Sympathy Between Humans Part 27

"I don't know," I said. "Well, I do, but it's a long story. A long, boring story."

I must have made it sound sufficiently boring, because Marlinchen didn't pursue it any further. After a few more minutes, by some silent agreement, we rose and headed up toward the house.

Much later, after the kids had gone to sleep and the house had quieted, I stood at Hugh Hennessy's high window and looked down. I was still thinking about Marlinchen's sketchy tale of lightning striking the house and Aidan's inability to remember any such event.

Catholic by bloodline only, I had no religious training, but as a child I'd been haunted by something that the other kids had taken from their Sunday school teachings: that the world had been perfect, and then sin had entered it in a bolt of lightning. It was a metaphor, but for years I'd believed it literally.

Now I saw the Hennessy family in the same terms, unexpectedly and swiftly cursed. They'd been this Edenic little family, then lightning struck the house, then Aidan lost his finger to a brutal dog, then Elisabeth Hennessy drowned in the waters of the lake. Was it all simply bad luck?

Soon Marlinchen would be 18 and the guardian of her younger siblings, and my responsibilities here would be over. The best thing would be for me to ignore my feeling that something had gone very wrong with this family long before I was part of their lives. But I wasn't sure I could.

Marlinchen had asked me tonight why I chose to become a cop. She was right; it wasn't something I had drifted into. It was something I had chosen, part of what Genevieve called my headfirst impulse to help people.

Just before I slept that night, I heard the cry of a barred owl out over the lake. It sounded very like a human scream.

When I left Minnesota at 18, to claim a basketball scholars.h.i.+p at UNLV, I hadn't seen a future as a cop ahead of me. I wasn't looking too far ahead: just to more basketball and more schooling, in that order of importance. One thing I did feel fairly sure of was that I wouldn't live in Minnesota again. I'd grown up in New Mexico and thought myself a Westerner; going to school in Las Vegas was like going home, I'd told myself. to claim a basketball scholars.h.i.+p at UNLV, I hadn't seen a future as a cop ahead of me. I wasn't looking too far ahead: just to more basketball and more schooling, in that order of importance. One thing I did feel fairly sure of was that I wouldn't live in Minnesota again. I'd grown up in New Mexico and thought myself a Westerner; going to school in Las Vegas was like going home, I'd told myself.

It wasn't. Vegas was sprawling and vivid and exciting, all in ways that couldn't involve an 18-year-old with little money and no car, who knew no one. Nor, that year, did I see much time in basketball games. I'd expected that, but still it made me restless. I went to my cla.s.ses, trying and failing to be interested in the general-education, Western-civilization courses that make up a freshman's schedule. I didn't feel like a student. I didn't feel like an athlete. I didn't have any sense of a life coming together.

That was when I realized something I hadn't planned on: I was homesick for the Range. The s.h.i.+vering birches and white pines, the green gra.s.s and mine-scarred red dirt, the pit lakes as blue-green as semiprecious stones: somehow, when I hadn't been paying attention, it had gotten into my blood.

When my aunt Ginny had her stroke and died, that summer, it destabilized me more than I realized at the time. In the fall I went back to school as normal, but nothing there made sense to me anymore. Within two weeks of the start of instruction, I wrote a letter to the coach and caught a Greyhound back to Minnesota, earnings from my summer job rolled up as traveler's checks in my duffel bag. I didn't know what I needed so badly, but somehow I was certain it lay back in Minnesota.

Drinking a cold, sweet Pepsi in a coffee shop across from the bus station in Duluth, I scanned the want ads. A taconite-mining company based in a small town was looking for a cleaning-and-maintenance trainee in their shop; it was one of the few entry-level positions in that kind of operation. On the opposite page from the job ads were "housing to share" listings.

The three-bedroom house I moved into was already occupied by two women in their mid-twenties. Erin and Cheryl Anne were a nurse and a medical receptionist, respectively, and close friends. They'd lived in the rented house for over a year, losing their previous roommate to "marriage and real life," Cheryl Anne said. They were cordial and pleasant to me, and I to them, from the start.

That's where we got stuck, at cordiality. The pa.s.sage of time and the fact that I paid a third of the rent did nothing to lessen the feeling that I'd moved into their long-established home. Sometimes, when the TV's blue light flickered over the living room, I joined them, but we rarely spoke. I never turned on the TV set on the occasions that I was home alone. So, at the end of my first days on the job, hot Indian-summer days of late September, I'd walk down to the small and thinly stocked city library, to check out paperback thrillers.

