Nathaniel

CHAPTER THREE

Though she went to bed early that night, Janet Hall did not go to sleep. She sat up, staring out over the moonlit prairie, her robe drawn tightly around her as if it could protect her from her own thoughts. For a while she tried to concentrate on the stars, laboriously picking out constellations she hadn't seen so clearly since her childhood, but then, as the night wore on, her thoughts bore in on her.

It wasn't just his sister Mark had never mentioned.

There was a farm, too.

All along, there had been a farm.

Painfully, she made herself remember all the talks they'd had, she and Mark, all the nights-nights like this-when they'd sat up talking about the future.

For Janet, the future had always held a farm.

Nothing concrete, nothing real. For Janet, the farm of her dream was something from a child's picture book-a small place, somewhere in New England, with a whitewashed clapboard house, a bright red barn with white trim, an immaculate barnyard populated with hens and tiny fuzzy chicks, the whole thing neatly fenced off with white post-and-rail. There would be stone walls, of course, old stone walls meandering through the pastures, but the borders, the limits of her world, would be edged in white. And there they would live, their small family, released at last from the congestion of the city, their senses no longer dunned by the smells of garbage and exhaust, the sounds of jackhammers and blasting horns, but expanding to the aroma of fresh-mown hay and the crowing of roosters at dawn.

All idyllic, all a dream, and all of it, always, gently derided by Mark. All the reasons why it was impossible, all the excuses that they continually debated: They were city people, though they both had been born in the country, and New Yorkers by choice, Mark would insist; choices could still be made, Janet would counter. Mark was a teacher, not a farmer; there were colleges in New England, everywhere you looked-he could still teach, and they could hire someone to run the farm. Michael was happy in his school, Mark would point out; children change schools all the time, and there's no proof, Janet would argue, that city schools are better than small-town schools.

In the end, however, it had always come down to the one argument for which Janet had no answer.

They couldn't afford a farm, couldn't manage to save enough even for a half-acre in the suburbs, let alone a farm.

Now, Janet realized that it had all been a lie. From the day they were married, the lie had been between them, and she had never felt it, never faintly suspected it. There had even been times when Mark had seemed to join in her dream.

They had been in Millbrook, and they had come around a curve in the road, and there, spread out before them, was Janet's dream. It had been Mark who had noticed it first; Janet had been studying a map, trying to match the route numbers to the street names that seemed to be posted only every five miles and then changed with every village they passed through. Suddenly Mark had stopped the car and said, "Well, there it is, and even I have to admit that it's pretty." She'd looked up, and across a pasture that sloped gently away from the highway, she had seen her farm- white clapboard house, red barn, white post-and-rail fence, even a stream, dammed to form a millpond. And it was for sale.

They'd talked about it all weekend, even going so far as to investigate the possibility of Mark's finding a job in Poughkeepsie. But in the end, on Sunday night as they drove south on the Taconic Parkway, they'd faced reality.

They had no money, and they couldn't buy the farm without money.

But it had been a lie. And Mark had known it was a lie.

What else was there? How much had this stranger with whom she had spent thirteen years of her life kept hidden from.her? What else would she find as the days went by and she learned more about the man she had married?

Anna. Had Mark known his mother was confined to a wheelchair? It seemed impossible that he hadn't, and yet it seemed equally impossible that he had never said anything to her about it. But he hadn't.

When Janet had asked her mother-in-law about it just before coming upstairs that night, Anna had only shrugged, a look of philosophical resignation in her eyes. "I suppose he must have known," she'd said. "It happened after he went away, but I think Laura must have told him about it."

"But he never heard from Laura," Janet had protested. "He never even talked about her. Until yesterday, I didn't even know Mark had a sister."

Anna's eyes had flickered with pain for a moment. "You have to understand," she'd finally said. "There were some things Mark just wanted to shut out of his mind. He always did that, even when he was little. I remember he had a puppy once-a little black shepherd- but it got sick, and Amos had to put it down. Afterward, I tried to talk to Mark about it, but he wouldn't admit the puppy'd ever even existed. Just shut it out completely." She sighed, weariness spreading across her features. "I suppose that's what he did when he left Prairie Bend. Shut us out, just like that dog."

