Читать книгу The Risk of Returning, Second Edition - Shirley Nelson - Страница 17

As usual, it had started to rain as I returned to my room. I didn’t bother to change. I got out the envelope containing my father’s letter and sat at the desk for a long time in my wet clothes, looking at it. I stared at it for so long it began to pulsate with an aura. I held it at arm’s length, which was exactly what I’d been doing all along. It seemed totally inexcusable to me now that I hadn’t taken it to a library in Cambridge and worked it out myself with a dictionary.

Actually, it was Rebecca who found it, in her new phase of getting to the bottom of things. We had just settled my mother in the nursing home and had turned to the task of dealing with thirty years of accumulation in the house, the tiny, run-down rental my mother and I had moved to in 1955. She had chosen Rhode Island because what remained of her family was there, a couple of cousins, who had helped her find a job in an insurance office.

I had never felt at home in that house. Nothing wrong with the location. It stood in a small cluster of one-time summer cottages in a community the natives called “Rivvahside,” a section of East Providence. The river was actually a finger of Narragansett Bay. Our neighborhood was on a peninsula, with salt water lapping against a sea wall not fifty feet away. Single masted sailboats bobbed lazily at the edge of our yard.

The house itself was wrong, mainly because my father was not there. When my mother married again six years later and my stepfather moved in, the place seemed less than ever mine. So I resented Harvey, and everything about him—that he was shorter than my mother, that he parted his hair with a wet comb in front of the living room mirror, that he prayed long, repetitive graces before dinner. I hated him because he sang. I would hear him holding forth lustily, in the kitchen, in the yard, “This world is not my home! I’m just a-passin’ through,” and I would think, “Good, keep right on going.” I was thirteen, and I’d had no more to say about the entrance of this man into my life than I had about the departure of the other. I retreated to worlds of my own, baseball on my radio, pop and jazz, a few LPs (Duke Ellington and Coleman Hawkins) played softly in my room. Books. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis, reading them over and over.

When my stepfather died, my mother stopped eating. She quickly grew fragile, but refused any alternative to managing alone in that house. She would not even discuss the possibility of moving in with Rebecca and me. Or actually, it would be just me, since she barely recognized Rebecca’s existence. Then a neighbor, dropping by, found her prostrate inside the front door, where she had crawled after falling down the stairs. Lying flat in the hospital bed, her broken leg extended, she gave in and allowed a transfer to a local nursing home. Old Harvey, “just a-passin’ through,” had left enough money behind to pay expenses for years to come.

I wasn’t looking for the letter as we cleaned out the Rhode Island house. At that point I didn’t know it existed. I wasn’t looking for any link to Guatemala. I knew there weren’t any. My mother had brought nothing with her from there, none of the weavings and rugs and baskets, no photographs, none of the books that had always been lying about, note paper protruding from their pages. And I’d brought nothing but my fielder’s glove that for years I took to bed with me, my “bankie.”

The first little surprise turned up in the kitchen. Rebecca was pulling out drawers and turning them upside down on the table, and there among the toothpicks and canning-jar rings was an old can opener I recognized with a rush of saliva, hearing again the sound it made on a can of applesauce, a rare and expensive treat in Guatemala.

Then behind a stack of de-handled cups on a shelf was one I hadn’t seen since I was five, with a yellow Teddy bear on one side and the name “Teddy” on the other. This had not lost its handle. There were two handles, and again the physical memory, lifting it with both hands oh-so-carefully, proud to not spill a drop. Goat milk, still pungent and warm from the udder.

“Teddy,” Rebecca read, teasing. It was what my mother had called me, however big I got. The one time she called me Ted was my initial visit to her room in the nursing home. She was in a new armchair we’d bought her, with her long hair, always worn in a bun, now cut extremely short. I hesitated at the door as I took this in. “Ted!” she called reproachfully. “It’s about time you got here. Let’s gather up Teddy this instant and go home.” Since then she had called me nothing.

In the bedroom Rebecca and I boxed up blankets and sheets, tied up ten years of The Reader’s Digest towering in a corner, and cleaned out the closet. That’s where we found the sewing basket, stuffed full. Rebecca (getting to the bottom of things) turned it upside down on the bed. Out tumbled a dozen spools of half-gone thread, needles, crochet hooks, and a collection of sewing machine attachments resembling medical instruments. These were followed by a final plop—a false bottom to the basket and an airmail postal envelope, Correo Aéreo in the top left corner. The stamped date was blurred and faded. There was no return address. In the envelope were two onionskin pages folded together, inked handwriting showing through the back of the thin paper. I’d know it anywhere, my father’s slanted penmanship.

My mother had gone to lengths to prepare this hiding place, making the false bottom from a piece of cardboard. Maybe she hid the letter so well she couldn’t find it herself. I pictured her as I had often discovered her on the nights I stayed with her in the past year, a gaunt figure in her nightgown, standing before the bureau or the desk, opening and shutting drawers.

I put the pages back into the envelope and shoved that into the pocket of my jeans. I didn’t look at it again until I was alone an hour later, sitting at a weathered picnic table behind the house while Rebecca prepared a snack in the kitchen. It was late afternoon, April, a time when a kind of recycled light often reflected off the bay, turning the old house into a romantic seaside watercolor.

I sat there in the yard a long time, postponing what could be a sudden shift in the tectonic plates of my life. When I finally opened it, I saw that the writing was mostly in Spanish. I recognized a word here and there, nothing suggestive. Otherwise it was beyond me. Good. I felt becalmed, like the Sunfish out there in the cove, waiting for a breeze, its sail slackened.

