee tin with three sad-looking flax flowers, half-petaled, in it. I saw your sign, she said. Behind them her daughter ran from the golden eagle to the foxes to the red squirrel.

Oh, said Otto. Yes. Yes, thank you.

Not much, but all I could find on our land.

She looked all afternoon, added the father.

I’m sorry there’s not more, said the mother.

No, no, these are great, said Otto. Thank you. Really. He eyed the flowers, counting the petals in his head. They shuddered limply in the wind. Hold on, thought Otto, just a tiny bit longer, please. Well, he said out loud, I’d love to have you in for coffee, but—

No, no, said the father. Thanks, but I’m afraid we’ve got to run off. We’ve got swimming lessons in town. He turned away from Otto, toward his daughter, who was now dodging between grasshoppers. KASIA! he shouted. Swimming! She ignored him. Three steps, touch-a-hopper, three steps, touch-a-hopper. Her father shrugged and tramped off toward her.

Once he was gone, the mother took a step closer to Otto, coffee tin in her hand, and said, You all right, Otto?

Some trouble with sleep, said Otto. And with being very old.

I could make the paste for you, if you want, drop it off after dinner.

No, said Otto. I like doing it. It’s fine, I’m fine.

Otto, you haven’t moved since we got here, this whole time.

No?

No. Tell me, can you stand up?

Now?

Yes, now.

Otto hesitated. No, he said. I can’t. Not right now.

Okay, said the mother, I’m going to help you. We’ll make it look natural, just walking and talking.

No, it’s fine, said Otto. You really don’t . . .

Yes I do, said the mother.

She wasn’t a large woman, but she was strong. Solid legs, arms, core. From swimming, she said. She put an arm across Otto’s back, her fingers reaching around just below the armpit, rocked his weight back onto her, and lifted. He came up quickly, easily, like an empty jar she expected to be full.

Can you walk? she asked.

I don’t know, said Otto.

Okay, let’s just try then. She took one step forward with her right leg and Otto followed. Right, okay, good. Then left, okay, good. Then right. Then left.

I’m just tired, said Otto.

Left, said the mother, and right.

Kasia, having now tagged every animal, came bounding back toward them just as they reached the front door.

Where are you going? she asked.

To see Otto’s guinea pig, said the mother. He was going to show it to me.

Great! said Kasia. I LOVE guinea pigs!

Her father followed a few steps behind. He caught his wife’s eyes over their daughter’s head. Should I wait in the car? he said.

No, no, it’s fine, really, said Otto. Everyone can come and meet her.

Do you have any kids too? Any toys? asked Kasia.

No, said Otto. Sorry. Just the one guinea pig.

Well, that’s sad but okay I guess, said Kasia. For now.

They gathered around Oats’s orange crate. She was sleeping. They do that a lot, said Kasia. Mine too. Don’t worry. She put her hand into the crate and patted papier-mâché Oats. I like this one, she said.

Before they left, the mother put the coffee tin of flowers on the counter, just behind where Otto was leaning. Can you lift your legs
on your own? she whispered.

Yes, whispered Otto.

Show me.

He lifted his left leg. Three inches off the floor, maybe four.

Okay, whispered the mother. Okay?

Yes, whispered Otto, okay.

After they left, Otto got a pen and paper, and, still standing up in case sitting meant sitting forever, wrote:

Dear Etta,

We have good days and bad days. You told me, once, to just remember to breathe. As long as you can do that, you’re doing something Good, you said. Getting rid of the old, and letting in the new. And, therefore, moving forward. Making progress. That’s all you have to do to move forward, sometimes, you said, just breathe. So don’t worry, Etta, if nothing else, I am still breathing.

You must be almost there, must be close. I hope you are. I hope you’re seeing everything.

I am just writing to tell you: I am here, don’t worry. I am here, breathing, waiting.

Otto.

Then he made the flax paste, spread it on his eyes, and slept and slept.

R
ussell stood on a round, flat rock. It was the tallest thing for miles and covered in orange and green and gray lichen. The woman beside him was tiny with wrinkles like fireworks around her eyes. She wore a skin and fur coat that blended into her own white hair. She had her hand on his shoulder. THE HERD SHOULD COME FROM OVER THERE TODAY,
she shouted. The wind was so loud Russell could barely hear her. SOMETIME IN THE NEXT SIX HOURS, I BET.
They both sat down on the rock, careful not to scrape the lichen. YOU HAVE NO WIFE?
she shouted.

NO,
shouted Russell.

YOU’RE HAPPIER ALONE, LIKE ME, MAYBE,
she shouted.

YES, shouted Russell. YES, MAYBE.

T
hey stayed in the village with the new recruits for almost a week, and then, for no reason that anyone would tell them, Otto and Gérald and everyone else were woken at four in the morning on the Sunday, still foggy out, still cool, to hastily dress and pee and pack their things, and start marching west.

