Authors: Marie Bostwick
River's Edge (17 page)
During my childhood I had been taught that working with your hands, especially menial tasks such as cleaning and cooking, were beneath me and that the performance of such jobs required no real intelligence or skill. A few weeks previously, Papa had given a sermon on the value and dignity of doing one's work, no matter how unimportant it might seem, with dedication and joy.
Papa called it “working as though unto the Lord.” A year or two before, I wouldn't have understood what he was talking about. Now I understood just what he meant and found my head bobbing up and down along with the other members in the congregation as we expressed our silent agreement with his declaration. What a remarkable change, I reflected. Perhaps I was finally growing up.
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My walk took me down past the Schoellers' farm. Mr. Schoeller was out in the field, hoeing weeds from between his precious, newly sprouted tobacco plants. Though he was a good distance from me, he paused in his work for a moment and waved to me. “Hey there, girlie! How're ya? Where ya' off to today?”
“I'm fine!” I shouted back. “I'm going down for a walk by the river. Your crop is looking good, Mr. Schoeller. Should be a good harvest this year!”
“God willin' and the creek don't rise!” he shouted back jovially, his lips split into a wide grin, revealing all this teeth, yellowed and stained from smoking. Mr. Schoeller liked to sample his own product.
“You gonna come lend a hand to bring in the crop this fall? Could sure use the help. Still say I never saw anybody take to the tobacco quick as you!”
“I'll be there!” I promised. Mr. Scholler was always kind to me, and I'd spent many an afternoon at his place, sometimes working, but often just following him around. As a consequence, I'd learned quite a bit about tobacco farming and what it took to get a crop from seed to leaf to dried and cured tobacco. It was much more of an exact science than I would ever have imagined, and, for some reason, I found the process fascinating.
Since that first year, when he had been so complimentary of my work, I had helped bring in every one of Mr. Schoeller's crops. I truly enjoyed the work, and now that I reflected upon why, it all seemed to make sense. Spearing those tobacco leaves on lathes was the first work that I'd actually been able to perform with anything approaching skill. That initial success had given me the confidence to go out and try other new things.
“Have a nice walk!” the old man shouted as he waved good-bye.
Though it was only late May, the day was warm, yet not too warm, for there was a cool, playful breeze coming out of the southwest. I passed through the Schoellers' property and onto the edge of the Jorgensen place, one of the largest and most profitable farms in the county, as evidenced by acres and acres of shade-tent framesâ expensive, ambitious investments that, if they paid off, could make a man wealthy or, if they didn't, could ruin him.
The Jorgenson fields had yet to be sown, but the unplowed furrows were well outlined by a series of unclothed tent frames. The empty tent poles stood tall, straight, and expectantâwaiting patiently for that day when tender tobacco seedlings would be set out between their rows, when their naked frames would be draped with mile upon mile of billowing linen, and they would be dressed in redeeming white and new purpose, their cracked, sun-silvered skins covered by folds of fabric.
It wouldn't be long before this field would be planted and truckloads of workers would come to roll the shades out over the tops of the frames. The whole field would become alive with the buzzing activity of dozens of hands, moving among the tents, pouring all their sweat and knowledge into the land in hopes that their sacrifice would yield a richer harvest. It might. Or it might not.
After the laborers left there was nothing to do but wait and see, because in spite of all the hard work and knowledge of men, the success of the crop was determined in the dark, secret depths of the earth, in a process that humans could observe and explain but never replicate. The farmers would do their best to coax the sprouted seed to come out of hiding by creating an inviting, tropical environment in the midst of the sharp New England climateâan incubator-world that would encourage the sprouts to grow tall and unfurl lavish, showy leaves as a sign they took pleasure in their transplanted surroundings. But no matter how well the farmers did their work, there was no guarantee of success. The growth of seeds is a mysteryâa miracle that takes place in silence and darkness.
I discarded my shoes and socks and walked barefoot through a field of soft, newly turned earth. My toes sunk deep into the luscious soil, and I breathed in the rich, loamy scent that was a mixture of things rotting and things sprouting, the smell of both death and rebirth. It was a hopeful smell; I filled my lungs with it and let it seep into every part of my being.
Reaching the crest of the hill, I paused at the spot where the land began its downward slope to the edge of the river. The sight of the waters flowing smooth and flat, gently but insistently cutting through soil and rock to form a valley, as they had been patiently doing since the beginning of time, filled me with the same sense of belonging that I'd felt when I first set eyes on them. Although I hadn't been born in this place, I was of this place, because something about this vista and the life of the river reflected my own life and journey and spoke to hidden places inside me.
I loved everything about the valley and the trees and riverâfor example, how they were never the same from one day to the next. Depending on the time of year, the river might be flat, low, and placid or high, swirling, and impatient, even to the point of spilling over its banks and flooding the valley.
The valley was always new to me. Even if I came to this exact same spot every day, it was possible to see tiny differences that had not been there the day before. If I waited a week or two between visits, those tiny differences added up to complete transformations and a whole turn of seasons. I was certain there was no place on earth as alive as this. In spite of everything, I was happy living here.
I still carried my shoes and socks, but now I stuffed the socks inside the empty shoes, tied the laces together, and draped them over my shoulder so I could run down the trail that led to the river's edge. As I jogged down the hill, wincing now and then as my bare feet found a sharp stone, I kept on, knowing that as the days of summer passed, the soles of my feet would become tougher and tougher, until they were impervious to all but the deepest of cuts.
