The Girl from Charnelle (15 page)

She folded one and adjusted it between her legs. She pointed to the end of the sleeping bag. He handed her panties to her, and she slipped them on. He pulled a shirt from his duffel bag, returned, and held it out for her arms. She slowly buttoned it. It was flannel and soft and felt smooth against her skin. He still had not put on any clothes, and again she thought this told her
something good about him. He was attentive. The lamplight cast his shadow against the canvas wall as he hunched over her, rendering him, she imagined, a snail with a burden on his back.

“I'm sorry,” she said, but didn't really feel sorry. She felt sort of giddy.

“Sshhh,” he whispered. “You rest.”

“Will you hold me?” she asked.

“You bet.” He leaned over, brushed a tangle from her face. He pressed his lips against her cheek, and then her nose, and then lightly to her lips. He wiped his mouth. “Muddy,” he said and smiled.

She suddenly wanted to cry. “I'm really sorry,” she said again.

“Sleep,” he said.

She curled up, her head resting on her hands, and watched him as he stood to dress. He was beautiful. He bent over and slipped on some shorts and an undershirt and then lay down next to her, pulling the sleeping bag over them both.

“Are you still cold?” he asked.

“Not so much anymore.”

He propped his head on his hand and stroked her neck and shoulders and face with his other hand. Soon it began to drizzle again, and she watched the drops patter against the tent, and then she closed her eyes and listened to the music of it as he gently kneaded her shoulders. Her abdomen and lower back still felt sore, but not in a bad way, her body weak but no longer shaky. He lit a cigarette and smoked it, using his free hand to stroke her skin. The tent smelled wet and fungal. He was tender with her now, but she wondered if he regretted this whole thing, wished he'd never suggested this trip.

“Maybe we should go home,” she said.

“Is something wrong?”

“No.”

“Then rest.”

“I feel like I'm ruining everything.”

“Listen to you,” he said, then sighed. “Who should be apologizing?”

She was grateful that he had said that.

A
little before dawn, in the gray light, she woke. He slept beside her but was turned away. She tried to stand but felt dizzy and sick to her stomach, so she crawled across the tent and pushed open the flap. The lake was still and dark blue in this light, and the trees sparkled dimly. A red-and-black bird swooped from a branch by the lake to the top of the tent, turned and seemed to stare at her, cawed, and then flew away. She waited there, hoping it would return. But it didn't, though she heard it caw again farther away.

She walked through the mud to the bushes and threw up. She removed the strip of towel. She was no longer bleeding. She left the rag by the entrance of the tent, wiped her hands on one of the wet towels, and then crept back inside. She swished some water in her mouth, spit it out, and then closed the tent flap. She lay down and felt very awake for a while, listening to the lake come alive. Her back and stomach still ached, and her head felt like a pincushion.

The light intensified, brightening the side of the tent, but she closed her eyes and could see the veins on the insides of her eyelids until they faded into a red afterglow, and before long she slept.

 

When she woke again, he was gone. The sun made the tent shimmer greenly. It was very warm inside, but she lay under the sleeping bag, shivering, and listened to the lake. She heard footsteps, activity, and assumed it was John. A vehicle approached from the road; then the engine shut off. The click of the door and footsteps on the wet path. She sat up suddenly but felt woozy from the movement and fell back down hard on the sleeping bag. She lay still, trying to clear the fog in her head.

“Hey, there,” John said. “Quite a storm last night.”

“I'll say.” It was the ranger. “Weatherman on the radio said it would be sunny and clear. Tells you what they know.”

“Diddly-squat.”

“You get rained out last night?” the ranger asked.

“Not too bad. Muddy tent. That's about it.”

“Looks like you're packing up.”

“My niece isn't feeling too well.”

“You want me to take a look? I was a medic in Korea.”

“No, it's not that serious,” he said. “I'll just get her on home. Thank you, though.”

The ranger left. She listened to his boots on the wet path, the truck pulling away. John moved about, gathering things and putting them in the truck. She sat up, still dizzy and sick to her stomach, but no cramping as before. The whole tent, she now realized, smelled foul—like Aunt Velma's that last time she'd been there. Her knees were caked with mud.

