Por qué las rosas tienen espinas

 Ha pasado con las rosas lo que con muchas otras plantas, que en un principio fueron plebeyas por su excesivo número y por los sitios donde se les colocara.Flora y fauna

Nadie creyera que las rosas, hoy princesas atildadas de follaje hayan sido hechas para embellecer los caminos. Y fue así sin embargo.

Había andado Dios por la Tierra disfrazado de romero todo un caluroso día, y al volver al cielo se le oyó decir:

—¡Son muy desolados esos caminos de la pobre Tierra! El sol los castiga y he visto por ellos viajeros que enloquecían de fiebre y cabezas de bestias agobiadas. Se quejaban las bestias en su ingrato lenguaje, y los hombres blasfemaban. ¡Además, qué feos son con sus tapias terrosas y desmoronadas!

Y los caminos son sagrados, porque unen a los pueblos remotos y porque el hombre va por ellos, en el afán de la vida, henchido de esperanzas si mercader, con el alma extasiada, si peregrino.

Bueno será que hagamos tolderías frescas para esos senderos y visiones hermosas: sombra y motivos de alegría.

E hizo los sauces que bendicen con sus brazos inclinados; los álamos larguísimos, que proyectan sombra hasta muy lejos, y las rosas de guías trepadoras, gala de las pardas murallas.

Eran los rosales por aquel tiempo pomposos y abarcadores; el cultivo, y la reproducción repetida hasta lo infinito, han atrofiado la antigua exuberancia.

Y los mercaderes, y los peregrinos, sonrieron cuando los álamos, como un desfile de vírgenes, los miraron pasar, y cuando sacudieron el polvo de sus sandalias bajo los frescos sauces.

Su sonrisa fue emoción al descubrir el tapiz verde de las murallas, regado de manchas rojas, blancas y amarillas, que eran como una carne perfumada. Las bestias mismas relincharon de placer. Eleváronse de los caminos, rompiendo la paz del campo, cantos de un extraño misticismo por el prodigio.

Pero sucedió que el hombre, esta vez como siempre, abusó de las cosas puestas para su alegría y confiadas a su amor.

La altura defendió a los álamos; las ramas lacias del sauce no tenían atractivo; en cambio, las rosas si que lo tenían, olorosas como un frasco oriental e indefensas como una niña en la montaña.

Al mes de vida en los caminos, los rosales estaban bárbaramente mutilados y con tres o cuatro rosas heridas.

Las rosas eran mujeres, y no callaron su martirio. La queja fue llevada al Señor. Así hablaron temblando de ira y más rojas que su hermana, la amapola:

—Ingratos son los hombres, Señor; no merecen tus gracias. De tus manos salimos hace poco tiempo, íntegras y bellas; henos ya mutiladas y míseras.

Quisimos ser gratas al hombre y para ello realizábamos prodigios: abríamos la corola ampliamente, para dar más aroma: fatigábamos los tallos a fuerza de chuparles savia para estar fresquísimas. Nuestra belleza nos fue fatal.

Pasó un pastor. Nos inclinamos para ver los copos redondos que le seguían. Dijo el truhán:

-«Parecen un arrebol, y saludan, doblándose, como las reinas de los cuentos».

Y nos arrancó dos gemelas con un gran tallo.

Tras él venía un labriego. Abrió los ojos asombrados, gritando:

-«¡Prodigio! La tapia se ha vestido de percal multicolor, ni más ni menos que una vieja alegre!»

Y luego:

-«Para la Añuca y su muñeca».

Y sacó seis, de una sola guía, arrastrando la rama entera.

Pasó un viejo peregrino. Miraba de extraño modo: frente y ojos parecían dar luz.

Exclamó:

«¡Alabado sea Dios en sus criaturas cándidas! ¡Señor, para ir glorificándote en ella!»

Y se llevó nuestra más bella hermana.

Pasó un pilluelo:

«¡Qué comodidad! –dijo– ¡Flores en el caminito mismo!»Flora y fauna

Y se alejó con una brazada, cantando por el sendero.

Señor, la vida así no es posible. En días más, las tapias quedarán como antes: nosotras habremos desaparecido.

—¿Y qué queréis?

—¡Defensa! Los hombres escudan sus huertas con púas de espino y zarzas. Algo así puedes realizar en nosotras.

Sonrió con tristeza el buen Dios, porque había querido hacer la belleza fácil y benévola, y repuso:

—¡Sea! Veo que en muchas cosas tendré que hacer lo mismo. Los hombres me harán poner en mis hechuras hostilidad y daño.

En los rosales se hincharon las cortezas y fueron formándose levantamientos agudos: las espinas.

Y el hombre, injusto siempre, ha dicho después que Dios va borrando la bondad de su creación.

Beasts, short-story by Arelis Uribe, translated from the Spanish by Andrea Meador Smith

I get off at bus stop 20. I’m feeling tipsy because I was drinking with my girlfriends from college. It’s so late that the shops on the main drag have already shuttered for the night and the air is covered with that thick fog that smells like fusty smoke, like dirty smog. There is no one out and that scares me. Empty streets creep me out more than crowded ones, I don’t know why. My only line of defense is to furrow my brow, walk fast, and hope that nothing bad happens between here and my house.  

I walk the first block and hear someone following me. My stomach clenches up. I can guess that it’s a gang of delinquents with double-edged knives or the creepy old man masturbating with his pants down. I turn around and find a mutt. Small, black, and wagging its tail. It’s that typical dog that crosses your path, those dogs that come and go, that find you by chance, like loose coins or bills, and that are impossible to recognize when you run into them again. Velcro dogs, I once heard them called. I bend down to pet the dog and he shows me his belly. Then I discover the dangling teats of a new mother. It’s the early hours of the morning and she’s wandering around alone, I think. I imagine that she goes out at night to look for something to feed her pups during the day. I invite her to follow me and she comes along. Now we are two night owls strutting around the streets of the Gran Avenida.

We walk and I hear the clicking of her little paws behind me and I see how her shadow grows and reaches mine, in a game of black and orange lights that the streetlamps cast on the sidewalk. She looks like Cholita, I think, the only dog who ever fulfilled her role of happy family pet. Cholita was a black mutt that my grandmother adopted when I was a girl and we lived in La Florida. She supposedly belonged to me and my brother, but in reality the dog only answered to my grandmother. She slept with her in bed and she stopped to look out the window at 10:00 every night, when my grandma was about to get home from work.

One afternoon she got lost. We don’t know how she learned to get out, but that day, maybe because she was in heat, she ran off. My grandmother was dyeing her hair and she went out with a plastic bag on her head to ask up and down our street if anyone had seen Cholita. No one, nothing. I remember that I cried, but not from sadness. I hadn’t become that fond of the dog. I cried because I knew that I had lost something that was mine and at the age of twelve I already had that notion of ownership.

What hurt most about losing Cholita is that all the boys and girls on our street had their own living, breathing stuffed animal in the front yard. I had nothing. One night I decided to fill in this void. I grabbed my jump rope and my camping backpack and went to look around other neighborhoods, where I didn’t know anyone who could make me feel guilty. I found wild dogs that bared their teeth at me as soon as I got close to the gate and I found houses where you couldn’t see anything inside because an enormous mass of golden privets covered everything up. Until in one house I finally saw a white poodle. I got close and it tilted its head so that I would pet it. I opened the gate to the house carefully. It was unlocked. Lights off. I went inside and put the leash around its neck. The poodle resisted a little, but he was tame and it was no trouble to put him in my backpack. I closed the gate and ran off with the dog howling on my back.

I got home and tied the poodle to a lime tree that was on the far side of the patio. I went to the kitchen and put a little beef stew in an old pot and took it to him. The poodle refused to eat, he was lying down and crying. I bent down in front of him and said: you’re mine now. I tried to hug him and he slipped out of my grasp. He ran toward the gate. The leash was hanging from the dog’s neck like a whip and his screeching was high-pitched and loud. Right then my grandma appeared. She fussed at me, she said I was doing the same thing that someone else had done to me when they stole Cholita. I knew she was right, but I didn’t tell her so.

My grandmother set the poodle free and the dog ran off. I hated her for a long time because of that.

I never had a dog again, except for those Velcro dogs that follow you in the street. Like now, when a Cholita clone with drooping teats keeps me company.

We walk. Every Friday night I go home the same way, but I had never seen this dog. I like her. I start to growl at her and jump from side to side, like a fellow beast, and she growls back at me and jumps and wags her tail because maybe it’s been a long time since anyone on the street has been playful with her. I rub her head and she shows me her belly again. And even though it’s dark outside, I see how fleas are walking around between her pink nipples.

We are already halfway home. Thanks to the walk, the tipsiness eases up and little by little the boxed wine with Kem Piña starts to lose its effect. I think I’m going to wash off the dog and give her Vienna sausages and bread soaked in milk when we get to my house.

Then something terrible happens.

We are approaching Gustavo’s cybercafe and a German shepherd (or maybe a mix) shows up and throws himself on the mama dog. On her neck, as if the dog were an antelope and the German mongrel a jaguar. And I scream, GET OFF OF HER YOU FUCKING DOG, FUCKING GERMAN, FUCKING NAZI. The shepherd tries to mount her and he bites her flank and the mama dog shrieks and it’s been a long time since I’ve been this scared and I start to cry. I grab a big rock from the sidewalk and throw it at him. The German jumps on me and grabs my pant leg and I feel his teeth but more than anything I feel how the injured dog’s eyes are watching me. I raise my right leg and I don’t know how but I kick the shepherd’s head and he backs away and I run, run, run. I run just like in all the cliche movie scenes where someone is running for their life.

I make it to the corner of San Francisco and El Parrón. I’m barely breathing and there’s a stabbing pain in my side. It’s my spleen, I think. My mom thought that pain was good, she would say “if it hurts it’s because you feel something, and if you feel something it’s because you’re alive.” And alive and in one piece is how I want to make it back to my house. I turn around and see the shepherd on top of the mama dog. I look ahead and see the nearly empty plaza and see my house and think about the light on in my grandma’s room and the endless clanking of her sewing machine. I think, am I gonna help this mutt or not. I tighten my gut and sell out the mama dog like everyone sells out and gives up on street dogs. Because they are just part of the landscape, like vagrants or pigeons that no one sees when they’re sleeping in the streets and no one misses when cars run them over.