"But why? Why did he leave?"

And for that, there had been no answer. "It doesn't matter anymore," was all Anna would say. "It's all in the past. There's no use dredging it up now. It would only cause pain." She'd looked beseechingly at Janet. "I've had enough pain, dear. Can't we leave this alone?" Then she'd held out her arms, and Janet, her throat constricting with feeling, had leaned down, clumsily embracing this fragile woman she hardly knew.

As she sat in the darkness that night, trying to concentrate on the stars, Janet felt the props of her life slipping away from her, felt the rock of trust she'd always had in Mark dissolving into sand. Already, it was slipping through her fingers, leaving her with nothing to cling to.

By the time the horizon edged silvery-gray with dawn and she drifted into an uneasy sleep, Janet's grief over the death of her husband had begun to change into something else. An odd fear had begun to pervade her, a fear of what else she might discover about Mark, what other secrets might have lain hidden from her during all the years of her marriage.

When she awoke several hours later, she could feel a difference in herself. It was as if uncertainty had gathered around her, crippling her. She lay still for a long time, unable to make up her mind to get up, unsure whether she could face the day.

She closed her eyes for a few moments, and suddenly she saw an image of Mark's face, but his features were slightly blurred, and there was something in his eyes-a secretiveness-that she'd never seen before. And then the image changed, hardened and sharpened into the visage of Amos.

His eyes were clear, his features strong. And he was smiling at her, offering her the strength she could no longer get from Mark or find within herself.

She rose from her bed and went to the window. Below her, in the barnyard, she watched Michael feeding the chickens. A moment later Amos emerged from the barn, and as if feeling her gaze, looked up; she waved to him; he waved back to her.

And then the nausea hit her. Turning away from the window, she hurried to the bathroom, threw up in the toilet, and waited for the sickness to pass.

What's going to happen to us ? she wondered a few minutes later as she began dressing. What's going to happen to us now?

Ryan Shields pedaled furiously through the village, then east on the highway toward his grandparents' farm. He didn't slow down until he'd made the turn into the driveway, but by the time he got to the front yard, he was coasting, his feet dragging in the dust as makeshift brakes. He came to a dead stop, expertly dropped the kickstand with one toe, then balanced on the leaning bike, his arms crossed, only his slouching posture preventing the bike from tipping over. It was a technique he'd learned only a month ago, and it had quickly become his favorite pose. He cocked his head, squinting in the brightness of the sun, peering at the house. "Hey! Anybody home?"

A moment later the front door opened, and Michael came out on the porch. "Hi."

"Hi. Whatcha doin'?"

"Nothing. Everybody's gone into town to Dr. Potter's."

Ryan swung his leg over the handlebar, and stepped off the bike, which promptly fell over into the dust of the driveway. "Shit." He picked up the bike, carefully balanced it on the kickstand, then mounted the steps to the porch. "Is your mom still sick?"

Michael shrugged. "I don't know. I guess not. Anyway, it didn't seem like it this morning, and she was okay last night." Then he frowned. "How come you're not in school?"

"School's out."

"At home, we don't get out for another three weeks."

"We always get out early here. Most of the kids have to help their dads with planting. Can I come in?"

Michael's expression became guarded. "There's nobody home."

"You're home."

"But I'm not supposed to let anybody in the house when I'm by myself."

Ryan stared at him in disbelief. "Why not?"

" 'Cause you never know who might come to the door. There's all kinds of crazies in the city. What can you do?"

"Well, I'm not crazy, and this is my grandparents' house, and I can come in if I want to." Then, seeing Michael suddenly tense, he grinned. "Stop worrying. Grandma and Grandpa won't care, and it's their house, not yours. I come out here all the time." He brushed past Michael and went inside, then called back over his shoulder, "You want a Coke?"

Michael hesitated a moment, then decided that Ryan was right. This wasn't New York, and Ryan was his cousin. "There aren't any," he said, following Ryan inside and letting the screen door slam behind him. "I already looked."

"Where'd you look?"

"In the 'fridge."

"Grandma keeps them in the laundry room. Come on."

A moment later, each of them armed with a warm Coke, they wandered out into the backyard. "Hey, have you been down to the river yet?"