He opened the tent, stuck his head in. “Hey,” he said. His eyes widened, from the smell, she guessed. He half smiled, half grimaced. “You hungry?”

“No,” she said, her voice raspy. “No.”

“How you feeling?” he asked without entering.

“Better.”

“I've almost got the truck packed. You want to wade in the lake while I fold up the tent.” She didn't really want to, but she could tell that it was more of a request than a suggestion. Maybe he didn't want to ride home with her smelling like this, and who could blame him? Or perhaps he didn't
want the smell in his truck. It might be hard to get out. He'd have to account for that.

“I guess so,” she said. They were silent for a few moments. She faced a dilemma. It was too light out to swim without her clothes on. But she didn't really want to put her bathing suit on now. He guessed at her predicament.

“Here, let me help you out. You can wade in with my shirt on. That'll be easier.”

He crouched down and helped her up, and she felt a fresh wave of nausea as she rose.

“Slow down,” she said.

He put his arm around her waist as she draped her arm over his neck. “Steady does it,” he said.

The camp had been mostly cleared. There was a coffeepot and a skillet with some bacon and scrambled eggs by the fire. The smell of the bacon sickened her. She had to look away from it and tried not to breathe as they passed by. He walked her to the lake, and she sat down on a rock while he removed his boots, socks, pants, and shirt, leaving on only his boxer shorts. She slipped off her panties. He helped her up again and walked her slowly into the water, which was cool and still.

“Oh,” she muttered.

“Too cold?”

“No. It's fine.”

He held her as she bobbed slowly up and down. The shirt billowed. She stood and wiped her arms and knees with his shirt. She was sore. And dizzy again.

“Do you want to rinse your hair?”

She reached up and touched her head and felt the dried mud and twigs in it. “Yeah,” she said, inhaling deeply. She dipped underwater and opened her eyes but could see only a murky green, the sunlight refracting through the water, John's shirt creating an umbrella around her. She closed her eyes and let herself sink for a few seconds. It felt good, the world muffled. The water did not feel so cold anymore. She raked her fingers through her hair a couple of times and then rose to the surface and let the water drip from her face.

“Better?” he asked.

She opened her eyes but didn't answer him. Woozy again. Bile bubbled at the top of her throat. Closer to shore, as the shirt weighed her down,
clinging to her, she felt heavy, unsteady. It seemed like a hundred pounds of wet cloth had been plastered to her body. He helped her to a large assembly of rocks that formed a chair, flat stones for the seat and back. The sun beat down, but by the time he returned from the truck with a large white sheet, she was shaking.

“We're out of towels,” he said.

She unbuttoned the wet shirt and took it off, and she felt suddenly exposed out here in the light of day, a layer of gooseflesh over her shivering body. He handed her the sheet, and she wrapped it around her and rubbed her hair and legs and arms and then swaddled herself.

“Wait here,” he said unnecessarily, then jogged to the tent and came back with her satchel. He unzipped it and asked her what she wanted to wear.

“Give it to me,” she said and pulled out a sweater, some panties, shorts, and socks.

She dressed as he slipped on his own pants and boots. She got up to retrieve the panties she had left on a rock but again felt woozy. Although he was shirtless, and it was hot out, she shivered, so he put his jacket over her.

“I made you some breakfast,” he said, pointing to the bacon and eggs curdled in the pan. “I can warm it up, if you like.”

She shook her head and pulled her knees up to her chest, sitting on the rock in the sun while he packed the rest of the truck and then helped her to it. As she lay down on the seat, he disassembled the tent. When he got in, she propped herself against the window, her head pressed to the glass, as he started up the truck, shifted into reverse, braced his arm across her so she wouldn't fall, and carefully backed out. After a few miles, he stopped the truck and said aloud, “See ya.”

The ranger was at the window. “She doesn't look too good.”

“Guess she's got what's been going around at school.”

“Maybe you should get her to a doctor.”

“I'll be okay,” she said. “Just the flu.”

“Thanks for your concern,” John said.

“You bet.” The ranger stepped away from the truck. “Get better now, Isabel.”