Owen caught up to Otto in the line. Do you know where we’re going?

You’re not allowed to break the line like that, you’ll get smacked or made to take the back, said Gérald, from beside Otto.

It’s okay. I know. Do you know? Where we’re going? Why?

No idea, Owen.

Aucune idée,
said Gérald.

Does this happen a lot? All normal, then all of a sudden, no warning, up and go?

Sometimes, said Otto.

Look, said Gérald, this is not bad. This is better than leaving because they’re peeling away your watchmen and city guards. Or breaking into sleep rooms at night and slitting throats. This is a nice morning stretch.

Oh, said Owen. Does that . . .

But that’s still not so bad, still better than when we’re the ones sneaking in. Better than standing at a window, watching the Adam’s apples of two strangers go up and down in sleep, knowing they’ll have the chance for six, maybe seven more breaths before your knife slides right through them, so they don’t have the time or means to cry out, just only barely time to open their eyes to see you, to feel their own
heartbeats swell and die in their necks—

Jesus, Gérald, said Otto. Turning to Owen, We don’t, it’s not so—

It’s okay, said Owen.

And, said Otto. Even if we do . . . Then he stopped, sighed.

Look, said Gérald, it’s just like chess. Sometimes it’s our turn to be moved, either aggressively or defensively. Sometimes we’re not moved for ages. Sometimes we’re moved back to a place we’ve just been. It all seems random from here, but from above, for those who can see the whole board, it probably makes sense. There very well could be a strategy, a plan. The thing to know,
mon petit
Anglo, is whether you’re a queen or a pawn.

Owen looked to Otto, said, A queen or a . . .

I don’t know chess, said Otto.

They marched on in silence. Owen stayed with them.

After another thirty-six steps, he was spotted as out of place, and made to take up the back of the line.

It won’t be for long, said Otto. I’m sure we must be just about there.

A
fter Owen left, Gérald said, Just about where? Do you have any idea where we are?

No, said Otto. But we must be just about somewhere.

He’s a funny one, you know, said Gérald. I wouldn’t spend too much time too close to him.

I know, said Otto. Don’t worry. I know.

T
hey walked until dark, and then through it for some hours until given the call to stop and camp up. A low, dull fire was made in a
covered spot, unseeable from every angle except straight on, and food was warmed and distributed. Everyone was exhausted, but no one was ready to sleep; they sat around the fire in spiraling layers, as close to it as each could get, talking lowly in twos and threes about nothing, because they’d been together through night and dark and everything in-between for so long that the only thing left to talk about was nothing. And then, sometime between dinner and sleep, from somewhere between two boys arguing over nothing and three boys comparing stories of nothing, Owen started to sing,

Though April showers may come your way

They bring the flowers that bloom in May

So if it’s raining, have no regrets,

Because it isn’t raining rain you know

It’s raining violets.

And where you see clouds upon the hills,

You soon will see crowds of daffodils,

So keep on looking for a blue bird

And listening for his song,

Whenever April showers come along.

So just keep looking for that blue bird

And listening for his song,

Whenever April showers come along.

Light, rich tenor. Just like in Etta’s schoolhouse. He was looking right at Otto. Otto fell away from his conversation.

And eventually everyone stopped talking and listened, some of them joining in, some in harmony and some barely finding the melody, and some just sitting silent, watching the music like a film.

T
he next morning as they packed up the song went round in Otto’s head. And around while they started marching, and around as they continued on through the hot dry fields of tall grasses and tiny orchids, as they stopped and camped out for a second night, no fires or noise allowed this time, straight to bed after a silent meal, so that the sound of the song in his head mixed with the sound of the sea, just on the other side of the bluff they were tucked in behind. They were back at the water; the unseen feel of it rocked Otto to sleep like a lullaby.

