Etta and Otto and Russell and James (22 page)

T
an-lines of factory grit between her ankles and socks, wrists and hands. Through the window she could see Russell, on his horse, making his way down the track. Early.

He waited, on his horse, in the yard, while Etta finished getting ready. Putting away dinner dishes, pinning her hair back, tying up boots. Are you sure you don’t want to come in? she called out the open front door. Wait with some coffee?

No thanks, said Russell.

He never came in. He always came early.

Etta had two dresses for dancing, one green and one blue. Tonight she wore the darker one, the green. The pleated skirt flared and fell as she boosted herself up onto Russell’s horse. A small, sudden pain in her lower stomach as she landed. You okay? said Russell.

Etta breathed into it. Fine, she said. Let’s go.

A
fter the dance, Etta and Russell walked back to where they had tied the horse. It was just past eleven. Russell carried his hat in his hands. Everyone else had gone other ways, either back into town, or to the lot where the trucks and other horses were all parked. Russell was afraid that someone might mistake his horse for theirs, so they always tied up somewhere else, somewhere away.

Usually it was Russell who set the pace on these walks to and from the dances, for whom Etta would wait, but tonight she could
barely keep up with him. She took two steps, stopped, breathed, took two steps, stopped, breathed. Etta, said Russell, really, are you okay?

I don’t know, said Etta.

They were walking along the backs of houses, all dark. Fields on the other side. Etta stopped, crouched down, put both hands flat against the ground for support. Breath. Breath.

Okay, said Russell. Okay, okay. Okay. I’ll go get the horse. You stay right here. As fast as I can. Okay.

Etta breathed and breathed and nodded okay.

Her eyes were closed. She listened until Russell’s footsteps were ten seconds out of hearing, then used her hands to push up off the ground, and walk, two steps breath, two steps breath, to a hedge growing up along the back fence of one of the dark houses. She pulled aside the stiff, dry branches and slid in behind it, her skirt catching in worried bunches. Once she was in, all the way hidden, she crouched down again, hands on the cool, almost damp, ground. Every bit of her from her chest to her thighs was pulsing, and squeezing, pulling her in. She curled down into a ball, laid her head on the ground. There was just enough space between the plant’s dense base and the fence. The soil against her temple felt perfect cold and soft and unmoving. She counted the weeks, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, almost eight. Almost eight weeks. Fifty-five days. She counted them up and down and up and down. With each one she mentally folded and put away one of the names she had allowed herself, quietly, one week at a time, to consider, like bright, colorful things gone dark. Fold and away. Fold and away. Her body pulsed and the spot beneath her was wet.

She heard Russell get back a few minutes later, heard the scramble of the horse as he jumped off. Etta? Etta? Heard the creak of his knee as he bent down, looking for her boot steps. Heard the
horse sniff and wander. Heard the branches crack and pull again. His sharp intake of breath.

Calm down, Russell, it’s all right. I’m not dead. As Etta spoke little bits of soil stuck to the dampness of her lips. I’ve got a stomachache, and need to lie down is all.

On the other side of the hedge was the sound of the horse happily eating the crops in the field.

Right. Okay. Do you want to stay here or go home?

Let’s stay here for a little while.

Okay.

Russell backed out of the hedge and stood on the other side, with the horse, for thirty-six minutes. He patted the horse down with his hands, running over all her back and sides until she was completely smooth and clean. It’s okay, it’s okay, he whispered to her as he went. After thirty-six minutes, Etta uncurled herself and said, through the branches, We can go home now.

You’re sure? said Russell. He didn’t look down to her skirt, her legs.

I’m sure. I’m just fine, now. Back to normal.

A
t home, after Russell had dropped her off and ridden away, Etta undressed and threw everything into the sink. Her underwear, her dress, her stockings, everything. All turned red and red and red. Impossible to scrub out. After they had dried, still red, she bunched them together into a steel bucket out in the field behind her house, where, along with a letter to Otto, written but not sent, she burned
them all, watching as the sides of the bucket, and then everything else, turned ashy black.

T
he next day there was a letter from Otto.

My Dear Etta,

it said, full of rectangular holes, neat as windows.

Then, because of all the holes, it said nothing at all.