 

Their original plan had been to stay at the lake all day and return at night when it would be easier for her to move from the truck to the house without
being seen, but it was midday by the time they arrived in Charnelle. She slept most of the trip.

“Laura,” he said a few miles before they reached town. “We're almost back. Can you lie down on the seat?”

The sun was bright, and she could barely open her eyes. “What?”

“Can you lie down here?” He patted the seat. “You don't want to be seen.”

“Yeah,” she said, feeling groggy and slightly insulted, though she knew it was for the best. She laid her head down on his leg but felt more jarringly the road beneath them. She stared ahead, watched the motes of light swirl over the console, felt his thigh tighten and relax as he drove, and then nodded off.

 

He let her out in an alley, shaded by two mature elm trees, a block from her house.

“We have to be quiet about this, Laura,” he said. “You understand, don't you?”

“Yeah,” she said.

“I'll see you soon,” he said vaguely.

She had felt more awake once they hit town, a little better, but now she felt suddenly sleepy again. “Yeah,” she said.

She got out, placed the satchel over her shoulder, and watched his truck turn the corner, the familiar sound of the engine humming and then fading until she could no longer hear it anymore. She was suddenly very sad. She had not felt sad before. She'd drifted in and out and had been nauseous and drowsy and dizzy. There had been no time or energy, really, for sadness. But alone in the empty lot next to the alley, the sky still cloudy, she was aware suddenly of being very much by herself. She thought of the word “bereft.” She couldn't quite remember what the word meant, though it somehow seemed appropriate at this moment.

She turned the corner and went along the street, walking fast at first, but she was so tired she had to stop before she got to her house, sit down on the curb and put her head on her knees. She needed to compose herself before she went inside. Get her story straight. Her father would surely question her. John had gone over it with her, but if her head clouded up again, she wouldn't be able to straighten it out enough to make things sound plausible.

“Tell him you're tired and want to go on to bed,” John had said. “Keep it simple.”

 

Fortunately, no one was home. She was relieved that she didn't have to lie again, not yet. She could take a bath, go on to bed, but it was creepy with no one there. Maybe they'd gone to the movies. Or maybe her father had taken them all fishing. Fay was gone, too, so that was probably it. To Lake Meredith. She smiled grimly at the irony.

There was a knock at the back door. It was John.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Is anybody home?” he whispered.

“No, nobody.”

“Are you all right?”

“Yeah. You should go,” she said urgently, putting her hand to his chest, pushing. “You can't be here.”

“I feel bad.” He leaned against the doorjamb. “I should have brought you home. Helped you in.”

He still wore the same jeans and shirt he had on at the lake. His nose was slightly sunburned; his eyes were bloodshot. She wondered if he'd been crying.

“No, it's okay,” she said. “Really. You should go.”

“I'm sorry.” His lips were parted like he wanted to say more but couldn't. He swallowed hard, and she reached to his face and stroked it with the back of her hand.

“Don't be,” she said.

He grabbed her hand and held it. “I just feel bad about leaving you alone. Are you sure you're okay?”

“Yes.”

She suddenly looked toward Mrs. Ambling's house. There was a wooden fence between their houses, but Mrs. Ambling's bathroom window had a straight view to their back door. Chances were she wouldn't look out, but it made Laura nervous.

“Go, please.” She released his hand.

“Okay,” he said and glanced over where Laura was looking. “You're right,” he whispered. “I'll call.”

“No, don't.”

He leaned over and kissed her quickly on the cheek. “I'm sorry,” he whispered again.

“You gotta go,” she said. “Please.”

He turned and walked quickly to the end of the yard, looking down the alley before opening the gate. He got into his truck, nodded to her, and she waved from inside the house, but she wasn't sure he saw her. And then he rolled away. She turned on the radio to have some noise in the house. Marty Robbins sang sadly about that Mexican girl he fell in love with in El Paso. Her stomach hurt again, maybe because she hadn't eaten. Her legs felt rubbery. She went into the bathroom and took off her clothes, bathed quickly but sensed the dizziness coming again, the heat spreading over her, the clammy return of her fever. She put on pajamas and got into bed. She could hardly even open her eyes when her father and brothers returned home.