Michael shook his head. "I haven't been anywhere."

"Well, come on," Ryan told him. "The river's the best part of Prairie Bend." With Michael following him, Ryan headed around behind the barn, then across the pasture toward the strip of cottonwoods that bordered the river. Five minutes later, the two of them stepped out of the sunshine into the deep shade of the trees. In contrast to the openness of the prairie the woods were choked with underbrush. The canopied branches overhead created a closed-in feeling that made Michael shiver.

"Where's the river?" he asked.

"Down the trail. Come on."

A couple of minutes later the path made a sharp right, then opened out onto the river. Here the bank was low, and Ryan scrambled down onto the beach that separated the woods from the water. "You should have seen it last month. It was full, and the whole beach was covered. Right here, the water must have been six feet deep."

"How deep is it now?" Michael asked. They'd crossed the beach and stood at the water's edge. The river was moving lazily, the current only rippling the surface near the far bank, but it was murky, its waters stained by the silt it carried.

"Only a couple feet on this side. You could wade almost all the way across, but it gets deep over by the other bank."

"Can we go swimming?" Michael asked.

Ryan looked doubtful. "I don't know. It's still kind of early, and the water's pretty cold."

"Aw, come on," Michael urged. "You said it was shallow."

But Ryan still hesitated. "Nobody ever goes in this early. It's too dangerous. You can't see where the holes are, and the current can grab you."

Michael stared out at the river. "You chicken?" he finally asked.

That did it. Ryan scowled at his cousin. "There's a swimming hole down near the bend. Come on."

They started downstream and in a few minutes came to the point where the river began the first of the curves that would take it around the village. Here, the spring floods had eroded the bank, creating an inlet where the water seemed almost still. A huge cottonwood stood by the inlet, its roots half exposed, one enormous limb reaching out over the water. From that branch, a rope hung, an old tire tied to its free end. Michael knew immediately what it was for.

"How do you get to it?"

"You have to climb the tree, then go down the rope."

Ryan explained. "Once you're on it, you get it swinging, then dive off it."

"You wanna go first?"

Ryan stared at him. "Are you crazy? Nobody's been in swimming yet. There could be rocks in there, and it's cold, and you don't know how deep it is. None of the kids go off the tire until someone's been down there to make sure it's safe."

"What could happen?" Michael asked.

"You could break your neck, that's what," Ryan replied.

"Bullshit."

"Bullshit, nothin'! It's happened."

"Well, it won't happen to me," Michael said. He set his half-drunk Coke down and started stripping off his clothes. A moment later, naked, he scrambled up the cottonwood and began making his way out onto the limb that overhung the swimming hole. From the shore, Ryan watched him anxiously.

"Don't start down the rope 'till you check it out. It might be rotten."

Michael nodded. A few seconds later he came to the rope, and straddling the branch, grasped the loop with both hands. He gave it an experimental tug and, when it held, began pulling harder. Satisfied that it wouldn't break, he reached down and took hold of the hanging section. Finally he rolled off the trunk, and began letting himself down the rope until his feet touched the tire. When he was standing on the tire, he grinned at Ryan, then began slowly pumping to get the tire swinging.

"You're supposed to sit on the tire," Ryan yelled.

Michael ignored him. The makeshift swing began to move, with Michael maneuvering it so that soon it was arcing back and forth, over the bank on the backswing, and out over the center of the swimming hole on the forward swing. When he had it going as high as he could, he crouched on top of the tire, waited for the crest of the forward swing, then released his grasp on the rope and sprang away from the tire, flipping himself into a back dive. Just before he hit the water he took a deep breath, and listened with satisfaction to the scream that had burst out of Ryan. Then he plunged into the icy water.

From the shore, Ryan stared at the spot where Michael had disappeared into the murk, unconsciously holding his breath and counting the seconds. Time seemed to stand still as he waited for his cousin's head to reappear.

Ten seconds went by, then fifteen.

Twenty seconds.

Thirty.

His breath bursting out of his lungs, Ryan began to panic. Should he jump in after Michael, or run for help? But run where? No one was home at his grandparents', and the village was too far away.

"Help! Somebody help us!"

