A Peculiar Grace Read online

  Julie did not own a horse and was secretly terrified of them. Which would not stop her from spending hours and days at the neighboring farm in Hardwick studying the big Shire horses kept there. She could watch one for twenty minutes or four days and all the sudden know what she had to do at home. Once she spotted how her hands would translate what she saw she would not go back. Until the next time.

  She laughed when her work was reviewed finally in Artforum and despite the praise the writer felt the need to point out that her horses seemed to emerge from some giant unknown breed. Even her curled foals loomed.

  But came the winter day they spent in bed and her long hard thigh was pinning his legs to the bed as she rolled over to press against his chest and look into his face and inform him she had a new lover. One who was living with her and one she planned to spend the rest of her life with.

  Hewitt lay silent beneath her, this lovely strong woman gazing into his eyes waiting for the first blink from him and he knew he had to lose her and knew it was perhaps the central error of his adult life. But it had to be. And he’d not moved except to reach a hand and take a handful of her thick brown hair and told her he was happy for her. At which she reared back and slapped him hard across the face.

  She was out of bed dressing. He lay watching her and then said, “I do love you, you know. But that’s not enough, is it?”

  Buttoning her shirt over her firm brown breasts, she studied him an uncomfortable amount of time and then said, “We’ll still get together now and then.”

  Then she was dressed and came swiftly to the bedside and kissed him lightly and he lay in the bed listening to her go down the stairs and out of the house. Heard her truck start and back around and then leave. And he lay in bed, thinking That’s the end of that. An hour later he was wandering the house in his sweatpants and flannel robe, wondering what he’d missed. And relieved at the same time. Whatever unspoken thing she’d wanted from him had been resolved.

  Three hours later he was outside in a drifting sweep of snow, dark now but the snow settled over him and flitted his face with cold gone kisses. His head tilted back to let that snow strike his face and mouth. Knowing he’d lost something once again.

  It was three months before she called him. Two hours later they were in bed, a bottle of wine uncorked and glasses still filled on the bedside table. She talked briefly about her Charlie but fucked Hewitt slowly sweetly that afternoon. He was asleep when she woke him, dressed, leaning over the bed. She kissed him and told him she’d see him. He said, “This is really goodbye. Right?”

  She’d said, “No baby. This is what you get from me. I happen to like it. Nobody owns me Hewitt. Except me. You should wish as much for yourself.”

  HEWITT WAS IN the forge with the rain overhead on the roof steady in soft counterpoint to the hammerwork. He was turning the second of the fist-size eggs that would top the gate, after deciding to fashion all four from the forge so he might compare the rough eggs to bring them to aligned size. And only then finish them. It made sense—if the four matched in rough form then the goal in finish work would be merely to bring them to indistinguishable dull-gleaming texture. Not an original idea but one articulated by Timothy Farrell and, much later Hewitt realized by his own father—build up the basic structure in however many forms it would end up taking on and then, therefore, the conclusion became not a matter of chance but of careful eye. So he heated and beat slowly the compression of the rod first to round, then onion head, the ball beginning to stretch and elongate as the ovoid took shape. Stopping to eyeball the iron egg in the pritchel hole of the smaller anvil and go back to work. Hewitt had time to consider the process. In fact his brain was a flooded stream that the work pulled by demand into one long braided rivulet.

  He paused work and considered the bottle of whisky from the night before. Now holding what seemed a good deal more than it had when he’d gone to bed. The long abstinence was worthless against the events of the past three days even if the booze played roles in his screwup phone call to Julie and certainly hungover not on sharpest tacks with Emily but all that was done and so he walked over and unscrewed the cap and took the smallest sip. It was good and he took another and felt the soft flush up his arms and left the bottle open on the workbench and went back to work, thinking of the wonder of the egg.