When I think about those days, that's what I remember, the simplicity of it. Shopping for food not in the grocery store but in the drugstore, where the center aisle was full of cheap nonperishables: soft French bread so full of preservatives that it lasted for weeks, strawberry jam, 99-cent spaghetti and macaroni that stuck together no matter how carefully it was prepared. Evenings on the porch, drinking store-brand cola with ice cubes that tasted like the freezer, the last of the day's light dwindling in the west.

"What are you doing up there, Sadie?" my father asked, over the long-distance wires. "Your aunt is gone, you've got no family there anymore." you doing up there, Sadie?" my father asked, over the long-distance wires. "Your aunt is gone, you've got no family there anymore."

"I have friends here," I said. "I have a job."

The job part was true, of course, but I had nothing that rose beyond friendly acquaintances.h.i.+ps so far.

"I just don't understand it. You up and quit school for no reason that I can see, go live in a little town that isn't even where you grew up," he said. "You're not even taking night cla.s.ses, are you?"

"No," I said.

"Why would you want to live up there, in the middle of nowhere?"

"It was good enough-" I started to say, then caught myself.

"Good enough for me to send you there when you were 13?" he said, finis.h.i.+ng my thought. "Is that what this is all about? You're angry?"

"No," I said, "no, I'm not. Look..." I twisted the phone cord around my thumb. "I'm just trying to have a life. To make a life, that's all."

In the silence that followed I could almost hear him think that it wasn't much of a life, an industrial job and a rented room, but he couldn't say any more. I was 19, an adult.

"What about Christmas?" he asked. "Wouldn't you like to come home then?"

New Mexico at Christmastime. Light glowing from the farolitos farolitos- sand-weighted brown paper bags with candles in them- and the sopaipillas and rich mole sauce of a traditional Noche Buena Noche Buena feast on Christmas Eve... feast on Christmas Eve...

"Is Buddy coming home at Christmas, too?" I asked.

"Yes," my father said. "He's got a week of leave."

I put another twist in the phone cord. "I can't come," I said.

"Why not? Surely you're not working?"

"The mine runs 365 days a year," I said. "It costs too much for them to shut the equipment down and then start it back up. And I was the most recent person hired. It's too early for me to ask for Christmas off."

I wanted him to believe it, but he wasn't stupid. "I haven't had you and your brother under the same roof for years," my father said. "Why is that, Sadie?" The bafflement in his voice seemed, for all the world, to be genuine.

My thumb was turning red from having the phone cord wrapped so tightly around it. You know why. I tried to tell you, and you wouldn't listen. You know why. I tried to tell you, and you wouldn't listen.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I just can't come."

January came, and with it the coldest weather of all. Night came so early that I walked home from work in darkness, and it was too cold and icy to go out after dinner. My chief entertainment became the paperback novels I checked out, several weeks' worth at a time, from the library on Sat.u.r.day afternoon. and with it the coldest weather of all. Night came so early that I walked home from work in darkness, and it was too cold and icy to go out after dinner. My chief entertainment became the paperback novels I checked out, several weeks' worth at a time, from the library on Sat.u.r.day afternoon.

I should have realized something was wrong with my life when I strayed into the wrong section of the library, found a paperback of Oth.e.l.lo, Oth.e.l.lo, and immediately wanted to check it out. and immediately wanted to check it out.

After leaving school, I'd believed I'd never torture myself with anything an English teacher would approve of ever again. But then, standing amid the faint attic scent and educational posters of the public library, I felt a thrill of pleasure and nostalgia, remembering Oth.e.l.lo Oth.e.l.lo as being the only Shakespeare I'd really liked. Something about the world Oth.e.l.lo, Iago, and Ca.s.sio lived in, that world of martial duty and sometimes perverted honor, had spoken to me. At home on those coldest of nights, I read and reread as being the only Shakespeare I'd really liked. Something about the world Oth.e.l.lo, Iago, and Ca.s.sio lived in, that world of martial duty and sometimes perverted honor, had spoken to me. At home on those coldest of nights, I read and reread Oth.e.l.lo. Oth.e.l.lo. The library had to send two overdue notices before I returned it. The library had to send two overdue notices before I returned it.

If this were a movie, Oth.e.l.lo Oth.e.l.lo would have changed my life. I would have moved on to other Shakespeare plays, loved them too, and finally enrolled in community college. But it didn't work out that way. After would have changed my life. I would have moved on to other Shakespeare plays, loved them too, and finally enrolled in community college. But it didn't work out that way. After Oth.e.l.lo, Oth.e.l.lo, I went back to the pulp novels I'd preferred before. I went back to the pulp novels I'd preferred before.