T
he morning came before morning. It came with light that wasn’t the sun and speed and noise and a hand through Otto’s tent, down on the canvas, falling into him, pinning the wall down in a hand-shape so that he had to roll out of the way and spring up against it, pushing the deadweight away from him, and out into the bright non-sun light and non-morning noise, struggling his boots on and following the wave of everyone up over the bluff and down toward the sea, where, before the water, there was a sea of men, everywhere everywhere swirling, pouring in so the line between sea and land was blurred, was gone, was only bodies, and because everyone was shouting, Otto was shouting and up to his ankles, his knees, his hips in the water, get in! get in! get in! and get them out! someone is yelling everyone is yelling, in! and out! and boats and boys and men and boys, breathing in the water, spitting out the water, and everything loud and so much
color, but darkened and getting darker and you better get down get right down, down, deeper, deeper, deeper and the water warmer than he’d expect, rhythmic, and, in his head, the song still going around and around, and the water’s still black because it’s still just sunrise just before and half the shouts and half the bodies and half the uniforms are familiar, are what he’s been taught to know and the other half are the other ones he’s been taught to recognize but for different reasons and both are shooting and screaming all are shooting and screaming and something or someone is exploding in the water, how can things explode in the water? And a stab of noise of light of steel in the side of his head in the right-hand side his ear in his ear and then something against his stomach like a fist but bigger, heavier, a body thrust into his, upside down in the water, he has one hand on his head, his ear, is squinting to see through the light that is everywhere just everywhere, and uses the other hand to reach down, to flip the body around and the cheeks puff out and cough out water and it’s Owen, Owen from home, and he’s just tiny, and he coughs again and water rushes into his open mouth and maybe he’s bleeding from the chest, just below the chest, the very center of him, and Otto drops his hand from his head and uses both arms to lift and pull lift and pull Owen out of the water away try to get away somewhere quiet and dark shouts help please! Please! And his shouting is like harmony to all the other shouting, everyone is shouting, even those who weren’t singing, who were just watching, before, have now joined and everyone is shouting and it rises up together and fills Otto’s good ear and the air and fills everything.

Owen is dead before Otto can put him down. There is no quiet place to put him. No clean place no quiet place. He puts him on the beach, beside the others. His eyes are open. Otto knows he’s supposed to close them, but he can’t. He leaves the eyes open. It’s my fault, he
says.

And, even though Owen is dead, he says,
It isn’t.

And Otto says, It is.

And Owen says,
Maybe.

And then Otto’s ear flashes white through his head and down his whole body and he wants to kiss Owen but he doesn’t and instead he runs, runs back up the bluff, back over to where he had camped, past there, away and away and away.

O
tto ran for forty minutes; seven thousand and two hundred steps. He ran until he found a British Armed Forces truck, parked off the side of an empty road. He jump-started it, just like so many tractors, threshers, trucks, before, and drove inland until the next big town, where he got out, found the darkest room he could, and, even though the sun was barely up, ordered rye whiskey, and even though the sun was barely up, they gave it to him. Otto stayed there all day. Sometime around sunset Gisèlle came in. She wrapped her arms around his neck and he ran his hand up her legs, no nylons, just a painted-on line, up the painted-on line, and she smiled and said, Yes? and led him away, down the street, around the corner, and up to her room. Otto ripped at her clothes like they were the burning in his ear. Tore into her like she was the blood-dark water.

L
ater, as he slept, Gisèlle bandaged Otto’s ear, wrapping clean white cotton around and around and around.

H
e spent the next weeks between those two rooms, the bar and
Gisèlle’s. He realized, briefly, sometime around Saturday, that he couldn’t go back. He’d heard stories, crouched around the radio with Russell, of soldiers like him shot unceremoniously in flowered fields. So, it was the bar and Gisèlle’s, back and forth, simple, easy.

It was in the bar, sometime around the middle of a week, sometime early evening, when the most beautiful woman Otto had ever seen walked in. Her nylons were real. She smiled at the bartender, familiar, recognized, and sat at a table near the back of the room, alone. Otto, at the bar, finished his drink, pushed the glass away from him, and went to her.

My god, he said. Winnie.

Hi, Otto, said Winnie. She stood to embrace him, he didn’t even lift his arms to her, heavy, hanging, like a child, his head on her shoulder. You smell terrible, she said.

I know, he said. You smell wonderful.

I know, she said.

They sat across from each other, she with red wine, he with nothing. They think you’re dead, she said. In the ocean somewhere.

I might as well be.

That’s crap. And you know it. Don’t be an idiot, Otto.

They think you might be dead too.

It’s not the same.

Have they sent a letter? To Mom?

Not yet. There’s backlog.

How did you know I wasn’t? Dead?

It’s my job to know things. I asked around.

Do you know Gisèlle?

Of course. It’s her job too.

Oh. And, and you’re okay?

I’m fantastic, Otto. I am so much better than I thought I could
be. You’re the not-okay one.

They worry, at home, about you. A lot.

They shouldn’t. You can tell them that. But nothing else. Anyway, it’s you that needs worrying about. Gisèlle will need to move on soon. She’s got a backlog of cases, should never have spent this long on you. . . . Then where will you sleep?

She didn’t say she was going.

She doesn’t say a lot of things. Look, I think I can make it okay for you, okay for you to go back without problems.

I don’t think I can.

You can.

I don’t know.

You can. It won’t have to be for long.

Okay.

Okay?

Okay. Thank you, Winnie.

She reached under the table to Otto’s hand and squeezed it. Geez, Otto, she said. Of course.

T
hat night, Otto took a pen from Gisèlle’s bedside table, and some bar napkins from his pocket, and wrote:

My Dear Etta,

He wrote the marching, he wrote the singing, he wrote the camping, the morning, the water, he wrote the boats, the crowds, the water, the ear, the water, Owen, the water, the water, the water.