When I reached the riverbank, I stopped for a moment to admire the way the sun glinted and bounced off the water and to notice how different the river was when seen close upânot at all the patient, silver ribbon it appeared to be from the edge of the valley, but an impetuous, swollen, selfish child of a river, made wild by the spring thaw and eager to get to some unknowable destination.
I picked up a fallen tree branch, submerged the tip of it in the river, and walked along the riverbank humming to myself. Then I sang out loud, one of the first songs Mother had taught me when I was a little girl and we took walks through the park on the banks of the Spree.
Ich weiss nicht was soll es bedeuten, dass ich so traurig bin, Ein Marchen aus alten Zeiten, das kommt mir nicht aus dem Sinn Die Ludt ist kuhl und es dunkelt, und ruhig fliesst der Rhein, Der Gipfel des Bergest funkelt im Abendsonnenscheinâ
“That's nice,” said a voice from behind me, “but what does it mean?”
I turned around and saw Junior standing there, a slight smile playing at the edge of his lips, or was it a sneer? I couldn't tell.
“I didn't know you were there,” I answered, blushing.
“I'm sorry if I startled you. Really, what does that song mean? It reminds me of one I learned in grade school.”
For a moment, I thought he was making fun of me, but his interest seemed genuine, and his voice held no trace of the sarcastic tone that I had come to recognize only too well in the years I had known him.
“It's called âThe Lorelei.' It's about a mermaid. My mother taught it to me when I was little. There is a beautiful mermaid sitting on a cliff by the sea, and when the sailor spots her he sings,
I know not the cause of my sorrow or why I should be so tormented.
An ancient story I never knew has come out of nowhere to me.
The breeze is cool as the day fades. Serenely flows the Rhine. The crest of the mountaintop sparkles in the last rays of the evening sun.
I spoke the words rather than sang them. When I finished, Junior just stood staring at me. “It doesn't translate so well into English,” I continued apologetically, “but that is more or less the idea. The mermaid's beautiful song enchants the sailor so that he doesn't see the dangers of the reef. His boat crashes against the rocks and he drowns. It really quite a sad song.”
“And very beautiful,” Junior said quietly.
I nodded and stood silent, not sure what I should say. I wanted to thank him for coming to my defense last night, but I felt terribly awkward. Junior and I had rarely been alone together, and I couldn't ever remember us having a conversation. Finally, I mustered up the courage to speak.
“Last night, you were ... well ... I just wanted to say that I'm glad you came when you did. Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
Again the awkward silence separated us. Without really stopping to consider how ungracious I would sound, I opened my mouth and said exactly what was on my mind.
“What are you doing here? I mean ... is there something you want?”
“I came down here looking for you. I know this is your special place.”
“Oh,” I replied feebly.
He took a step closer, and a smile spread across his face. For a second I wondered if he found my discomfort amusing, but then he reached into the pocket of his dungarees and fished out a string of pearls. Mother's pearls.
“You found them!” I stretched my hand out to his but didn't actually touch the necklace, not quite able to believe they were truly there.
“I found them,” he confirmed with a self-satisfied bob of his head. “They were spread all over the place! I spent an hour crawling around making sure I had them all. You can have them restrung later but for now I just put them on some fishing line. I didn't have anything else. Hope that's okay.”
“Of course!” I exclaimed. My eyes moved from the pearls to his face. I've always had a good imagination, but I simply couldn't conjure an image of Junior crawling on his hands and knees, searching through blades of grass and weeds to find something for me. I was stunned into immobility.
A shadow of concern crossed his face, and he thrust his hand forward. “Here. Take them. Is there something wrong with them?”
“No!” I answered, shaking myself from my reverie and taking the pearls from his outstretched hand. I ran a finger across the necklace, touching each ivory sphere. I shrugged helplessly. “I simply don't know what to say.”
“Well,” Junior said with a laugh, “ âthanks' would be fine.”
“I do thank you,” I said earnestly. “For so many things. I know you've never really liked me, and yet you came to my rescue last night. I don't want to think what would have happened if you hadn't come when you did, and after all that, you go to all this trouble for me!”
“It was no trouble,” he insisted.
“These were my mother'sâone of the only things I have to remember her by. When I woke up this morning and realized they were gone, I felt terrible, as though I had forgotten her or dishonored her memory by not taking better care. Last night was so ... so terrible. If I'd lost Mother's pearls, I don't think I would ever be able to forgive myself.” Impulsively, I kissed him on the cheek. A veil of color rose in his cheeks. I smiled inwardly at his discomfiture. I had never made a man blush, and, in spite of his embarrassed reaction to my kiss, Junior was a man now.
Last night, when we were getting ready to leave for the dance, I had thought his transformation might be only an illusion of maturity, that his new suit and tie were a mere disguise of manhood. Now, as he stood before me, dressed in nothing more elegant than dungarees, a blue-striped shirt, and a cardigan, he seemed more a man to me than he'd ever been. His actions and thoughtfulness had proved it.
“You're welcome,” he said. His hand moved up to his face, and his fingers briefly touched the spot where I'd kissed him. He didn't seem to know what to say next.
“I wanted to thank you last night, but I didn't see you anywhere. Miss Gaffney brought me home in her car, but when we got there you still weren't home. I guess I fell asleep before you arrived.”
“Yeah,” he said wryly, “I got to hang out awhile in Mr. Simmons' office while he âsorted things out,' as he calls it and handed out our punishments.”
This information left me aghast. “Punishments? You were a hero last night! You didn't get in trouble, did you?”
“Yup. Mark and I both got a month's detention for fighting.”
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