I go inside my house and hear my grandmother yell my name. I don’t respond. I shut myself in the bathroom and take off my pants. Blood is dripping from my thigh to my foot. It’s not a lot, but it is blood. I clean myself with toilet paper and take out an iodine dropper from the medicine cabinet and put it on top of the wound. It’s small but deep and I think that if I tell my grandma they are going to give me a shot and I prefer to keep my mouth shut, because I already had enough with the German shepherd’s fangs.  

I get in the shower and then lie down to sleep with wet hair. I dream about those cartoons where a dog showed up that was so ugly it wore a doghouse on its head and in my dream the giant ugly dog takes off his house-mask and his head is the same as the German shepherd’s and he opens his crocodile mouth and he follows me because I’m a traitor and I run and I’m dressed in a tunic and sandals like the apostles wear in Jesus of Nazareth.

The next day I wake up early. I’m not hungover, but even still something hurts inside. I leave my house and my grandma asks me where I’m going. I don’t tell her. I walk towards the corner where I abandoned the mama dog and she’s obviously not there anymore. On the cement-covered ground there’s dirt and blood stains. I touch them and move my fingers to my mouth and taste the iron of live blood. I touch the wound and the burning sensation confirms that what happened to me last night was real. I get up to go back home and then I see her. The drooping teats and four little puppies as black as she is that are hiding behind their mother. I walk over and let her know with my eyes that I will seek her out. And she stays very still on the sidewalk, without a single cord that binds her there to wait for me.  

 
Translated by Andrea Meador Smith

From Quiltras (Los Libros de la Mujer Rota, 2022)