And then, in the spring, I found something else I liked to do.

In the maintenance shop, I worked with an Armenian-American girl, thick-waisted, dark-haired, pleasant-looking, easy to talk to. Her name was Silva, and she seemed to live for one thing: the dance at the VFW hall every Sat.u.r.day night. shop, I worked with an Armenian-American girl, thick-waisted, dark-haired, pleasant-looking, easy to talk to. Her name was Silva, and she seemed to live for one thing: the dance at the VFW hall every Sat.u.r.day night.

"You should come," Silva said more than once, but I'd been noncommittal. Dances at the VFW hall sounded too much like bingo or pie suppers at a church to me, but one March night, I decided there was no harm in checking it out.

At nine-thirty, the scene at the VFW hall was surprisingly animated; people spilled out onto the steps along with light and music from inside. The high spirits of the crowd surprised me, but it didn't take long to learn the secret.

Technically, these dances were dry, meaning no alcohol was served. But, as is painfully typical of small-town life, the majority of the young people inside the hall were in some stage of intoxication. Bottles were pa.s.sed around in the shadows of the parking lot, and if you weren't lucky enough to know someone who'd brought a bottle, there was Brent, a local entrepreneur who parked his Buick LeSabre near the VFW hall and sold liquor from the trunk. Ill at ease, and feeling like an outsider, I quickly sought him out.

Alcohol hadn't been a part of my life since a few girls' nights out at UNLV. The single shot of whiskey hit me hard. Pleasurably hard. Not long after, a young man I didn't know asked me to dance, and I said yes. Silva, flushed with exertion and pleasure, brushed by and winked at me. I felt the world beginning to drift away, just a little. I liked it. Up until that moment, I hadn't realized how depriving and monastic an existence I'd created for myself. It was like a burden that I was only now letting slip from my shoulders.

That week I'd gotten my first pay adjustment, the one that marked the end of my initial six-month period at the mine. I felt newly rich, and in my current state of elation, I realized something: if making the world recede a little was pleasant, there was no reason not to make it recede even more. A lot lot more. more.

"Morning, Sarah. You want a ride?" You want a ride?"

A bright Monday morning in early May. Kenny Olson had pulled up alongside me in his big Ford pickup truck, about a half mile from work. I clutched my purse closer to my ribs and ran around to the pa.s.senger side.

Kenny was one of the mine's security officers. Security mostly meant he kept hunters off company land, and chased away kids who came to cliff-jump and swim in the pit lakes. He was as good-natured as anyone I'd ever met, virtually never calling the police on trespa.s.sers, but merely sending them on their way. In addition to his security job, he was an every-other-weekend citizen jailer for the Sheriff's Department. When he wasn't doing that, he was hunting and fis.h.i.+ng. Somehow, he and I had become friendly across the three-decade-plus divide between us.

"Thanks," I said, scrambling in. "Aren't you supposed to be at work already?" Kenny usually came on at the same time as the first s.h.i.+ft of miners, the 7-to-3. Support staff, like me, came in an hour later, at eight.

"I told 'em I'd be late. Took Lorna to the doctor."

"She's not sick, I hope?" I said.

"Oh no. The ear doctor. She's getting a hearing aid," Kenny said, swinging wide through an intersection. "Now she'll be able to hear all the stupid things I say. She's gonna lose all respect for me."

I laughed. "That'll never happen." I set my bag between my feet. "Hey, I've started saving up for a car."

"You told me something like that," Kenny said.

"Really?" I said, puzzled. "When?"

We bounced over the entry to the employee lot, the bad shock absorbers on Kenny's truck intensifying the b.u.mp. Kenny didn't say anything as he steered the truck into a s.p.a.ce at the end of a row. He didn't answer my question, and I thought maybe Kenny needed hearing aids of his own, although he'd never seemed to have a problem before.

He pulled the automatic-transmission lever over to park and killed the ignition, then turned to me. "You don't remember being in my truck this weekend, do you?" he said.

I opened my mouth and closed it again. Memory flashed, but only dimly. I'd been dancing Sat.u.r.day night, as usual. I'd gotten a ride home from friends. Hadn't I?

"That's when you told me about wanting to buy a car. I didn't know if you were serious. You were saying a lot of things. You were drunk."