T
hey didn’t dance for two weeks.

O
n the fifteenth night, Russell rode to Etta’s. He swung his bad leg around and down and lowered himself off his horse, tied it to a tree by the schoolhouse, and called through Etta’s open front door, Etta, it’s me. I want to come in this time. Etta came to the door, still in coveralls, with Otto’s letter in her pocket.

The thing is, he said, Otto’s not here, and I am. And I will be here tomorrow and the day after and the day after and the day after that. Right here.

Etta stepped outside and closed the door after her. She held out a hand. Here, she said. Her left hand. Russell took it in his right. You can’t come in, said Etta, but we can stay here, on the steps.

So they stood on the steps and he held her hand and when they got tired they sat on the steps, and he held her hand. And he held it hard so that Etta could feel the blood throbbing through each finger, down across her palm and up her wrist, but she said nothing. It
should hurt, she told herself. It should.

When Russell left, Etta had to use her other hand to pull her fingers out of their held position.

All the next day at the factory she would catch them curling back, and would have to pull them straight again and again.

S
he wrote back,

Otto,

It is harder, now. I wait and I work and I wait and I work and I work and I work and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait and I wait.

T
he next night Russell was there again, early. Are you sure, he called, from ten meters away, on his horse, in the yard, that you want to dance? That you’re okay to?

Yes, Etta called back, I am absolutely sure.

They danced in a new way. Before, even though Etta was always tired, she kept her head up, looking over Russell’s shoulder, but this time, tonight, she let it fall, let it rest down in the warm place where his neck and shoulder met, where she could feel his heartbeat through her cheek.

They left the dance early. In the mustard field between the parking lot and their horse, they stopped walking and Etta kissed Russell’s mouth and Russell kissed Etta’s neck and Etta used one hand to find the zipper on her last, blue, dancing dress while the other hand worked down through a handkerchief in her pocket to the
smooth fish skull inside it, saying oh, oh, oh, as it met her warm skin.

E
tta got off the bus and walked up the drive toward her house. She was smiling. Russell would be there in half an hour.

The official letter, a familiar muted uniform green, was on her doorstep, held down from the wind by a small pile of pebbles. She almost stepped on it.

She didn’t pick it up. She sat next to it on the step, almost touching but not. She stopped smiling. She closed her eyes.

She was still like that when Russell arrived, twenty-six minutes later. He got off his horse, tied it to a tree, the one all the students’ dogs used to congregate around, and walked toward her, first eagerly, then, noticing the letter, more and more slowly. You haven’t opened it, he said.

I’m not his wife, said Etta. Or his family. They shouldn’t have sent it to me. It must be a mistake.

Russell sat down next to her, on the far side of the letter. He left his hand open and close so she could take it if she wanted, but she didn’t take it. I still want to go dancing tonight, she said. If you do.

Yes, said Russell.

Will you pick it up and take it inside and put it on my table so it doesn’t blow away?

Russell reached over Etta and pushed the pile of pebbles down the steps. He picked up the truck-green letter and rocked crookedly up the remaining step and into the house. Before he put the envelope on Etta’s table he held it up to his chest, crushing a palm-shaped indent over the center where the name and address was written. He felt his heart beat through it. Thick and fast and horrible.

When he got back he said, Do you want to change your clothes?

No, said Etta.

Are you hungry?

No, said Etta. She took his hand. Let’s go, she said.

E
verything at the Kenaston school gymnasium dance hall was familiar. Every person and every song and every step. Etta and Russell danced to every single number, and only danced with each other. The clarinet and trumpet and piano and drums and fiddle and their footsteps on the dance floor; Etta opened her ears and closed her eyes so she heard nothing else.

A
t the house, after, Russell waited on his horse in the yard. I’ll stay here, he said. You can come and get me or not.

Etta closed the front door after her. Through the window she could see Russell’s horse eating dandelions. She sat at the table and slid her finger under the paper-glue seal, breathed the smell of it. The paper inside was folded in perfect thirds.