https://latinamericanliteraturetoday.org/2023/12/beasts/

Rododendro, short story by Chilean author Hernán del Solar

Las ciudades aprenden una canción y la cantan. De improviso, la olvidan.
Pero en mí hay una palabra apenas. Es como la canción que han aprendido las ciudades, porque vino de repente y se quedó conmigo. Sin embargo, no quiere irse. Ha envejecido como yo y me acompaña. Si estoy solo, aparece y me cuenta su historia. Siempre es la misma: una sola palabra.
Cierto es que estoy viejo y entonces me suceden cosas inverosímiles. Por ejemplo, construyo barcos y los meto en botellas de tamaños diferentes. Es un trabajo duro que se apodera de mis manos; pero lo demás queda libre. Puedo silbar, reconstruir el pasado, pensar en lo que viene o se va. Seguramente —mientras construía una goleta—se acercó aquella palabra por primera vez, saltó de mi memoria a los
labios y fue mi compañera.
Ahora la digo:
—Rododendro.
Conozco su significado, como el de otras que olvido y recuerdo y vuelvo a olvidar. Pero su significado nada importa desde que está conmigo. Antes representaba a un arbusto, bien lo sé. Ahora su imagen es distinta, sin olor ni forma.
Abro la ventana, a veces, y si el día es hermoso me digo con alegría:
—Rododendro.
Suena el reloj, la hora: Rododendro. No ocurre nada: rododendro. Y eso me indica que la soledad tiene sus palabras secretas y las enseña cuidadosamente a los solitarios.
Aquí es oportuno no olvidar mi soledad. La tengo vestida de ruidos distantes y figuras pasajeras. Cuando está desnuda, dormimos los dos. Y es una buena cosa dormir. Soy viejo. Pero escribir así no conduce a nada. He contado que construyo
barcos y que una palabra precisa me vino a ver una mañana y no se fue más. Ya es tiempo de decir que he hecho con esta palabra Empezaré por confesarlo brevemente: la he convertido en pez.
Ha sido, claro está, un trabajo lento. Tal vez no pueda describirlo con exactitud si no recuerdo cosas más antiguas. Porque la palabra no fue lo primero: antes hubo los barcos y también —como principio— el deseo de construirlos dentro de una botella. Entonces comenzaba a envejecer y pensaba a menudo en la soledad de más tarde. Iba todas las mañanas a mi oficina y encendíamos la luz desde temprano.
Mirábamos por la ventana y hacía frío a veces. Escribíamos en los grandes libros de cuentas. De repente alguno dejaba la pluma, restregaba sus manos y decía que no deseaba trabajar, que las mujeres son hermosas, que durante las vacaciones iría a los lagos del Sur.
Se habla rápidamente y no vale la pena recordar nada. Pero alguien dijo un día:
—Cuando esté viejo compraré un sillón y leeré todos los libros de que oigo hablar. No me aburriré como ahora.
Yo hojeaba entonces un folleto en que había barcos y nombres de ciudades. Lo guardé en mi bolsillo y anoté en seguida, como de costumbre, cifras pequeñas y grandes en mi libro. Es el trabajo. Se empieza a las ocho de la mañana, y cuando uno se levanta, abre los brazos y quiere descansar, ha acabado la tarde. Ahí está el sombrero, sale uno a la calle y camina.
“Algo he de hacer cuando esté viejo” —pensé vagamente, en mi casa, cuando regresaba del comedor hacia mi cuarto. Y saqué del bolsillo el folleto de la Compañía de Vapores. Cerré mi puerta, dejé de oír voces ajenas y un piano que suena siempre. Los barcos son bellos y las ciudades que se desconocen tienen nombres que gustan: Liverpool, Amsterdam, Barcelona. Después vino el sueño.
Pero hay noches que hablan. No son como las otras y se obstinan en contar lo que saben. Basta quererlo, y se abren los ojos en la oscuridad, se escucha a aquel que va por la calle, al que tose en la pieza vecina. Y se oye hablar a la noche.
Entonces, me dijo:
—¿Qué harás cuando estés viejo? Los barcos son bonitos desde la antigüedad. El que compra un sillón y lee, pierde la vista, se queja. Hay trabajos que divierten y el pensamiento hace lo que quiere entretanto. Viajar es difícil cuando no hay dinero. ¿Mujeres? ¿Alegría? ¿Liverpool? Los años caen sobre el cuerpo y el deseo desaparece.
Así habló, desordenada, la noche, repitiéndose hasta que dejé de oírla. Y al despertar creí no haber dormido; pero todo lo había olvidado y esto le ocurre al que duerme. No obstante, recordé algo de súbito, cuando vi sobre la mesa el folleto de los barcos. “¿Qué harás cuando estés viejo?”
Lo supe de repente y lo tuve en la memoria hasta el día necesario.
Fue un día de agosto y cuando entonces sucedió ya lo conocía. También había pensado en esto muchas veces. Estuvimos todos reunidos y el jefe de la oficina levantó una copa, señalándome. Yo oía sonar mi corazón y respiraba apenas. Me miraban y yo no quería ver a nadie, cabizbajo, con las manos caídas, escuchando.
—Es un ejemplo de lealtad —decía el jefe— y su nombre va a quedar entre nosotros. Ha envejecido en el trabajo de esta casa.
La señorita mecanógrafa olía a felicidad. Siempre he adivinado la dicha junto a su perfume, y ahora sonaba mi corazón y yo apretaba los puños pensando en lo que había de responder al jefe.
—Nos deja —decía— y su descanso es merecido porque de invierno a invierno ha estado entregándonos su vida con la constancia de la hormiga y de la abeja…
El contador me miraba y asentía sonriendo levemente. Y aquel que aspiraba a leer todos los libros comía con lentitud un trozo de sardina con pan.
—Levanto mi copa —decía— y les pido a todos que me acompañen porque…
No habló más el jefe y todos aguardaron. Entonces, dije lo que ya no recuerdo.
Me abrazó la mecanógrafa, estreché las manos que me tendían, y flaqueaban mis piernas cuando salí.
Era libre. Tenía algún dinero para envejecer y morir en alguna parte. ¿Dónde? Exactamente, donde he vivido muchos años. Una casa de huéspedes, con su puerta angosta, su escalera que cruje, y mi cuarto al fondo de un pasillo.
—Señora —le dije esa tarde—, desde ahora estaremos juntos. En tantos años, puede asegurarse que somos amigos. No dejaré su casa.
—¿No trabajará más? —preguntó la patrona—. ¡Bien ganado el descanso que le corresponde! Nunca le he visto faltar a su trabajo. Pero, ¿no teme aburrirse?
Sonreí con alegría porque ahora era dueño de mi secreto y en adelante podría disfrutarlo sin prisa.
—Trabajaré —le dije—. Mis manos no sabrían estar ociosas.
Y crucé el pasillo, abrí la puerta de mi cuarto, miré hacia la calle desde mi ventana, sentí el aire de la tarde como nunca lo sintiera. Libre, absolutamente libre, y con una ambición para hacer dichosas a mis manos en largas horas de soledad. Empecé a construir barcos. Los primeros se rompían de pronto, cuando los tenía en la botella. Había sido penoso construirlos, tan pequeños y frágiles; y se rompían de pronto, en la botella, cuando tendía una vela blanca, cuando alzaba un mástil.
Meneaba la cabeza, todo lo abandonaba, y al otro día trabajaba de nuevo, animoso, callado, pensando en tantas cosas que se olvidan, que se recuerdan, que no sirven de nada; pero que gustan cuando se fabrica un bergantín minúsculo.
Después mis manos conocieron el oficio. Eran diestras y manejaban alegremente los instrumentos, cortaban la madera, pulían los costados de la nave, pintaban los finos palos, introducían en la botella cada pieza del barco tan limpiamente que todo no era sino un juego feliz.
—Son lindos, es cierto —me dijo una mañana la patrona—; pero ya no hay dónde ponerlos. ¿Por qué no los vende? Muchos querrían comprarlos.
—¿Venderlos?
Entonces cerré mi puerta a todos. Cada día limpié mi cuarto sin ayuda de nadie. Y expliqué:
—Hay tanta cosa frágil, que prefiero asear yo mismo. Si alguna se rompiera, sufriría. A los viejos se les perdona, ¿verdad?
Estuve tranquilo entre mis barcos. Eran numerosos y míos, por todas partes, en sus botellas transparentes. Los miraba durante la noche, cuando iba a dormirme, y les ponía nombres venturosos.
Algunos representaban de modo perfecto la historia secreta de mi felicidad. Otros tenían el color y la forma de la desdicha; mirándolos, pensaba en la dolorosa aventura que persigue a alguien cada día.
Conversaba con ellos. Les preguntaba qué eran, de dónde llegaban. Me respondían de alguna manera, de proa a popa, quietos y hermosos. Después empezaba a desvestirme, apagaba la luz, y eso es la noche. Por la mañana, apenas despierto, veía andar el sol desde la ventana a una botella. Alargaba su dedo amarillo y lo detenía en una arboladura. Después lo paseaba por los mástiles vecinos, y pronto
resplandecían las jarcias de todas las naves.
No me movía. Era dueño de mi tiempo y podía mirar las botellas, distraerme de súbito y recordar la oficina oscura en que encendíamos la luz temprano, o pensar en otra cosa que sucedió y estaba perdida. Todo esto es curioso. Uno está lleno de palabras y poco a poco se reúnen a contar un día de la niñez, una risa que sonó en la tarde olvidada, ahora presente y dichosa de nuevo.
O bien escapa alguna y queda como el abejorro zumbando alrededor. Ha venido de repente y nada. Es puro sonido hasta que se va.
Una vez entró de la calle una palabra inglesa, que alguien, agitando una mano, gritó como despedida. La palabra se posó en el muro, o entre los aparejos de una carabela, y al otro día echó a volar por mi memoria. Después se marchó. Pero cuando vino ésta, en vano quise olvidarla.
Rododendro.
Es lenta y tenaz. Oigo el sonido de sus élitros y la pierdo de improviso. ¿Se ha marchado? Entonces vuela desde el rincón y gira en torno de mi cabeza. La digo en alta voz. La canto con una música que sólo a ella le pertenece, mientras pulo con el vidrio una proa esbelta. La dejo reposar. Y en cualquier momento —corren los días— la tengo a mi lado. Siempre ha estado aquí y asoma de repente. Es el rumor, tal vez, que hace la soledad para que yo sepa que me acompaña.
—Está bien —le digo—, no te irás. Pero vamos a vivir de otra manera: juntos y mirándonos.
Me voy por la ciudad en busca de un trozo de madera. No debe ser sino como lo deseo y he de andar mucho para encontrarlo. Aquí está, por fin. Lo tomo cuidadosamente, lo envuelvo en un pañuelo de colores, lo guardo y me alejo.
En mi cuarto, cierro la puerta, me siento a la ventana y lo miro.
Rododendro.
Sonrío larga, largamente. Nadie piensa que un solitario sonríe con un trozo de madera en la mano, mientras sube por la escalera un olor a cocina, y una palabra está latiendo en la sangre, en la vida, en los labios que no la pronuncian porque sonríen nada más.
Rododendro.
Eso es: rododendro.
Abandono los barcos y no me ocupo del sol, por las mañanas, cuando los acaricia. En las noches no les digo venturosos nombres.
Están solos en la botella verde, en la botella amarilla, en la botella blanca, por todas partes.
Yo trabajo pensando en el pez. Vienen los días, se van. No importa. ¿Acaso tengo prisa? Quiero construir la forma exacta: un cuerpo largo, los ojos redondos, sorprendidos, y la ondulación de las aletas. ¿Pez martillo? ¿Pez espada? ¿Pez volador?
Rododendro.
Lo llamé así desde antes de nacer. Y ahora está vivo en su botella ancha como una redoma. Me mira su ojo inmóvil. Camino por el cuarto y me detengo. Me mira siempre allí donde estoy. Es la primera vez que me sucede: está mirándome desde la botella y dentro de mí.
—Estamos solos —me dice—. Estaremos solos hasta después.
Entonces pienso que estas palabras no son suyas. Las va diciendo una voz en mí, secretamente; son mis propias palabras y nada importan. Podría decir otras, si me esforzara. Pero oigo hablar de pronto. Me mira su ojo inmóvil y escucho. “Solos hasta después”.
Me acerco a contemplarlo y callo. Está en la redoma y súbitamente sé que me habla. Es él, y su voz viene desde mi vida. Pienso ahora que los hombres aman a las mujeres, que los barcos atraviesan el mar y entran en los grandes puertos. Hay el ruido del mundo. Alguien comienza a cantar porque es feliz. Y otro dice: “Nos
hemos querido siempre”. Y aquel está bebiendo con sus amigos, conoce la risa, entra en los teatros. Todos los teléfonos hablan. Y los automóviles salen de la ciudad, corren por los caminos: es el verano. Están las voces en los parques, unidas, y las manos se estrechan, los labios se buscan, los cuerpos saben ser dichosos.
¿Dónde?
Rododendro, en su botella, todo lo ha perdido. Estamos solos y nos parecemos: olvidados en la pieza de los barcos.
—Calla —le digo—. Si tuviéramos imaginación, cerraríamos los ojos para ver cosas más bellas.
Rododendro entorna su ojo inmóvil. No. Son los míos, que se cierran un rato.
Comienzo a odiarle. Entonces me llaman a comer y bajo la escalera.
—¿Ha trabajado mucho? —pregunta la patrona.
Muevo la cabeza, sin mirarla, y sé que todos sonríen.
Somos siempre los mismos: la patrona y yo, en los extremos de la mesa; el boticario que huele a tabaco y habla en voz baja; los estudiantes bulliciosos; Alicia, que trabaja en la tienda de un francés y canta canciones de la ciudad.
Comemos y charlamos. Es decir, yo escucho, sonrío, y miro por la ventana abierta la sombra de un árbol en la noche. Está el verano en el patio oscuro y una rama se agita débilmente. El rumor de la casa vecina viene hasta la ventana y se aleja. Es una vida que no nos pertenece.
—Nunca le veo salir a caminar un poco —me dice el boticario—.
Es saludable. Para vivir largos años hay que comer sin prisa, dormir profundamente, algunas horas, y pasear todos los días.
—Las noches se han hecho para algo —declara, sonriendo, un estudiante.
—Hasta que llega una noche y nos dice: “me han hecho para que duermas” —murmura el boticario sin levantar los ojos, ahogando después un lento suspiro entre el bigote que blanqueaba. Ríen los estudiantes. La patrona amenaza con un dedo corto, grueso, de uña roja. Alicia se encoge de hombros y mira, como yo, por
la ventana.
Nos levantamos con lentitud y dejamos que los estudiantes se alejen. Cuando comienzo a subir la escalera, el boticario me dice:
—Es un buen consejo: camine todas las mañanas.
Vuelvo atrás y me siento en un sillón, a su lado.
—¿No juega ajedrez? —me pregunta.
No sé nada. No conozco los juegos. He vivido de otra manera y ya es tarde.
—Estoy contenta de verle aquí, con nosotros —me dice la patrona, que comienza a tejer para un invierno desconocido y ya exigente.
—Sube a su cuarto apenas come y ya no se le ve hasta el otro día —murmura el boticario—. Hay que tener presente a la salud. Los hombres que han vivido mucho…
Yo veo, por un espejo —al fondo de la sala— cómo Alicia está ovillada en un sillón y lee una revista. Tiene en la mano un lápiz. A menudo alza los ojos y piensa. Después escribe rápidamente y se diría que es feliz. Poco a poco, cuando se ha movido, una pierna baja por el sillón. Aparece la rodilla. Es redonda.
—Necesito una palabra de cuatro letras —nos pide con ansia.
La patrona busca entre sus recuerdos.
—Amor —responde con una risa breve.
El boticario inclina la cabeza, murmura entre dientes y ríe despacio, con timidez
—No me sirve —exclama Alicia.
—¿Por qué ha reído? —pregunta la patrona al boticario—. Tenía cuatro letras.
—He reído porque una mujer no encuentra nunca otra palabra —dice el boticario.
—¿Y cuál es la que encuentra el hombre?
—Trabajo, por ejemplo —contesta el boticario, removiéndose, inquieto, en su silla.
—No tiene cuatro letras —murmura Alicia, burlona.
Entonces hablamos de las palabras que preferimos. Alicia abandona la revista, el lápiz, y cubre su rodilla con gesto rápido.
—Digamos la palabra que nos gusta— propone.
Todos buscamos un instante por entre los muebles, junto a la lámpara, en el suelo.
—Primavera —dice la patrona.
—Trabajo —murmura, obstinándose, el boticario.
—Felicidad —ha dicho Alicia.
Y todos esperan mi palabra.
—Rododendro —voy diciendo lentamente, y escucho en mí el latido de un secreto que se traiciona.
—Bella palabra. Extraña tal vez, pero bella —declara la patrona, mirándome fijamente, deseosa averiguar si no he mentido.
—No es extraña. Rododendro es un arbusto que da flores rosadas, en los parques —explica el boticario.
Le observo con asombro y empiezo a reír, meneando negativamente la cabeza.
—Rododendro es un pez —digo con energía.
—¿Un pez?
—Y un pez que habla —aseguro sin mirar a nadie.
Fui hasta entonces un hombre tranquilo y bondadoso para el boticario; me hablaba, acogedor, y era animadora su cortesía; pero ahora se levanta y no le reconozco la voz dura, violenta:
—Se burla de nosotros. Los peces no hablan. Rododendro es…
No le escucho. Comienzo a subir la escalera y crujen los peldaños.
Siento, conmigo, el perfume Alicia. ¿Dónde ha estado otra vez? Ha vivido a mi lado y lo recuerdo.
Entonces me abrazó la mecanógrafa y después fui libre: eso es.
—No le ha comprendido —murmura Alicia—. Hay hombres que no saben reír. Rododendro parece un pez y no una planta.
—Es un pez —repito— que habla a quien lo escucha.
Y subimos hasta mi puerta. Sonríe, ruega que bajemos, me habla del verano y de la alegría.
—Entremos —le digo—. Va a verlo como yo. Es un pez de madera; pero vive.
Alicia ríe con júbilo y calla de pronto, ante a los barcos.
—¡Qué hermosos! —me dice—. ¡Cuántos hay! Oí hablar de ellos y nunca me atreví a pedirle que me dejara subir.
Cierro la puerta y me acerco a la botella que es como una redoma, señalándola. Después me aparto, porque ella se aproxima. Y la veo inclinarse delante de mí, para mirar a Rododendro que nos vigila con su ojo quieto.
Tiene los hombros desnudos y la nuca blanca. Unos cabellos pequeñitos caen hacia los lados, y el perfume entra en mí suavemente.
Va a erguirse de nuevo, y será todo.
Cerrando los párpados, la beso. Cuando se vuelve y está hablándome, la beso en la boca. Su perfume baja por mi garganta y se anuda en mi pecho con lentitud, estremeciéndome.
La oigo reír y no sé qué palabras diría ahora. Aprieto los puños caídos; escucho una puerta que han cerrado, lejos; miro a Alicia que no se va.
—Es la palabra de cuatro letras que buscaba: ¡beso! —me dice entre la risa.
Entonces desaparece. Estoy solo de nuevo y tal vez pudiera llorar vuelto hacia el muro. Pero cierro la puerta y me quedo escuchando. Nada. La noche y los barcos, por todas partes, en sus botellas transparentes. Más allá, Rododendro, que ha juntado su ojo oscuro. Es hora de dormir. Somos viejos.