  EMILY WAS GOING to come for the Thanksgiving after his father died but canceled because of a bad bout of flu, leaving Hewitt and his mother alone to celebrate the holiday that was Thomas Pearce’s least favorite, a day he described as one of too much brown food consumed to the point of a stupor, a vivid symbol of what he considered wrong with the country although he and Hewitt had argued over this the year before, Hewitt maintaining it was a matter of how much one put on one’s plate compared to the rampant corporate rape of the world’s natural resources, causing Thomas to respond acerbically that symbolism can be more potent than a sheaf of facts. That had also been Beth’s final Thanksgiving, starting as she did the next year her not-so-slow climb in the resort industry, an ambition that was neatly and pointedly avoided during conversation. But a year later Hewitt and Mary Margaret ate a pair of Cornish game hens in near silence while a cold rain muffled the gunshots of deer hunters up and down the ridgelines. The meal was not a reflection upon the previous year but a bow to practicality and left them both quietly maudlin, a sadness within the house marked by Mary Margaret’s taking an afternoon nap, something she almost never did and certainly not the result of overeating. Leaving Hewitt to slump in the living room, missing his father and missing Emily and working himself into a full-chested knot of loneliness, sorrow and a touch of self-pity, waiting for the clock to edge toward five and the appointed time to call his love.

  Who still did not sound well but had news that cheered Hewitt greatly: her parents had agreed that if Hewitt were to come for Christmas he might bring Emily home the day after for the week until the New Year—they didn’t want her driving herself in winter, a notion she sniffed off but Hewitt was happy he’d be with her for Christmas. Emily passed along her mother’s invitation for Hewitt to bring along Mary Margaret, which Hewitt knew would never happen but made clear to Emily how touched he was by the inclusion and then was off and running with his plans to show her Vermont in the winter—moonlight snow-shoeing and daytimes they’d go over the hills to Killington and he’d teach her to downhill ski, something she’d never done but he’d taken advantage of ski club in school as a way to get out of school Friday afternoons throughout the winters starting in second grade. She was hesitant but he was exuberant, insisting she’d be a natural at it, delighted at the idea of the two of them burning down the slopes when she interrupted and said, “Hewitt, I don’t feel so hot, okay? I’ve got to go.”

  He drove out alone two days before Christmas, the backseat of the Volvo packed with modest gifts. A recurring erection due to the exultant expectation of having her in his eyes again, being able to touch her hand, hear her voice. To touch the skin, the soft invisible down along her arms, to feel the strong lock of the muscles of her back as she held him, the curve of her buttocks beneath his hands. Oh dark snow skies he wanted to slide into her as much as he wanted the rest of her but was prepared to wait, to be patient. To bring her back to Vermont.

  Christmas Eve afternoon they rode together out to the Farrells’ where Hewitt was, as intended, a surprise, with his gifts of maple syrup and cheddar cheese and cob-smoked bacon, feeling a little foolish over the corny tourist gifts which however were met with a delight that clearly extended beyond the gifts themselves and they spent a pleasant afternoon sipping wild foxgrape wine in tiny crystal glasses and mostly talking shop and plans for the following summer. Emily in rabbit-lined boots and high wool socks with a deep green velvet skirt, white blouse and paler green vest rocking in her chair and with a keen flush as she watched Hewitt with the old couple and Timothy.

  Driving back to her house for what he already knew would be an elaborate dinner he asked if she wanted to get stoned and she did, and
then he asked if perhaps later, after the dinner, there might be a party out at the Ark or someplace and she’d turned and said, “I’m sure there is but we stay home tonight.”

  He slept down the hall from her, sharing a bedroom with her next-to-oldest brother Hal, although he’d had a brief moment of hope at the end of the evening when she offered to do the last barn check but Elsa insisted on going with them. Once in the warm barn with its muted lights and rustle of cattle sleeping or chewing cud in their stanchions they were finally able to kiss the way they wanted to and even with Elsa playing with the barn cats and not missing a single move on their parts also able to confirm, Hewitt knew for both of them, their desire and intent for each other was intact and bold as ever. Her tongue in his mouth a hot bolt to startle and enchant his heart.

  Next morning he gave her the Peruvian alpaca sweater and admired the small jade elephant on a fine gold hoop to replace the turquoise and silver stud he’d worn for two years and she’d leaned close and whispered Elephants never forget. The rest of the day was a blur of food and longing, a feast of wild geese and pheasant the Soren men had shot that fall and while Hewitt at the time was disdainful of hunters he kept quiet and was rewarded with Emily’s hand on his thigh beneath the drape of the tablecloth.