And then, just as he was about to jump into the dark water, the surface broke, and Michael's grinning face appeared. With three strong strokes, he made it to the shore and scrambled out.

"It's neat!" he cried. "You want to try it?"

Ryan ignored the question. "What the hell are you doing? I thought you'd hit a rock!"

"I coulda stayed under for a whole minute," Michael said, flopping down on the ground. He was barely even panting, and his eyes were sparkling. "Did I scare you?"

Ryan glared down at his cousin and again ignored the question. "You coulda gotten killed."

"I scared you, didn't I?"

Ryan finally nodded his head. "So what?"

"Betcha thought I wouldn't do it."

Ryan shrugged elaborately. "So you did it. What's that prove, except that you're stupid?"

"It wasn't stupid-it was fun. Go on-try it!"

But instead of peeling off his clothes, Ryan only sat down and reached for his Coke. "I'm not gonna try it, and if you want to think I'm chicken, go ahead. There's rocks down there. You were just lucky you didn't hit one."

Michael took a sip of his Coke and thought about it. He'd known there were rocks beneath the surface-at least, Ryan had told him so, and he hadn't thought Ryan was lying. And yet, while he'd been swinging on the rope, he hadn't felt frightened. He'd felt excited, and knowing he was taking a risk was part of the excitement. But he hadn't really thought about getting hurt. Or had he? He tried to remember, but couldn't. All he could remember was the thrill of swinging out over the river, then letting go and plunging toward the cold water, not knowing exactly what was under the surface.

Suddenly a vision of his father came into his mind, plunging through the air, then slowing as his chute opened. Always, the chute had opened. But what if it hadn't?

Was that what his father had loved about skydiving? The risk? Knowing that each time he tried it, the parachute might not open? And yet, even as he'd dived, Michael had known nothing was going to happen to him. He'd known it. But how?

He began pulling his clothes back on, and a few minutes later the two boys started back toward their grandparents' house. It wasn't until they'd emerged from the woods and started across the pasture, though, that Michael finally spoke.

"I wasn't going to hurt myself."

Ryan glanced at him, but kept walking. "How do you know?"

Michael shrugged. "I just know."

Now Ryan came to a halt and stared at Michael. "What are you, some kind of nut?"

"N-no," Michael stammered. "But when I dove, I knew I was going to be all right. I just knew it." Unconsciously, his hand went up and rubbed the back of his neck, and Ryan suddenly grinned.

"If you didn't get hurt, how come you're rubbing your neck?"

Michael dropped his hand to his side. "It's not my neck. I just have a headache, that's all."

"Yeah," Ryan agreed, his voice mocking now. "Just a headache. You did hit a rock, didn't you. Lemme see your head."

Bending, Michael let his cousin examine the back of his head. "Is there a cut?" he asked, his voice half curious, half challenging.

"Unh-unh. Is it sore?"

"Not like I hit it. It's just a headache." Suddenly he frowned, wrinkling his nose. There was a strange odor, as if something was burning. "What's that stink?"

"Stink? What stink?" Ryan sniffed at the air, then shook his head. "I don't smell anything."

"It's like something's on fire." He scanned the horizon, sure he would see a plume of smoke nearby, but there was nothing. He turned back to Ryan. "Don't you smell it?"

Ryan scowled. "I don't smell anything, 'cause there's nothing to smell. What are you, some kind of nut?" he said again.

A flash of pain shot through Michael's head. "Don't you call me crazy," he flared.

Ryan's expression darkened. "I'll call you whatever I want to! What are you gonna do about it?"

Michael stood still, sudden fury toward his cousin mounting inside him as his head throbbed with pain. "Drop dead," he heard himself whisper. "Why don't you just drop dead?"

Ryan's eyes began to dance, and the beginnings of a grin spread over his face. But then, as Michael glared at him, the grin faded, and the color drained from Ryan's face as his hands clutched at his stomach. He began backing away from Michael, then turned and began running across the field.

A moment later Michael was alone, and his headache began to ease. As he started walking back toward his grandparents' house, he tried to figure out what had happened. But no matter how hard he thought about it, it still didn't make sense. All he'd done had been to tell his cousin to drop dead. Everybody did that, and everybody knew it was only words. And yet, for a few seconds, it had almost looked like Ryan really was going to drop dead.