I looked around the cab. "I didn't throw up in here, did I?" It was the only reason I could imagine for the disapproval in Kenny's pale-blue gaze.

"No," he said. "But you were staggering when I saw you walking. You were drunk out of your head."

"I had a little too much," I said. "It happens."

"I saw a girl once, died right on her porch, key in her hand. She was too drunk to get it in the lock. Laid down to sleep it off in ten-degree weather. I had to tell her parents," Kenny said.

"I can take care of myself," I said. "We're into spring, anyway."

Kenny watched Silva cross the parking lot. "This isn't much of a job for you, you know," he said. "Do you ever think about the future?"

"Actually, I do," I told him. "I might want to work in the field." The field The field was where the real mining was done, where miners ran shovels and drove production trucks so large their tires were taller than I was. was where the real mining was done, where miners ran shovels and drove production trucks so large their tires were taller than I was.

"You want to work in the field," Kenny repeated, his voice skeptical.

"Women can be miners," I said.

Kenny shook his head. "That's not what I mean. This isn't about women's lib, Sarah. Don't pretend that it is."

"Someone's got to do that kind of work," I said. "The money's a lot better than what I'm doing now."

He sighed.

"Don't worry about me, okay?" I said. I pulled the strap of my purse back up over my shoulder. "I've got to go in."

In early June, a freak storm dumped five inches on us in the middle of the day. A Thursday, with the weekend coming on. The fresh snow occasioned an impromptu s...o...b..ll fight among those of us on the 8-to-4 s.h.i.+ft. I hit a rangy young mechanic, Wayne, square in the face. He caught me and put a handful of snow down the back of my s.h.i.+rt. Screaming, I yelled to Silva to help me, but she was laughing too hard. a freak storm dumped five inches on us in the middle of the day. A Thursday, with the weekend coming on. The fresh snow occasioned an impromptu s...o...b..ll fight among those of us on the 8-to-4 s.h.i.+ft. I hit a rangy young mechanic, Wayne, square in the face. He caught me and put a handful of snow down the back of my s.h.i.+rt. Screaming, I yelled to Silva to help me, but she was laughing too hard.

On Monday morning, Silva was in a more sober mood.

"What's wrong?" I said, when she didn't respond to my attempts at light conversation.

"Aren't you worried about Wayne?" she asked.

Wayne. I'd danced with him Sat.u.r.day night, I remembered. More than one dance. After that, my memories jumped ahead to Sunday morning. Cheryl Anne had come into my room, angry. Someone Someone had knocked her hair dryer from its hook on the wall into the toilet bowl last night; did I have any idea how that might have happened or why had knocked her hair dryer from its hook on the wall into the toilet bowl last night; did I have any idea how that might have happened or why someone someone just left it there? just left it there?

"What about Wayne?" I asked Silva.

"You don't remember?" she asked.

That was fast becoming my least favorite question.

"You broke his nose," Silva said.

I shook my head, stricken. "No way," I told her, but already I was uncertain of my own words.

"He's saying a guy did it, and his friends are backing him up, because he's embarra.s.sed that a girl did that to him. But it's all over that you did it. They say he was. .h.i.tting on you pretty hard all night. You don't remember any of that?"

My hand rose to my upper arm. I had a bruise there, since Sat.u.r.day night. I'd written it off as the result of stumbling into something, perhaps in my encounter with the bathroom wall and the hair dryer. Now I realized it was the right shape for fingers, squeezing hard. Wayne's grip. I heard a young man's voice hiss in my ear. Rigid, Rigid, he was saying. No. he was saying. No. Frigid. Frigid. The general shape of events was beginning to re-form in my mind. The general shape of events was beginning to re-form in my mind.

"Maybe," I began defensively, "if he'd listened when I said-"

"You don't even remember how it happened," Silva said, cutting me off. "You don't know what you said or what he said."

She was right. She saw through me. But in the moment, her voice reminded me of Cheryl Anne.

Prissy b.i.t.c.h, I thought, and looked away, leaning down to yank the laces of my boots tighter and knot them. I thought, and looked away, leaning down to yank the laces of my boots tighter and knot them.

Wayne never confronted me about the incident, and his lack of righteous anger confirmed my suspicion that he bore at least some of the guilt for what happened that night. Still, I decided to cut back on my drinking. confronted me about the incident, and his lack of righteous anger confirmed my suspicion that he bore at least some of the guilt for what happened that night. Still, I decided to cut back on my drinking.

That resolution lasted a few weeks. Not long enough.