  The next morning was bright and clear and there was no mistaking her meaning when Ellen Soren took Hewitt’s arm as they were packing the car and, her eyes squinted tight, ordered him to drive carefully.

  Heading east, the thruway clear of snow or ice, the traffic light, Hewitt with growing excitement was outlining his plans for skiing and snowshoeing, this time in greater detail and with some helpful preparatory information included when Emily said, “Hewitt, I’m not going to be doing much of that.”

  “Why?” He was thinking about rolling a joint, having Emily roll a joint, certain he could talk her out of her fears or uncertainties and also thinking ahead; his mother who slept alone in the big bedroom at the top of the stairs hadn’t bothered to make up a guest bed, knowing better.

  “Because ten days ago I got everything set up so no one would know and Barb drove me to Syracuse. Hewitt, I had an abortion.”

  “What?” He looked over at her and she looked back at him.

  He pulled the Volvo off into the breakdown lane and stopped. He twisted in the seat so his back was against the door and he was facing her, his right boot flat over his left knee. She looked straight out the windshield. Again he said, “What?”

  She said, “It happened when I came to your father’s funeral. At Thanksgiving I was pretty sure but not certain although I’d already talked to Barb. I was just waiting for the test results. And the rabbit died. We already had everything all worked out. Although it was a lot harder than I’d expected. I felt really crummy for a few days. I don’t know if Mom suspected or not—she seemed to buy the flu thing but still, she’s no idiot.”

  “Wait a minute,” said Hewitt. “Wait a minute.”

  She turned to face him. She was pale, blanched, her upper lip trembling but her eyes steady as the frozen wetlands around them. A raft of ducks lifted in the distance and circled, a low blot against the horizon. “What?” Her voice as dreadfully flat as the land spreading around them, as the road ahead and sky dome. Hewitt knew she was steps, miles ahead of him.

  He said, “Why didn’t you call me?”

  She looked out her side window and, her hands wound together began to pick with fingernails at a cuticle, stripping slips of dried skin away.

  He said, not a question, “It was my baby. Yours and mine.”

  Low she said, “Don’t you think I know that?”

  He sat a moment, his heart a clamor. Then he said, “You should’ve told me, Emily. Why didn’t you tell me?”

  She looked at him and said, “What would you have done, Hewitt? How would you have helped?”

  “Well, you should have told me because it was my baby too. And then we would’ve figured out what to do and I would’ve helped you anyway I could. I mean, shit. I could’ve slipped over here and driven you to Syracuse and been with you afterwards. I could’ve done anything. But I would’ve been with you. You left me out, Emily.”

  She said, “I did the best I could.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How’s that, Hewitt?”

  “I should’ve been a part of it. Of all of it.”

  She leaned back and said, “All right. How about this? All what I just said, all that was only a test. I’m pregnant, Hewitt. Knocked up. What should we do?”

  “You’re fucking with me.”

  “That’s how it all started, that’s for sure.”

  “Are you serious?”

  She was silent, waiting for him, her face perched upon an undecipherable edge. Tilted, he thought, toward hope. He said, “If you’re pregnant then you should have the baby. What a fucking trip! Did you think I’d say no, is that what this was all about? Emily. A baby. Oh God Em I can’t believe it.”

  “So I drop out of school and we get married and have a baby?”

  His chest hurt.

  She opened the door and got out of the car and began to walk down the edge of the breakdown lane, going away from him. There was a strong wind and she leaned into it and her clothes seemed to pull away from her body as she went. A semi went by and slowed, brake lights lit as it passed her and then went on. And Hewitt was angry she’d backed him into the corner of his own construction and knew why she’d done it and so dropped the car into gear, popped the clutch and went up the breakdown lane after her. When he pulled up beside her she got back in as if she’d never been gone.

  He said, “I want to pay for it.”

  Face dead ahead she said, “Don’t worry about it.”