*

"Rododendro" pertenece al volumen de cuentos La noche de enfrente, de Hernán del Solar, 1952.

Hernán del Solar (Santiago, 1901 - 1985) Premio Nacional de Literatura 1968
Escritor y periodista chileno que destacó en su faceta de crítico literario y como autor de cuentos infantiles. Estudió en el Colegio de La Salle y asumió siendo muy joven un cargo directivo en la Editorial Zig-Zag; posteriormente colaboró como crítico en Atenea, Pro Arte, El Debate, La Nación y El Mercurio, entre otras publicaciones. Ejerció además la cátedra de redacción en la Escuela de Periodismo de la Universidad de Chile. Como traductor, dio a conocer a escritores como Aldous Huxley o Nikos Kazantzakis. Pero fue en el ámbito de la crítica donde más
sobresalió, con obras como Índice de la poesía chilena contemporánea (1937), La poesía chilena en la primera mitad del siglo XX (1953), Breve estudio y antología de los Premios Nacionales de Literatura (1965) y Premios Nacionales de Literatura (1975). Desde 1947 publicó casi una cincuentena de cuentos infantiles en
Zig-Zag y Rapa Nui; de ahí que se le conociera como "El Andersen chileno".

21 de octubre al 21 de noviembre, short (really short) story by Belén Fernández Llanos

Mención Honrosa / Premio del Público

Se amaneció cosiendo el disfraz para esa fiesta. Eligió vestirse de escorpión porque en el curso siempre lo hicieron sentir raro y peligroso al mismo tiempo. Al llegar, las luces de colores lo iluminaron a él, el único con disfraz, y a los demás burlándose, como siempre. Pensó en huir pero no había pegado lentejuelas seis horas para eso. Así que respiró profundo, entró a la pista de baile, formó un círculo alrededor suyo, lo marcó con vodka, le prendió fuego y cansado de tantos años de insultos, se clavó frente a todos su propio aguijón.

    Belén Paulina Fernández Llanos, 30 años
    Santiago

Nettles, short-story by Alice Munro

 In the summer of 1979, I walked into the kitchen of my friend Sunny’s house near Uxbridge, Ontario, and saw a man standing at the counter, making himself a ketchup sandwich.

I have driven around in the hills northeast of Toronto, with my husband—my second husband, not the one I had left behind that summer—and I have looked for the house, in an idly persistent way, I have tried to locate the road it was on, but I have never succeeded. It has probably been torn down. Sunny and her husband sold it a few years after I visited them. It was too far from Ottawa, where they lived, to serve as a convenient summer place. Their children, as they became teenagers, balked at going there. And there was too much upkeep work for Johnston—Sunny’s husband—who liked to spend his weekends golfing.

I have found the golf course—I think it the right one, though the ragged verges have been cleaned up and there is a fancier clubhouse. 

***

In the countryside where I lived as a child, wells would go dry in the summer. This happened once in about every five or six years, when there was not enough rain. These wells were holes dug in the ground. Our well was a deeper hole than most, but we needed a good supply of water for our penned animals—my father raised silver foxes and mink—so one day the well driller arrived with impressive equipment, and the hole was extended down, down, deep into the earth until it found the water in the rock. From that time on we could pump out pure, cold water no matter what the time of year and no matter how dry the weather. That was something to be proud of. There was a tin mug hanging on the pump, and when I drank from it on a burning day, I thought of black rocks where the water ran sparkling like diamonds.

The well driller—he was sometimes called the well digger, as if nobody could be bothered to be precise about what he did and the older description was the more comfortable—was a man named Mike McCallum. He lived in the town close by our farm but he did not have a house there. He lived in the Clark Hotel—he had come there in the spring, and he would stay until he finished up whatever work he found to do in this part of the country. Then he would move on.

Mike McCallum was a younger man than my father, but he had a son who was a year and two months older than I was. This boy lived with his father in hotel rooms or boardinghouses, wherever his father was working, and he went to whatever school was at hand. His name was Mike McCallum too.

I know exactly how old he was because that is something children establish immediately, it is one of the essential matters on which they negotiate whether to be friends or not. He was nine and I was eight. His birthday was in April, mine in June. The summer holidays were well under way when he arrived at our house with his father.

His father drove a dark-red truck that was always muddy or dusty. Mike and I climbed into the cab when it rained. I don’t remember whether his father went into our kitchen then, for a smoke and a cup of tea, or stood under a tree, or went right on working. Rain washed down the windows of the cab and made a racket like stones on the roof. The smell was of men—their work clothes and tools and tobacco and mucky boots and sour-cheese socks. Also of damp long-haired dog, because we had taken Ranger in with us. I took Ranger for granted, I was used to having him follow me around and sometimes for no good reason I would order him to stay home, go off to the barn, leave me alone. But Mike was fond of him and always addressed him kindly and by name, telling him our plans and waiting for him when he took off on one of his dog-projects, chasing a groundhog or a rabbit. Living as he did with his father, Mike could never have a dog of his own.

One day when Ranger was with us he chased a skunk, and the skunk turned and sprayed him. Mike and I were held to be somewhat to blame. My mother had to stop whatever she was doing and drive into town and get several large tins of tomato juice. Mike persuaded Ranger to get into a tub and we poured the tomato juice over him and brushed it into his hair. It looked as if we were washing him in blood. How many people would it take to supply that much blood? we wondered. How many horses? Elephants?

I had more acquaintance with blood and animal-killing than Mike did. I took him to see the spot in the corner of the pasture near the barnyard gate where my father shot and butchered the horses that were fed to the foxes and mink. The ground was trodden bare and appeared to have a deep blood-stain, an iron-red cast to it. Then I took him to the meat-house in the barnyard where the horse carcasses were hung before being ground up for feed. The meat-house was just a shed with wire walls and the walls were black with flies, drunk on the smell of carrion. We got shingles and smashed them dead.

Our farm was small—nine acres. It was small enough for me to have explored every part of it, and every part had a particular look and character, which I could not have put into words. It is easy to see what would be special about the wire shed with the long, pale horse carcasses hung from brutal hooks, or about the trodden blood-soaked ground where they had changed from live horses into those supplies of meat. But there were other things, such as the stones on either side of the barn gangway, that had just as much to say to me, though nothing memorable had ever occurred there. On one side there was a big smooth whitish stone that bulged out and dominated all the others, and so that side had to me an expansive and public air, and I would always choose to climb that way rather than on the other side, where the stones were darker and clung together in a more mean-spirited way. Each of the trees on the place had likewise an attitude and a presence—the elm looked serene and the oak threatening, the maples friendly and workaday, the hawthorn old and crabby. Even the pits on the river flats—where my father had sold off gravel years ago—had their distinct character, perhaps easiest to spot if you saw them full of water at the receding of the spring floods. There was the one that was small and round and deep and perfect; the one that was spread out like a tail; and the one that was wide and irresolute in shape and always with a chop on it because the water was so shallow.

Mike saw all these things from a different angle. And so did I, now that I was with him. I saw them his way and mine, and my way was by its very nature incommunicable, so that it had to stay secret. His had to do with immediate advantage. The large pale stone in the gangway was for jumping off, taking a short hard run and then launching yourself out into the air, to clear the smaller stones in the slope beneath and land on the packed earth by the stable door. All the trees were for climbing, but particularly the maple next to the house, with the branch that you could crawl out on, so as to drop yourself onto the verandah roof. And the gravel pits were simply for leaping into, with the shouts of animals leaping on their prey, after a furious run through the long grass. If it had been earlier in the year, Mike said, when these held more water, we could have built a raft.

That project was considered, with regard to the river. But the river in August was almost as much a stony road as it was a watercourse, and instead of trying to float down it or swim in it we took off our shoes and waded—jumping from one bare bone-white rock to another and slipping on the scummy rocks below the surface, plowing through mats of flat-leafed water lilies and other water plants whose names I can’t recall or never knew (wild parsnip, water hemlock?). These grew so thick they looked as if they must be rooted on islands, on dry land, but they were actually growing out of river muck, and trapped our legs in their snaky roots.

This river was the same one that ran publicly through the town, and walking upstream, we came in sight of the double-span highway bridge. When I was by myself or just with Ranger I had never gone as far as the bridge, because there were usually town people there. They came to fish over the side, and when the water was high enough boys jumped from the railing. They wouldn’t be doing that now, but it was more than likely some of them would be splashing around down below—loudmouthed and hostile as town children always were.

Tramps were another possibility. But I said nothing of this to Mike, who went ahead of me as if the bridge was an ordinary destination and there was nothing unpleasant or forbidden about it. Voices reached us, and as I expected they were the voices of boys yelling—you would think the bridge belonged to them. Ranger had followed us this far, unenthusiastically, but now he veered off towards the bank. He was an old dog by this time, and he had never been indiscriminately fond of children.