The letter ended with a Swedish phrase familiar to me, Jag alskar dig, I love you, and a Scripture reference in Song of Solomon. Nothing unusual about that. He often added a Scripture reference to his letters. Then at the bottom the P.S., in English, and my own name. Let’s keep all this from Teddy. I’ll explain it to him myself when he is old enough and ready.

Looking at it with new eyes now (as “Ready Teddy”?), I saw that he had dated it September 10 at the top. No year was added, but I thought I could make out 1954 in the faded postal stamp on the envelope. That was the year my father was away so much in Guatemala City, while my mother and I remained in the hills. It was in the previous January that I spent a few days with him in the Capital, as my seven-year-old birthday treat.

He came and went in his old Buick from January to July, and in between we had watched, my mother and I, for those envelopes with Correo Aéreo in the corner. That was a joke, since they were carried close to the ground. They would start out in a truck from the Capital to the nearest repository of mail five winding miles away from our village, then be delivered in person by someone doing errands in the village pick-up, walking the last undriveable distance.

But this letter would have been just to my mother. I was not there in September. Near the end of July we had left for a month in the States, the three of us, to get medical help for my father. We left in the middle of the night. I remembered almost walking in my sleep, stumbling over the bumpy lane to the pickup truck. Someone drove us to the airport. We stayed with a couple of my father’s sisters and by the end of August I had been tucked into the boarding school in Florida, while my parents returned to Guatemala.

I didn’t dwell on that now. I’d long ago learned to circle it, like a murky pool. The point now was that I didn’t know where in the country my father would have been when he wrote and mailed this letter.

Querida, it began. Dear, darling. I scanned the first page quickly for anything that looked easily translatable. Please take care of yourself and don’t worry about me. I have what I need. No appetite anyway. In the next line, he sent his greetings to the village, and “encouragement” to F. Tell him to carry on. F, I assumed, was Felipe López. He was a leader in the village, and father to my own friend, Luis. Luis’s mother had been my “nanny” when my mother was teaching in the village school before I was old enough to attend. For the life of me I couldn’t resurrect her name now, but Felipe and Luis I had never forgotten.

I have been trying to reach TG. We need to talk. TG would be Tomás Garcia, I was quite sure, a man from Guatemala City who used to visit our village often in a green station wagon. A small person, urbane and bright-eyed, he appeared in my memory whole, presenting himself as important, as he had always seemed to be. He came bearing gifts, books and supplies for adults, and candy for all the kids in the village.

The following sentence expressed regret for how tú (my mother, that would be) had been wounded. I braked here, red alert. But, as much as you wish I would, I will never —. The word he used was a form of retractar. Recant? Change his mind? He was seeing J in a new light, he said. Who the heck was J? It could be Jesus, referred to often in our house like a favorite cousin, very much alive. But there were other J’s in our village, four Juans, as well as a guy actually named Jesus—heysooce, we pronounced it—who was known to have fathered children with more than one woman. I played with his kids, like all the others, only vaguely aware that something was a little strange.

Second page. Where do we go next? That was clear. Then lines I couldn’t decipher. He seemed to be saying that he was supposed to own no land (sin tierra, landless, a term also meaning peasants), but that he owned two pieces of land, and he loved them both and intended to keep them. He carried them on his back as if they were part of him.

That hardly made sense. And I didn’t know he owned land. I supposed it was metaphorical, ground to stand on, or ground he would hold up or defend. It was a big linguistic stretch.

Then the love sign-off in Swedish (Jag alskar dig), and Song of Solomon 4:6, and the P.S. in English.

There was something stiff about the whole letter, an awkward whisper, as if someone was listening in, not like the mail we used to get from him, full of teasing and jokes. He had hurt my mother somehow, that much was clear, or he thought he had. But it occurred to me that could be just the follow-up to an argument, the kind my parents often had, tiresome adult wrangling over some theological point, and then apologies with embarrassing affection, words that sounded “mushy” to my ears, even in Swedish.

Except that was hardly a reason for my mother to keep it, let alone hide it, and that hinted at something beyond an ordinary argument. He had done something, I felt more than ever sure, maybe as serious as shacking up with another woman, like heysooce, maybe with a village girl. He had the opportunity, no doubt, maybe the desire, how would I know? Had mixed-breed children grown up back at our village, blond, a little taller than the others? Had he refused to give up the other woman, though he still loved my mother? It was too predictable and corny. I didn’t want him to be predictable and corny.

So now what did I know? Nothing. I’d learned nothing. This mysterious, portentous fragment of my father had not told me anything I could build on, maybe nothing important at all. Reading it had not changed a thing.

It was after 1:00 A.M. I removed my shoes and lay down on the bed in my clothes, still not quite dry. Grow up, Teddy, I thought. I should get out of here, now, tomorrow, go home, back to Boston. I needed to nail down a job, move into my apartment, learn to live life without Rebecca.

But I’d told Catherine I would be looking for my father’s grave—the grave or its absence—and telling her that, telling someone, writing it, made it more than ever a real “agenda.” Surely there was someone who could help me. I could at least check on that. Tomás Garcia, for instance, the T.G. in the letter. If he was still living and available. If I was prepared to hold the conversation it would require. Whatever, I had only one week left to do it.

I found myself curled into a fetal position. Disgusted, I stretched out full length, pressing my feet against the cumbersome footboard. I was a bad fit everywhere I put my body, even in a bed.