  He drove on. After a while they passed the Syracuse exits and still neither spoke. If there was any exit in particular that mattered to her she didn’t so much as glance but kept her eyes on the road.

  After a while he said, “I’m sorry.”

  “It wasn’t anything I wanted to do you know.”

  His brain still screaming he calmly said, “Emily, I love you very much. There’s time to talk it out. We’ve got a week.”

  They rode silent several miles and then he said, “Em? Are you all right?”

  She slid over the seat and he lifted an arm and let her tuck in close against him, holding her shoulders. She said, “I’m okay. Hewitt, I’m okay.”

  Then she began to cry.

  HE WAS ELONGATING the third egg, an exact swift striking as he turned it on the anvil and now the rod and growing globe were back in the fire when he heard the car come into the yard, Hewitt standing patient waiting for the heat to come back into the metal, the color to come Halloween orange again when the door above opened. It was still raining, the windows steamed over; the forge homely warmth. He knew it was Walter. He reached and took a small swallow from the diminished bottle but left it right there on the bench. Then stood at the hearth, eyes on the heat of the coal, his right foot pumping slow thrusts of air into the fire from the big bellows below. Knowing Walter wouldn’t speak until Hewitt paused his work. So he lifted the rod and moved the reddening bulb to the side of the fire, where it would remain warm. Then turned to his friend.

  Walter had his hands shoved deep in his pockets. He said, “Quick trip.”

  “Yup.”

  “A dead fire?”

  Hewitt considered this approach. “I suppose.” He shrugged. “She’s got a whole life, kids, job, a husband dead about three weeks. I would say I was most likely the last person she wanted to see.”

  Walter scuffed the toe of a boot against the hard-packed dirt. “It went that bad?”

  “I’ll tell you, brother. I would definitely not be looking for her to pull in here anytime in the next fifty or sixty years. It was stupid of me, that’s what it comes down to.”

  “Holding on to something you believe in isn’t necessarily stupid.”

  “No? I’ll tell you what. I wasted a good chunk of my life holding
on to her and man it might seem noble or something from the outside but from where I stand right now I’m pretty much an idiot.”

  “Ask you a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Do you regret those years?”

  “Regret? Regret losing my mind for several years and pretty much fucking up my life? Regret the plodding to patch back together what I could? Regret? Shit man I’m the guy they put a little picture of in the dictionary next to the definition of regret.”

  Walter ran a hand through his hair. He said, “That’s not regret, that’s feeling sorry for yourself. Let me tell you something.”

  “Sure. Tell me something.”

  “There’s plenty men. And women too. Who’ve been together so long and been in holes so deep they’ve decided it’s how life is. How it has to be, how one way or another the way it turns out to be. Who can’t even begin to imagine the sort of freedom you’ve known.”

  “I think it’s pretty sad and doesn’t have much to do with me. Seeing her, talking to her, I learned I still am all fucked-up. That’s not feeling sorry for myself. That’s looking the big dragon eye to eye.”

  Walter had not changed position, hands still in pockets, upright. But now with his feet planted hard rocking back and forth. As if taking something in and plucking toward the truth through the feathers of camouflage. Finally he pulled his hands free, and Hewitt felt that gesture and knew he wasn’t going to like what was coming. Walter said, “You waited twenty years and then you went and screwed it up. Isn’t that right? Isn’t that what happened? You poured yourself out to her. Probably the first time you saw her. The only big dragon around here is you.”

  Hewitt said, “Fuck you asshole. You know I couldn’t go and play Mr. Cool. Then you stroll down in here and sum it all up. Well, listen. Thanks for the use of your car. Thanks for taking care of things while I was gone. And thank you for making clear that whichever way I twisted on this one I was bound to lose. Fuck you. And if you’re screwing Jessica just take her back to your house and get both your shit out of my life because I don’t need it right now. I’m sure she’d fit right in. I’d bet anything she’d approve of the idea of gluing aluminum foil to the walls to keep people from listening in or beaming thoughts into your head or whatever it is that makes you so fucking sane and me so fucking crazy. So why don’t you just get out of here. You moron sonofabitch.”