There was a man fishing, not off the bridge but from the bank, and he swore at the commotion Ranger made getting out of the water. He asked us whether we couldn’t keep our arse of a dog at home. Mike went straight on as if this man had only whistled at us, and then we passed into the shadow of the bridge itself, where I had never been in my life.

The floor of the bridge was our roof, with streaks of sunlight showing between the planks. And now a car passed over, with a sound of thunder and a blotting out of the light. We stood still for this event, looking up. Under-the-bridge was a place on its own, not just a short stretch of the river. When the car had passed and the sun shone through the cracks again, its reflection on the water cast waves of light, queer bubbles of light, high on the cement pilings. Mike yelled to test the echo, and I did the same, but faintly, because the boys on the shore, the strangers, on the other side of the bridge scared me more than tramps would have done.

I went to the country school beyond our farm. Enrollment there had dwindled to the point where I was the only child in my class. But Mike had been going to the town school since spring and these boys were not strangers to him. He would probably have been playing with them, and not with me, if his father had not had the idea of taking him along on his jobs, so that he could—now and then—keep an eye on him.

There must have been some words of greeting passed, between these town boys and Mike.

Hey. What do you think you’re doing here?

Nothing. What do you think you’re doing?

Nothing. Who’s that you got with you?

Nobody. Just her.

Nnya-nnya. Just her.

There was in fact a game going on, which was taking up everybody’s attention. And everybody included girls—there were girls farther up on the bank, intent on their own business-—though we were all past the age at which groups of boys and girls played together as a customary thing. They might have followed the boys out from town—pretending not to follow—or the boys might have come along after them, intending some harassment, but somehow when they all got together this game had taken shape and had needed everybody in it, so the usual restrictions had broken down. And the more people who were in it, the better the game was, so it was easy for Mike to become involved, and bring me in after him.

It was a game of war. The boys had divided themselves into two armies who fought each other from behind barricades roughly made of tree branches, and also from the shelter of the coarse, sharp grass, and of the bulrushes and water weeds that were higher than our heads. The chief weapons were balls of clay, mud balls, about the size of baseballs. There happened to be a special source of clay, a gray pit hollowed out, half hidden by weeds, partway up the bank (discovery of this might have been what suggested the game), and it was there that the girls were working, preparing the ammunition. You squeezed and patted the sticky clay into as hard a ball as you could make—there could be some gravel in it and binding material of grass, leaves, bits of twigs gathered at the spot, but no stones added on purpose—and there had to be a great many of these balls, because they were good for only one throw. There was no possibility of picking up the balls that had missed and packing them together and throwing them over again.

The rules of the war were simple. If you were hit by a ball—the official name for them was cannonballs—in the face, head, or body, you had to fall down dead. If you were hit in the arms or legs you had to fall down, but you were only wounded. Then another thing that girls had to do was crawl out and drag the wounded soldiers back to a trampled place that was the hospital. Leaves were plastered on their wounds and they were supposed to lie still till they counted to one hundred. When they’d done that they could get up and fight again. The dead soldiers were not supposed to get up until the war was over, and the war was not over till everybody on one side was dead.

The girls as well as the boys were divided into two sides, but since there were not nearly as many girls as boys we could not serve as munitions makers and nurses for just one soldier. There were alliances, just the same. Each girl had her own pile of balls and was working for particular soldiers, and when a soldier fell wounded he would call out a girl’s name, so that she could drag him away and dress his wounds as soon as possible. I made weapons for Mike and mine was the name Mike called. There was so much noise going on—constant cries of “You’re dead,” either triumphant or outraged (outraged because of course people who were supposed to be dead were always trying to sneak back into the fighting) and the barking of a dog, not Ranger, who had somehow got mixed up in the battle—so much noise that you had to be always alert for the boy’s voice that called your own name. There was a keen alarm when the cry came, a wire zinging through your whole body, a fanatic feeling of devotion. (At least it was so for me who, unlike the other girls, owed my services to only one warrior.)

I don’t suppose, either, that I had ever played in a group, like this, before. It was such a joy to be part of a large and desperate enterprise, and to be singled out, within it, to be essentially pledged to the service of a fighter. When Mike was wounded he never opened his eyes, he lay limp and still while I pressed the slimy large leaves to his forehead and throat and—pulling out his shirt—to his pale, tender stomach, with its sweet and vulnerable belly button.

Nobody won. The game disintegrated, after a long while, in arguments and mass resurrections. We tried to get some of the clay off us, on the way home, by lying down flat in the river water. Our shorts and shirts were filthy and dripping.

It was late in the afternoon. Mike’s father was getting ready to leave.

“For Christ’s sake,” he said.

We had a part-time hired man who came to help my father when there was a butchering or some extra job to be done. He had an elderly, boyish look and a wheezing asthmatic way of breathing. He liked to grab me and tickle me until I thought I would suffocate.

Nobody interfered with this. My mother didn’t like it, but my father told her it was only a joke.

He was there in the yard, helping Mike’s father.

“You two been rolling in the mud,” he said. “First thing you know you gonna have to get married.”

From behind the screen door my mother heard that. (If the men had known she was there, neither one of them would have spoken as he had.) She came out and said something to the hired man, in a low, reproving voice, before she said anything about the way we looked.

I heard part of what she said.

Like brother and sister.

The hired man looked at his boots, grinning helplessly.

She was wrong. The hired man was closer to the truth than she was. We were not like brother and sister, or not like any brother and sister I had ever seen. My one brother was hardly more than a baby, so I had no experience of that on my own. And we were not like the wives and husbands I knew, who were old, for one thing, and who lived in such separate worlds that they seemed barely to recognize one another. We were like sturdy and accustomed sweethearts, whose bond needs not much outward expression. And for me at least that was solemn and thrilling. I knew that the hired man was talking about sex, though I don’t think I knew the word “sex.” And I hated him for that even more than I usually hated him. Specifically, he was wrong. We did not go in for any showings and rubbings and guilty intimacies—there was none of that bothered search for hiding places, none of the twiddling pleasure and frustration and immediate, raw shame. Such scenes had taken place for me with a boy cousin and with a couple of slightly older girls, sisters, who went to my school. I disliked these partners before and after the event and would angrily deny, even in my own mind, that any of these things had happened. Such escapades could never have been considered, with anybody for whom I felt any fondness or respect—only with people who disgusted me, as those randy abhorrent itches disgusted me with myself.

In my feelings for Mike the localized demon was transformed into a diffuse excitement and tenderness spread everywhere under the skin, a pleasure of the eyes and ears and a tingling contentment, in the presence of the other person. I woke up every morning hungry for the sight of him, for the sound of the well driller’s truck as it came bumping and rattling down the lane. I worshipped, without any show of it, the back of his neck and the shape of his head, the frown of his eyebrows, his long, bare toes and his dirty elbows, his loud and confident voice, his smell. I accepted readily, even devoutly, the roles that did not have to be explained or worked out between us—that I would aid and admire him, he would direct and stand ready to protect me. 

***

 And one morning the truck did not come. One morning, of course, the job was all finished, the well capped, the pump reinstated, the fresh water marvelled at. There were two chairs fewer at the table for the noon meal. Both the older and the younger Mike had always eaten that meal with us. The younger Mike and I never talked and barely looked at each other. He liked to put ketchup on his bread. His father talked to my father, and the talk was mostly about wells, accidents, water tables. A serious man. All work, my father said. Yet he—Mike’s father—ended nearly every speech with a laugh. The laugh had a lonely boom in it, as if he was still down the well.

They did not come. The work was finished, there was no reason for them ever to come again. And it turned out that this job was the last one that the well driller had to do in our part of the country. He had other jobs lined up elsewhere, and he wanted to get to them as soon as he could, while the good weather lasted. Living as he did, in the hotel, he could just pack up and be gone. And that was what he had done.

Why did I not understand what was happening? Was there no goodbye, no awareness that when Mike climbed into the truck on that last afternoon, he was going for good? No wave, no head turned towards me—or not turned towards me—when the truck, heavy now with all the equipment, lurched down our lane for the last time? When the water gushed out—I remember it gushing out, and everybody gathering round to have a drink—why did I not understand how much had come to an end, for me? I wonder now if there was a deliberate plan not to make too much of the occasion, to eliminate farewells, so that I—or we—should not become too unhappy and troublesome.

It doesn’t seem likely that such account would be taken of children’s feelings, in those days. They were our business, to suffer or suppress.

I did not become troublesome. After the first shock I did not let anybody see a thing. The hired man teased me whenever he caught sight of me (“Did your boyfriend run away on you?”), but I never looked his way.

I must have known that Mike would be leaving. Just as I knew that Ranger was old and that he would soon die. Future absence I accepted—it was just that I had no idea, till Mike disappeared, of what absence could be like. How all my own territory would be altered, as if a landslide had gone through it and skimmed off all meaning except loss of Mike. I could never again look at the white stone in the gangway without thinking of him, and so I got a feeling of aversion towards it. I had that feeling also about the limb of the maple tree, and when my father cut it off because it was too near the house, I had it about the scar that was left.

One day weeks afterwards, when I was wearing my fall coat, I was standing by the door of the shoe store while my mother tried on shoes, and I heard a woman call, “Mike.” She ran past the store, calling, “Mike.” I was suddenly convinced that this woman whom I did not know must be Mike’s mother—I knew, though not from him, that she was separated from his father, not dead—and that they had come back to town for some reason. I did not consider whether this return might be temporary or permanent, only—I was now running out of the store—that in another minute I would see Mike.

The woman had caught up with a boy about five years old, who had just helped himself to an apple out of a bushel of apples that was standing on the sidewalk in front of the grocery shop next door.

I stopped and stared at this child in disbelief, as if an outrageous, an unfair enchantment had taken place before my eyes.

A common name. A stupid flat-faced child with dirty blond hair.

My heart was beating in big thumps, like howls happening in my chest. 

***

 Sunny met my bus in Uxbridge. She was a large-boned, bright-faced woman, with silvery-brown, curly hair caught back by unmatched combs on either side of her face. Even when she put on weight—which she had done—she did not look matronly, but majestically girlish.