18

T
hrough the window of a care home five hundred and ninety-nine kilometers from the harbor of Halifax, three thousand, three hundred and seventy-nine kilometers from Davidsdottir, Saskatchewan, a coyote howled and Otto listened. He listened and waited as the howling got louder and closer. Listened and watched until he could make out the texture of rough fur, and then the silhouette of a triangle face, and then the smell of wet warm breath. And then the coyote was right there, under his window.

Etta
, said the coyote.
There you are.

Who?

Check your pocket
, said James.
The left pocket of your coat.

Otto turned away from the window and looked over the room. There was a stack of folded clothes on a dresser against the far wall, near the door. He walked to it and ran his hand over the clothes one at a time, top to bottom, underwear, bra, tights, dress, sweater, coat. He pulled the coat out of the pile, careful to keep everything else in place, and felt through the left pocket. A coin, a ring, a piece of paper.

The paper, Etta
, said James.

He took out the paper, unfolded it. There were dark-set stripes of dirt and wear along the creases. He brought it back to the window,
where there was some light from the night to read it by.

Etta Gloria Kinnick
of Deerdale farm. 83 years old in August
, said James, at just the same time as Etta read it.

Family:

Marta Gloria Kinnick. Mother. Housewife. (Deceased)

Raymond Peter Kinnick. Father. Editor. (Deceased)

Alma Gabrielle Kinnick. Sister. Nun. (Deceased)

James Peter Kinnick. Nephew. Child. (Never lived)

Otto Vogel. Husband. Soldier/Farmer. (Living)

Russell Palmer. Friend. Farmer/Explorer. (Living)

Etta Gloria Kinnick, said Etta.

Etta,
said James
, let’s go.

Etta pulled off her nightgown and put on her underwear, her bra, her tights, her dress, her sweater, her coat, and her running shoes. She found her bag and rifle and put them by the window. She made the bed and placed the folded paper-fabric nightgown at its foot. She reached into her right coat pocket, found a fish skull, and used the sharp end to cut a square in the window screen. She climbed out, then pulled her bag and rifle out after her.

We’re not too far now, are we?

Two weeks, maybe. Not far at all.

O
tto slept from six p.m. until eleven the next morning. After waking, still on his back in bed, he brought one hand to his heart. Slow, normal. I could just stay here, he thought. Just like this until she gets home. And then? And then I will get up and we will see to winterizing the garden together, or, I will move over and she can lie down too. He lay there for half an hour, then started coughing, which made his heart race, which made him need to pee and too hot for the covers, even just the sheet. He got up, put on his robe, and went to the washroom. Water on his face to wash off the flax powder. He used a wet hand to comb his hair, slicking it down, finding his part. He squinted at the mirror, blurring the details.

Then he went into the kitchen for coffee and found Kasia at his table, with Oats in her lap.

Hi, she said. She’s really friendly.

She doesn’t like to be awake in the day, said Otto.

I know, said Kasia, but I’m being really gentle. She’s still sleeping, just on my lap.

Otto looked down at Oats, Oats looked up at Otto, her claws making little pulls in the cloth of Kasia’s yellow corduroys.

Okay, said Otto. How did you get in?

I thought the door would be unlocked, so I tried and it was. Mom told me to bring you these and said you might be sleeping so I was just going to play with Oats until you woke up.

There was another coffee tin on the table, holding two more half-dead flowers.

Thank you, said Otto. That’s really nice of her. I hope she didn’t
spend too long—

Don’t worry, she loves the excuse to be out.

To be out?

That’s what she says. She says, I love the excuse to be out. I do too.

Do you go with her, looking?

Oh, no, I mean here. And in your yard.

Of course. How long have you been here?

I don’t know. I have a watch but it doesn’t have batteries.

Long enough to be hungry?

Probably. What kind of food do you eat?

Mostly pickles, lately.

That sounds great.

K
asia held her pickle up to Oats, who pulled her eyes and nose in and away from the smell. Not hungry, said Kasia. She was careful not to drip too much vinegar onto the guinea pig’s head as she ate. Hey, she said, between bites, you know what sculpture you should make next?

No, said Otto, what sculpture?

A child-sculpture, said Kasia. Like, a girl or boy. A kid.

Otto’s heart flared again and set him coughing so his eyes watered and he had to sit down. Yeah? he said, after it had passed.

Yeah, said Kasia.