Authors: Diane Thomas
In Wilderness
In Wilderness
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2015 by Diane Thomas
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of Random House, a division of Random House LLC, a Penguin Random House Company, New York.
B
ANTAM
B
OOKS
and the H
OUSE
colophon are registered trademarks of Random House LLC.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Counterpoint Press for permission to reprint a poem from
Axe Handles: Poems
by Gary Snyder, copyright © 2005 by Gary Snyder. Reprinted by permission of Counterpoint Press.
LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING
-
IN
-
PUBLICATION DATA
Thomas, Diane C. (Diane Coulter)
In wilderness: a novel / Diane Thomas.
pages cm
ISBN 978-0-8041-7695-8
eBook ISBN 978-0-8041-7696-5
1. Terminally ill—Fiction. 2. Solitude—Fiction. 3. Vietnam War, 1961–1975—Veterans—Fiction. 4. Squatters—Fiction. I. Title.
PS3620.H627I5 2015 813’.6—dc23 2014025351
Jacket design: David G. Stevenson
Jacket photographs: © Tomasz Pietryszek/
Getty Images (mountains), © Robert Jones/
Arcangel Images (woman)
v3.1
In the midst of life’s journey
I found myself in a dark wood
,
for the right path was lost
.
—D
ANTE
A
LIGHIERI
,
Inferno
As the crickets’ soft autumn hum
is to us
so are we to the trees
as are they
to the rocks and the hills
—G
ARY
S
NYDER
S
HE WILL REMEMBER THIS MOMENT ALL HER LIFE
,
SHE IS SURE OF IT
.
She will remember the seven men seated with her around the oval table in the agency conference room, even the four clients, whom she does not know. Will remember how the men sit in an assortment of relaxed postures, each with his paper cup of coffee in its blue plastic holder within easy reach and a wadded or refolded paper napkin and a color-matched paper plate nearby with crumbs or some larger portion of a Danish in it, and how most of the small glass ashtrays scattered on the table now contain at least one cigarette butt; will remember how the room still holds the scents of the coffee and the pastries in its smoky haze.
She will remember, too, the exact way her husband, Tim, stands at the far end of the room beside three easels, each of which displays a logo designed for the company the clients represent; will remember how Tim holds the pointer loosely in his right hand, angles it toward
the farthest of the drawings, and she knows that he is proud of all of them—because each one is good, because he can see in the clients’ faces that they know this, and because all three of the designs are hers. She will remember noting that this pride, and the necessity of hiding it before the clients, makes him nervous, which he shows in ways that only she can recognize: how he slides the toe of his brown loafer rhythmically back and forth on the plush beige carpet, sniffs at intervals.
“Any one of these will afford an exceedingly effective visual anchor to a powerful corporate campaign for 1963.…” His words, directed to the clients, soothe her and wash over her.
She will remember that this is the first day she has worn her glen plaid suit, an extravagance she felt guilty for when she bought it on sale in the fall, and that she likes the suit even more than she imagined liking it, feels pretty in it and regrets somewhat that soon she’ll have to give up wearing it for several months, despite the reason. She will remember, too, how she notices for the first time that the room’s familiar floral drapes are slightly worn and thinks perhaps she should say something to Tim about this; after all, this is his advertising agency, and as his wife it might be her responsibility to do so.
She notes all these details unconsciously, recalls them solely because they form a frame around this moment, a kind of shrine for this occurrence that has just become the intense focus of all her attention: For the first time, she has felt the baby move.
In this instant, her pregnancy has transformed itself from something she accepted from her gynecologist on faith to something real. The evidence is there: the smallest flutter in her belly. Like one strong beat from a single pair of tiny wings. Or the littlest tropical fish whipping around to swim back to the other side of its aquarium. A movement that might easily have gone unnoticed, except that it so definitely was not a thing that came from her.
Please, baby, please, please do it more. Strong little butterfly, dear little fish. She folds her hands across her belly just below the table, her belly that at four months hardly protrudes at all, belly that lets her wear her glen plaid meeting suit. Oh, please do it again.
She leans back, smiles a quiet half smile that might be interpreted as rapt attention to the meeting going on around her but is not that at all. Yes, oh, yes, it’s moved again, as if the tiny fetus has become so intimate with her it can discern her thoughts. The room around her—all she noticed of it, even the men’s voices—has receded now. She and this small being are together all alone in a vast, empty space. It’s what she wants, for all of it to go away except her and the little swimming fish inside her. So she can cry from happiness.
But it’s too late. Already, tears well in her eyes; she can feel the first one trembling on her lower lashes. She turns her head away from the men seated at the table, rises. “Gentlemen, excuse me for a moment.” Walks quickly from the conference room, the office, past the bank of elevators. To the ladies’ room, empty as usual. There she sits inside one of the stalls and lets the tears run down her face to slide over her widening smile.
By the time she returns to the conference room, the meeting has ended and Tim has left for an off-site presentation across town. She stays to put away the papers, scraps of drawing board, bottles of colored inks strewn about her modest office. Back home, she hardly has time to take off her jacket, pour two glasses of Chablis, before he bursts through the door, his face pale with worry.
“Kate, are you all right? You missed the last part of the meeting.”
She nods, still smiling; she has smiled all the remainder of the day. “The baby moved. This little flutter. I cried and had to leave the room.”
“Oh, Kate, my wonderful Kate.”
He crosses their still-unfurnished living room, wraps his arms awkwardly around her, stands there holding her. It is, she thinks, like Russian nesting dolls, the whole thing. The air and sky enfold the earth, the countryside, that itself enfolds this city she has lived in all her life, which in turn embraces their neighborhood of spreading oaks and budding daffodils; the neighborhood, its trees and flowers, holds their home—old, rambling, bought just last year because it seemed designed and built to furnish echoes for the sounds of children—and this home holds her and Tim, here in this room with all its narrow strips of wooden lath exposed for plasterers who come next week; inside
this room Tim folds her in his arms, her a warm and living bunting for their baby, the tiny, determined entity that is the solid center all the dolls enclose, the heart of everything.
The baby flutters once again and she takes Tim’s broad hand, places it against her belly, looks into his face that’s nothing but a blur through her fierce, joyous tears. And her whole body trembles from the sum of it, that sum’s enormity: That she should be here. In this universe. With everything.
And, yes, she will remember every piece of this. Forever.
The Woman
I
N ADVERTISING
,
SHE HAS LEARNED
,
YOU LIVE AND DIE BY THE
R
ULE
of Three: “Less tar, less nicotine, same great taste.”
It’s the same in life: “Third time’s the charm.” The gray-haired gastroenterologist seated across from her behind his cluttered mahogany desk is Dr. Third Opinion, her last hope, who was supposed to sally forth and save the day.