She swept me into her life as she had always done, telling me that she had thought she was going to be late because Claire had got a bug in her ear that morning and had to be taken to the hospital to have it flushed out, then the dog threw up on the kitchen step, probably because it hated the trip and the house and the country, and when she—Sunny—had left to get me Johnston was making the boys clean it up because they had wanted a dog, and Claire was complaining that she could still hear something going bzz-bzz in her ear.

“So suppose we go someplace nice and quiet and get drunk and never go back there?” she said. “We have to, though. Johnston invited a friend whose wife and kids are away in Ireland, and they want to go and play golf.”

Sunny and I had been friends in Vancouver. Our pregnancies had dovetailed nicely, so that we could manage with one set of maternity clothes. In my kitchen or in hers, once a week or so, distracted by our children and sometimes reeling for lack of sleep, we stoked ourselves up on strong coffee and cigarettes and launched out on a rampage of talk—about our marriages, our fights, our personal deficiencies, our interesting and discreditable motives, our foregone ambitions. We read Jung at the same time and tried to keep track of our dreams. During that time of life that is supposed to be a reproductive daze, with the woman’s mind all swamped by maternal juices, we were still compelled to discuss Simone de Beauvoir and Arthur Koestler and The Cocktail Party.

Our husbands were not in this frame of mind at all. When we tried to talk about such things with them they would say, “Oh, that’s just literature” or “You sound like Philosophy 101.” 

***

 Now we had both moved away from Vancouver. But Sunny had moved with her husband and her children and her furniture, in the normal way and for the usual reason—her husband had got another job. And I had moved for the newfangled reason that was approved of mightily but fleetingly and only in some special circles—leaving husband and house and all the things acquired during the marriage (except of course the children, who were to be parcelled about) in the hope of making a life that could be lived without hypocrisy or deprivation or shame.

I lived now on the second floor of a house in Toronto. The people downstairs—the people who owned the house—had come from Trinidad a dozen years before. All up and down the street, the old brick houses with their verandahs and high, narrow windows, the former homes of Methodists and Presbyterians who had names like Henderson and Grisham and McAllister, were full up with olive-or brownish-skinned people who spoke English in a way unfamiliar to me if they spoke it at all, and who filled the air at all hours with the smell of their spicy-sweet cooking. I was happy with all this—it made me feel as if I had made a true change, a long necessary voyage from the house of marriage. But it was too much to expect of my daughters, who were ten and twelve years old, that they should feel the same way. I had left Vancouver in the spring and they had come to me at the beginning of the summer holidays, supposedly to stay for the whole two months. They found the smells of the street sickening and the noise frightening. It was hot, and they could not sleep even with the fan I bought. We had to keep the windows open, and the backyard parties lasted sometimes till four o’clock.

Expeditions to the Science Centre and the C.N. Tower, to the Museum and the Zoo, treats in the cooled restaurants of department stores, a boat trip to Toronto Island, could not make up to them the absence of their friends or reconcile them to the travesty of a home that I provided. They missed their cats. They wanted their own rooms, the freedom of the neighborhood, the dawdling stay-at-home days.

For a while they did not complain. I heard the older one say to the younger one. “Let Mom think we‘re happy. Or she’ll feel bad.”

At last a blowup. Accusations, confessions of misery (even exaggerations of misery, as I thought, developed for my benefit). The younger wailing, “Why can’t you just live at home?” and the older telling her bitterly, “Because she hates Dad.”

I phoned my husband—who asked me nearly the same question and provided, on his own, nearly the same answer. I changed the tickets and helped my children pack and took them to the airport. All the way we played a silly game introduced by the older girl. You had to pick a number—27, 42—and then look out of the window and count the men you saw, and the 27th or 42nd man, or whatever, would be the one you had to marry. When I came back, alone, I gathered up all reminders of them—a cartoon the younger one had drawn, a Glamour magazine that the older one had bought, various bits of jewelry and clothing they could wear in Toronto but not at home—and stuffed them into a garbage bag. And I did more or less the same thing every time I thought of them—I snapped my mind shut. There were miseries that I could bear—those connected with men. And other miseries—those connected with children—that I could not.

I went back to living as I had lived before they came. I stopped cooking breakfast and went out every morning to get coffee and fresh rolls at the Italian deli. The idea of being so far freed from domesticity enchanted me. But I noticed now, as I hadn’t done before, the look on some of the faces of the people who sat every morning on the stools behind the window or at the sidewalk tables—people for whom this was in no way a fine and amazing thing to be doing but the stale habit of a lonely life. Back home, then, I would sit and write for hours at a wooden table under the windows of a former sunporch now become a makeshift kitchen. I was hoping to make my living as a writer. The sun soon heated up the little room, and the backs of my legs—I would be wearing shorts—stuck to the chair. I could smell the peculiar sweetish chemical odor of my plastic sandals absorbing the sweat of my feet. I liked that—it was the smell of my industry, and, I hoped, of my accomplishment. What I wrote wasn’t any better than what I’d managed to write back in the old life while the potatoes cooked or the laundry thumped around in its automatic cycle. There was just more of it, and it wasn’t any worse—that was all.

Later in the day I would have a bath and probably go to meet one or another of my women friends. We drank wine at the sidewalk tables in front of little restaurants on Queen Street or Baldwin Street or Brunswick Street and talked about our lives—chiefly about our lovers, but we felt queasy saying “lover,” so we called them “the men we were involved with.” And sometimes I met the man I was involved with. He had been banished when the children were with me, though I had broken this rule twice, leaving my daughters in a frigid movie-house.

I had known this man before I left my marriage and he was the immediate reason I had left it, though I pretended to him—and to everyone else—that this was not so. When I met him I tried to be carefree and to show an independent spirit. We exchanged news—I made sure I had news—and we laughed, and went for walks in the ravine, but all I really wanted was to entice him to have sex with me, because I thought the high enthusiasm of sex fused people’s best selves. I was stupid about these matters, in a way that was very risky, particularly for a woman of my age. There were times when I would be so happy, after our encounters—dazzled and secure—and there were other times when I would lie stone-heavy with misgiving. After he had taken himself off, I would feel tears running out of my eyes before I knew that I was weeping. And this was because of some shadow I had glimpsed in him or some offhandedness, or an oblique warning he’d given me. Outside the windows, as it got dark, the backyard parties would begin, with music and shouting and provocations that later might develop into fights, and I would be frightened, not of any hostility but of a kind of nonexistence.

In one of these moods I phoned Sunny, and got the invitation to spend the weekend in the country. 

***

“It’s beautiful here,” I said.

But the country we were driving through meant nothing to me. The hills were a series of green bumps, some with cows. There were low concrete bridges over weed-choked streams. Hay was harvested in a new way, rolled up and left in the fields.

“Wait till you see the house,” Sunny said. “It’s squalid. There was a mouse in the plumbing. Dead. We kept getting these little hairs in the bathwater. That’s all dealt with now, but you never know what will be next.”

She did not ask me—was it delicacy or disapproval?—about my new life. Maybe she just did not know how to begin, could not imagine it. I would have told her lies, anyway, or half-lies. It was hard to make the break but it had to be done. I miss the children terribly but there is always a price to be paid. I am learning to leave a man free and to be free myself. I am learning to take sex lightly, which is hard for me because that’s not the way I started out and I’m not young but I am learning.

A weekend, I thought. It seemed a very long time.

The bricks of the house showed a scar where a verandah had been torn away. Sunny’s boys were tromping around in the yard.

“Mark lost the ball,” the older one—Gregory—shouted.

Sunny told him to say hello to me. “Hello. Mark threw the ball over the shed and now we can’t find it.”

The three-year-old girl, born since I’d last seen Sunny, came running out of the kitchen door and then halted, surprised at the sight of a stranger. But she recovered herself and told me,

“There was a bug thing flew in my head.”

Sunny picked her up and I took up my overnight bag and we walked into the kitchen, where Mike McCallum was spreading ketchup on a piece of bread. 

***

“It’s you,” we said, almost on the same breath. We laughed, I rushed towards him and he moved towards me. We shook hands.

“I thought it was your father,” I said.

I don’t know if I’d got as far as thinking of the well driller. I had thought, Who is that familiar-looking man? A man who carried his body lightly, as if he would think nothing of climbing in and out of wells. Short-cropped hair, going gray, deep-set light-colored eyes. A lean face, good-humored yet austere. A customary, not disagreeable, reserve.

“Couldn’t be,” he said. “Dad’s dead.”

Johnston came into the kitchen with the golf bags, and greeted me, and told Mike to hurry up, and Sunny said, “They know each other, honey. They knew each other. Of all things.”

“When we were kids,” Mike said.

Johnston said, “Really? That’s remarkable.” And we all said together what we saw he was about to say.

“Small world.”

Mike and I were still looking at each other and laughing—we seemed to be making it clear to each other that this discovery which Sunny and Johnston might think remarkable was to us a comically dazzling flare-up of good fortune.

All afternoon while the men were gone I was full of happy energy. I made a peach pie for our supper and read to Claire so that she would settle for her nap, while Sunny took the boys fishing, unsuccessfully, in the scummy creek. Then she and I sat on the floor of the front room with a bottle of wine and became friends again, talking about books instead of life.

 ***

The things Mike remembered were different from the things I remembered. He remembered walking around on the narrow top of some old cement foundation and pretending it was as high as the tallest building and that if we stumbled we would fall to our deaths. I said that must have been somewhere else, then I remembered the foundations for a garage that had been poured, and the garage never built, where our lane met the road. Did we walk on that?

We did.

I remembered wanting to holler loudly under the bridge but being afraid of the town kids. He did not remember any bridge.

We both remembered the clay cannonballs, and the war.

We were washing the dishes together, so that we could talk all we wanted without being rude.

He told me how his father had died. He had been killed in a road accident, coming back from a job near Bancroft.

“Are your folks still alive?”

I said that my mother was dead and that my father had married again.

At some point I told him that I had separated from my husband, I was living in Toronto. I said that my children had been with me for a while but were now on a holiday with their father.

He told me that he lived in Kingston, but had not been there very long. He had met Johnston recently, through his work. He was, like Johnston, a civil engineer. His wife was an Irish girl, born in Ireland but working in Canada when he met her. She was a nurse. Right now she was back in Ireland, in County Clare, visiting her family. She had the kids with her.

“How many kids?”

“Three.”

When the dishes were finished we went into the front room and offered to play Scrabble with the boys, so that Sunny and Johnston could go for a walk. One game—then it was supposed to be bedtime. But they persuaded us to start another round, and we were still playing when their parents came back.

“What did I tell you?” said Johnston.

“It’s the same game,” Gregory said. “You said we could finish the game and it’s the same game.”

“I bet,” said Sunny.

She said it was a lovely night, and she and Johnston were getting spoiled, having live-in baby-sitters.

“Last night we actually went to the movie and Mike stayed with the kids. An old movie. Bridge over the River Kwai.”

“On, “Johnston said. “On the River Kwai.”

Mike said, “I’d seen it anyway. Years ago.”

“It was pretty good,” said Sunny. “Except I didn’t agree with the ending. I thought the ending was wrong. You know when Alec Guinness sees the wire in the water, in the morning, and he realizes somebody’s going to blow up the bridge? And he goes berserk and then it gets so complicated and everybody has to get killed and everything? Well, I think he just should have seen the wire and known what was going to happen and stayed on the bridge and got blown up with it. I think that’s what his character would have done and it would have been more dramatically effective.”

“No, it wouldn’t,” Johnston said, in the tone of somebody who had been through this argument before. “Where’s the suspense?”

“I agree with Sunny,” I said. “I remember thinking the ending was too complicated.”

“Mike?” said Johnston.

“I thought it was pretty good,” Mike said. “Pretty good the way it was.”

“Guys against the women,” Johnston said. “Guys win.”

Then he told the boys to pack up the Scrabble game and they obeyed. But Gregory thought of asking to see the stars. “This is the only place we can ever see them,” he said. “At home it’s all the lights and crap.”

“Watch it,” his father said. But he said, Okay then, five minutes, and we all went outside and looked at the sky. We looked for the Pilot Star, close beside the second star in the handle of the Big Dipper. If you could see that one, Johnston said, then your eyesight was good enough to get you into the Air Force, at least that was the way it was during the Second World War.

Sunny said, “Well, I can see it, but then I knew beforehand that it’s there.”

Mike said, the same with him.

“I could see it,” said Gregory scornfully. “I could see it whether I knew it was there or not.”

“I could see it too,” Mark said.

Mike was standing a little ahead of me and to one side. He was actually closer to Sunny than he was to me. Nobody was behind us, and I wanted to brush against him—just lightly and accidentally against his arm or shoulder. Then if he didn’t stir away—out of courtesy, taking my touch for a genuine accident?—I wanted to lay a finger against his bare neck. Was that what he would have done, if he had been standing behind me? Was that what he would have been concentrating on, instead of the stars?

I had the feeling, however, that he was a scrupulous man, he would refrain.

And for that reason, certainly, he would not come to my bed that night. It was so risky as to be impossible, in any case. There were three bedrooms upstairs—the guest room and the parents’ room both opening off the larger room where the children slept. Anybody approaching either of the smaller bedrooms had to do so through the children’s room. Mike, who had slept in the guest room last night, had been moved downstairs, to the foldout sofa in the front room. Sunny had given him fresh sheets rather than unmaking and making up again the bed he had left for me.

“He’s pretty clean,” she said. “And after all, he’s an old friend.”

Lying in those same sheets did not make for a peaceful night. In my dreams, though not in reality, they smelled of water-weeds, river mud, and reeds in the hot sun.

I knew that he wouldn’t come to me no matter how small the risk was. It would be a sleazy thing to do, in the house of his friends, who would be—if they were not already—the friends of his wife as well. And how could he be sure that it was what I wanted? Or that it was what he really wanted? Even I was not sure of it. Up till now, I had always been able to think of myself as a woman who was faithful to the person she was sleeping with at any given time.

My sleep was shallow, my dreams monotonously lustful, with irritating and unpleasant subplots. Sometimes Mike was ready to cooperate, but we met with obstacles. Sometimes he got sidetracked, as when he said that he had brought me a present, but he had mislaid it, and it was of great importance to him to find it. I told him not to mind, that I was not interested in the present, for he himself was my present, the person I loved and always had loved, I said that. But he was preoccupied. And sometimes he reproached me.

All night—or at least whenever I woke up, and I woke often—the crickets were singing outside my window. At first I thought it was birds, a chorus of indefatigable night-birds. I had lived in cities long enough to have forgotten how crickets can make a perfect waterfall of noise.

It has to be said, too, that sometimes when I woke I found myself stranded on a dry patch. Unwelcome lucidity. What do you really know of this man? Or he of you? What music does he like, what are his politics? What are his expectations of women? 

***

“Did you two sleep well?” Sunny said.

Mike said, “Out like a light.”

I said, “Okay. Fine.”

Everybody was invited to brunch that morning at the house of some neighbors who had a swimming pool. Mike said that he thought he would rather just go round the golf course, if that would be okay.

Sunny said, “Sure,” and looked at me. I said, “Well, I don’t know if I—” and Mike said, “You don’t play golf, do you?” No.

“Still. You could come and caddy for me.”

“I’ll come and caddy,” Gregory said. He was ready to attach himself to any expedition of ours, sure that we would be more liberal and entertaining than his parents.

Sunny said no. “You’re coming with us. Don’t you want to go in the pool?”

“All the kids pee in that pool. I hope you know that.”

***

Johnston had warned us before we left that there was a prediction of rain. Mike had said that we’d take our chances. I liked his saying “we” and I liked riding beside him, in the wife’s seat. I felt a pleasure in the idea of us as a couple—a pleasure that I knew was lightheaded as an adolescent girl’s. The notion of being a wife beguiled me, just as if I had never been one. This had never happened with the man who was now my actual lover. Could I really have settled in, with a true love, and somehow just got rid of the parts of me that did not fit, and been happy?

But now that we were alone, there was some constraint.

“Isn’t the country here beautiful?” I said. And today I meant it. The hills looked softer, under this cloudy white sky, than they had looked yesterday in the brazen sunlight. The trees, at the end of summer, had a raggedy foliage, many of their leaves beginning to rust around the edges, and some had actually turned brown or red. I recognized different leaves now. I said, “Oak trees.”

“This is sandy soil,” Mike said. “All through here—they call it Oak Ridges.”

I said I supposed that Ireland was beautiful.

“Parts of it are really bare. Bare rock.”

“Did your wife grow up there? Does she have that lovely accent?”

“You’d think she did, if you heard her. But when she goes back there, they tell her she’s lost it. They tell her she sounds just like an American. American’s what they always say—they don’t bother with Canadian.”

“And your kids—I guess they don’t sound Irish at all?”

“Nope.”

“What are they anyway—boys or girls?”

“Two boys and a girl.”

I had an urge now to tell him about the contradictions, the griefs and necessities of my life. I said, “I miss my kids.”

But he said nothing. No sympathetic word, no encouragement. It might be that he thought it unseemly to talk of our partners or our children, under the circumstances.

Soon after that we pulled into the parking lot beside the clubhouse, and he said, rather boisterously, as if to make up for his stiffness, “Looks like the rain scare’s kept the Sunday golfers home.” There was only one car in the lot.

He got out and went into the office to pay the visitor’s fee.

I had never been on a golf course. I had seen the game being played on television, once or twice and never by choice, and I had an idea that some of the clubs were called irons, or some of the irons clubs, and that there was one of them called a niblick, and that the course itself was called the links. When I told him this Mike said, “Maybe you’re going to be awfully bored.”

“If I am I’ll go for a walk.”

That seemed to please him. He laid the weight of his warm hand on my shoulder and said, “You would, too.”

My ignorance did not matter—of course I did not really have to caddy—and I was not bored. All there was for me to do was to follow him around, and watch him. I didn’t even have to watch him. I could have watched the trees at the edges of the course—they were tall trees with feathery tops and slender trunks, whose name I was not sure of—acacia?—and they were ruffled by occasional winds that we could not feel at all, here below. Also there were flocks of birds, blackbirds or starlings, flying about with a communal sense of urgency, but only from one treetop to another. I remembered now that birds did that; in August or even late July they began to have noisy mass meetings, preparing for the trip south.

Mike talked now and then, but it was hardly to me. There was no need for me to reply, and in fact I couldn’t have done so. I thought he talked more, though, than a man would have done if he’d been playing here by himself. His disconnected words were reproaches or cautious congratulations or warnings to himself, or they were hardly words at all—just the kind of noises that are meant to convey meaning, and that do convey meaning, in the long intimacy of lives lived in willing proximity.

This was what I was supposed to do, then—to give him an amplified, an extended notion of himself. A more comfortable notion, you might say, a reassuring sense of human padding around his solitude. He wouldn’t have expected this in quite the same way, or asked it quite so naturally and easily, if I had been another man. Or if I had been a woman with whom he did not feel some established connection.

I didn’t think this out. It was all there in the pleasure I felt come over me as we made our way around the links. Lust that had given me shooting pains in the night was all chastened and trimmed back now into a tidy pilot flame, attentive, wifely. I followed his setting up and choosing and pondering and squinting and swinging, and watched the course of the ball, which always seemed to me triumphant but to him usually problematic, to the site of our next challenge, our immediate future.

Walking there, we hardly talked at all. Will it rain? we said. Did you feel a drop? I thought I felt a drop. Maybe not. This was not dutiful weather talk—it was all in the context of the game. Would we finish the round or not?

As it turned out, we would not. There was a drop of rain, definitely a drop of rain, then another, then a splatter. Mike looked along the length of the course, to where the clouds had changed color, becoming dark blue instead of white, and he said without particular alarm or disappointment, “Here comes our weather.” He began methodically to pack up and fasten his bag.

We were then about as far away as we could be from the clubhouse. The birds had increased their commotion, and were wheeling about overhead in an agitated, indecisive way. The tops of the trees were swaying, and there was a sound—it seemed to be above us—like the sound of a wave full of stones crashing on the beach. Mike said, “Okay, then. We better get in here,” and he took my hand and hurried us across the mown grass into bushes and the tall weeds that grew between the course and the river.

The bushes right at the edge of the grass had dark leaves and an almost formal look, as if they had been a hedge, set out there. But they were in a clump, growing wild. They also looked impenetrable, but close up there were little openings, the narrow paths that animals or people looking for golf balls had made. The ground sloped slightly downward, and once you were through the irregular wall of bushes you could see a bit of the river—the river that was in fact the reason for the sign at the gate, the name on the clubhouse. Riverside Golf Club. The water was steel gray, and looked to be rolling, not breaking in a chop the way pond water would do, in this rush of weather. Between it and us there was a meadow of weeds, all of it seemed in bloom. Goldenrod, jewelweed with its red and yellow bells, and what I thought were flowering nettles with pinkish-purple clusters, and wild asters. Grapevine, too, grabbing and wrapping whatever it could find, and tangling underfoot. The soil was soft, not quite gummy. Even the most frail-stemmed, delicate-looking plants had grown up almost as high as, or higher than, our heads. When we stopped and looked up through them we could see trees at a little distance tossing around like bouquets. And something coming, from the direction of the midnight clouds. It was the real rain, coming at us behind this splatter we were getting, but it appeared to be so much more than rain. It was as if a large portion of the sky had detached itself and was bearing down, bustling and resolute, taking a not quite recognizable but animate shape. Curtains of rain—not veils but really thick and wildly slapping curtains—were driven ahead of it. We could see them distinctly, when all we were feeling, still, were these light, lazy drops. It was almost as if we were looking through a window, and not quite believing that the window would shatter, until it did, and rain and wind hit us, all together, and my hair was lifted and fanned out above my head. I felt as if my skin might do that next.

I tried to turn around then—I had an urge, that I had not felt before, to run out of the bushes and head for the clubhouse. But I could not move. It was hard enough to stand up—out in the open the wind would have knocked you down at once.

Stooping, butting his head through the weeds and against the wind, Mike got around in front of me, all the time holding on to my arm. Then he faced me, with his body between me and the storm. That made as much difference as a toothpick might have done. He said something, right into my face, but I could not hear him. He was shouting, but not a sound from him could reach me. He had hold of both my arms now, he worked his hands down to my wrists and held them tight. He pulled me down—both of us staggering, the moment we tried to make any change of position—so that we were crouched close to the ground. So close together that we could not look at each other—we could only look down, at the miniature rivers already breaking up the earth around our feet, and the crushed plants and our soaked shoes. And even this had to be seen through the waterfall that was running down our faces.

Mike released my wrists and clamped his hands on my shoulders. His touch was still one of restraint, more than comfort.

We remained like this till the wind passed over. That could not have been more than five minutes, perhaps only two or three. Rain still fell, but now it was ordinary heavy rain. He took his hands away, and we stood up shakily. Our shirts and slacks were stuck fast to our bodies. My hair fell down over my face in long witch’s tendrils and his hair was flattened in short dark tails to his forehead. We tried to smile, but had hardly the strength for it. Then we kissed and pressed together briefly. This was more of a ritual, a recognition of survival rather than of our bodies’ inclinations. Our lips slid against each other, slick and cool, and the pressure of the embrace made us slightly chilly, as fresh water was squished out of our clothing.

Every minute, the rain grew lighter. We made our way, slightly staggering, through the half-flattened weeds, then between the thick and drenching bushes. Big tree branches had been hurled all over the golf course. I did not think until later that any one of them could have killed us.

We walked in the open, detouring around the fallen limbs. The rain had almost stopped, and the air brightened. I was walking with my head bent—so that the water from my hair fell to the ground and not down my face—and I felt the heat of the sun strike my shoulders before I looked up into its festival light.

I stood still, took a deep breath, and swung my hair out of my face. Now was the time, when we were drenched and safe and confronted with radiance. Now something had to be said.

“There’s something I didn’t mention to you.”

His voice surprised me, like the sun. But in the opposite way. It had a weight to it, a warning—determination edged with apology.

“About our youngest boy,” he said. “Our youngest boy was killed last summer.”

Oh.

“He was run over,” he said. “I was the one ran over him. Backing out of our driveway.”

I stopped again. He stopped with me. Both of us stared ahead.

“His name was Brian. He was three.

“The thing was, I thought he was upstairs in bed. The others were still up, but he’d been put to bed. Then he’d got up again.

“I should have looked, though. I should have looked more carefully.” I thought of the moment when he got out of the car. The noise he must have made. The moment when the child’s mother came running out of the house. This isn’t him, he isn’t here, it didn’t happen.

Upstairs in bed.

He started walking again, entering the parking lot. I walked a little behind him. And I did not say anything—not one kind, common, helpless word. We had passed right by that.

He didn’t say, It was my fault and I’ll never get over it. I’ll never forgive myself. But I do as well as I can.

Or, My wife forgives me but she’ll never get over it either.

I knew all that. I knew now that he was a person who had hit rock bottom. A person who knew—as I did not know, did not come near knowing—exactly what rock bottom was like. He and his wife knew that together and it bound them, as something like that would either break you apart or bind you, for life. Not that they would live at rock bottom. But they would share a knowledge of it—that cool, empty, locked, and central space.

It could happen to anybody.

Yes. But it doesn’t seem that way. It seems as if it happens to this one, that one, picked out specially here and there, one at a time.

I said, “It isn’t fair.” I was talking about the dealing out of these idle punishments, these wicked and ruinous swipes. Worse like this, perhaps, than when they happen in the midst of plentiful distress, in wars or the earth’s disasters. Worst of all when there is the one whose act, probably an uncharacteristic act, is singly and permanently responsible.

That’s what I was talking about. But meaning also, It is not fair. What has this got to do with us?

A protest so brutal that it seems almost innocent, coming out of such a raw core of self. Innocent, that is, if you are the one it’s coming from, and if it has not been made public.

“Well,” he said, quite gently. Fairness being neither here nor there.

“Sunny and Johnston don’t know about it,” he said. “None of the people know, that we met since we moved. It seemed as if it might work better that way. Even the other kids—they don’t hardly ever mention him. Never mention his name.”

I was not one of the people they had met since they moved. Not one of the people amongst whom they would make their new, hard, normal life. I was a person who knew—that was all. A person he had, on his own, who knew.

“That’s strange,” he said, looking around before he opened the trunk of the car to stow away the golf case.

“What happened to the guy who was parked here before?

Didn’t you see another car parked here when we came in? But I never saw one other person on the course. Now that I think of it.

Did you?”

I said no.

“Mystery,” he said. And again, “Well.”

That was a word that I used to hear fairly often, said in that same tone of voice, when I was a child. A bridge between one thing and another, or a conclusion, or a way of saying something that couldn’t be any more fully said, or thought.

“A well is a hole in the ground.” That was the joking answer. 

***

 The storm had brought an end to the swimming-pool party. Too many people had been there for everybody to crowd into the house, and those with children had mostly chosen to go home.

While we were driving back, Mike and I had both noticed, and spoken about, a prickling, an itch or burning, on our bare forearms, the backs of our hands, and around our ankles. Places that had not been protected by our clothing when we crouched in the weeds. I remembered the nettles.

Sitting in Sunny’s farmhouse kitchen, wearing dry clothes, we told about our adventure and revealed our rashes.

Sunny knew what to do for us. Yesterday’s trip with Claire, to the emergency room of the local hospital, had not been this family’s first visit. On an earlier weekend the boys had gone down into the weedy mud-bottomed field behind the barn and come back covered with welts and blotches. The doctor said they must have got into some nettles. Must have been rolling in them, was what he said. Cold compresses were prescribed, an antihistamine lotion, and pills. There was still part of a bottle of lotion unused, and there were some pills too, because Mark and Gregory had recovered quickly.

We said no to the pills—our case seemed not serious enough.

Sunny said that she had talked to the woman out on the highway, who put gas in her car, and this woman had said there was a plant whose leaves made the best poultice you could have, for nettle rash. You don’t need all them pills and junk, the woman said. The name of the plant was something like calf’s foot. Coldfoot? The woman had told her she could find it in a certain road cut, by a bridge.

“I could go and ask her to tell me again, exactly. I could go and get some.”

She was eager to do that, she liked the idea of a folklore remedy. We had to point out that the lotion was already there, and paid for.

Sunny enjoyed ministering to us. In fact, our plight put the whole family into a good humor, brought them out of the doldrums of the drenched day and cancelled plans. The fact that we had chosen to go off together and that we had this adventure—an adventure that left its evidence on our bodies—seemed to rouse in Sunny and Johnston a teasing excitement. Droll looks from him, a bright solicitousness from her. If we had brought back evidence of real misdoing—welts on the buttocks, red splashes on the thighs and belly—they would not of course have been so charmed and forgiving.

The children thought it was funny to see us sitting there with our feet in basins, our arms and hands clumsy with their wrappings of thick cloths. Claire especially was delighted with the sight of our naked, foolish, adult feet. Mike wriggled his long toes for her, and she broke into fits of alarmed giggles.

Well. It would be the same old thing, if we ever met again. Or if we didn’t. Love that was not usable, that knew its place. (Some would say not real, because it would never risk getting its neck wrung, or turning into a bad joke, or sadly wearing out.) Not risking a thing yet staying alive as a sweet trickle, an underground resource. With the weight of this new stillness on it, this seal.

I never asked Sunny for news of him, or got any, during all the years of our dwindling friendship. 

***

Those plants with the big pinkish-purple flowers are not nettles.

I have discovered that they are called joe-pye weed. The stinging nettles that we must have got into are more insignificant plants, with a paler purple flower, and stalks wickedly outfitted with fine, fierce, skin-piercing and inflaming spines. Those would be present too, unnoticed, in all the flourishing of the waste meadow.

https://esl-bits.net/ESL.English.Listening.Short.Stories/Nettles/01/default.html