But they were only words, and they weren't even his words. They'd just sort of tumbled out of his mouth, almost as if someone else had spoken them.

But there was no one else…

Janet emerged from Dr. Potter's small consultation room into the parlor that served as reception area during the day and Potter's living room at night. Amos Hall rose from his position on the Victorian sofa that stood in the bay window, but Anna remained still in her chair, her hands folded in her lap, her posture expressing a calmness that her anxious eyes belied. "Well?" she asked.

Janet's mouth curved into an uncertain smile. Now or never. She had to tell them, and through a sleepless night she had decided that the examination would provide the perfect moment. "Well, I'm pregnant," she said.

A sigh emerged from the older woman, and she slumped in her chair. "So," she said at last, her eyes shifting away from Janet to glance warily at her husband. "I suppose that's some kind of blessing, isn't it?" she said.

"I don't know," Janet replied, too involved in her own emotions to notice her mother-in-law's reaction to the news. "I'm afraid I'm going to have to do some thinking about it."

"Thinking?" Amos Hall strode across the room and took Janet's coat from a hook, holding it for her as she slid her arms into its sleeves. "What's there to think about?"

Janet swallowed, wondering if she should tell them that her first thought on having the pregnancy confirmed was that she should have an abortion as soon as possible. She had known she was pregnant for several weeks and had kept her suspicions to herself, hesitating even to tell Mark. There had been no real notion in her mind then that she would not have the baby-she loved Mark too much to deny him a second child, despite the upheavals it might cause in their lives. After all, Michael was already nearly twelve-almost a teenager-and their small family was settled, comfortable. But now Mark was dead. Everything had changed.

"I'm not at all sure I should have it," she said in a carefully neutral voice. "I'm not as young as I could be-"

"Not have it?" Anna cried. "Not have Mark's baby? Oh, Janet, you can't be serious. Why, that would be- well, to start with, it would be murder!"

"Now, Mama, don't get yourself worked up," Amos Hall cautioned his wife, though his eyes never left Janet. "Things have changed. Not everyone thinks the way you and I do anymore."

"If the baby's healthy, it has a right to live," Anna declared, her eyes flashing with anger. Then, softening a little, she turned to Janet. "I'm not an old-fashioned woman, dear, whatever Amos says. I can certainly see that there might be circumstances where it could be better for a baby not to be born." She eyed Janet's midsection critically, its slight swelling apparent to her now. "Besides, it's too late, isn't it?"

"Almost," Janet conceded. "But what about my feelings? Don't my feelings count?" she added, then wished she hadn't.

"Your feelings?" Anna asked. "What do you mean? Do you mean you don't want the baby?"

Janet shook her head. "That's not it at all, Anna. It just seems like-" She stopped short, suddenly realizing she didn't have the slightest idea of how she felt about anything. All she felt was confused. If only she could talk to Mark… But she couldn't, not ever again. And, she remembered with a shudder, the Mark she had thought she'd known was a different man from the one she was discovering since she'd arrived in Prairie Bend. She appealed to Amos. "Would you mind if I walked home?" she asked. "I really think I need to walk a bit. I need to get used to things. There's so much to sort out."

Amos frowned. "Are you sure? I'm not sure how much exercise-"

Janet put up a protesting hand, and made herself smile with a confidence she wasn't feeling. "Times have changed, Amos. And I really do need to be by myself, just for a little while." Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and stepped out of Dr. Potter's office into the bright noontime sun. She glanced around, orienting herself, and then set out for the center of the village.

Prairie Bend, she realized, was truly no more than a village, and it seemed, as she walked the single block from Potter's house to the main street, oddly familiar. It wasn't until she'd walked a bit further, though, that she realized just what it was about the town that she recognized. It was like the country village of her dreams, the picturesque town she'd imagined whenever she'd envisioned the peaceful little farm that would someday be hers.

Prairie Bend was more than a century old, but it appeared that it had reached its full size shortly after it had been founded.

It had been carefully planned in the shape of a half wheel, with four spokelike streets radiating out from the square at the hub, and three more streets, each of them paralleling the curve of the river, sweeping around those spokes. The lots had been carefully laid out, with obvious foresight, but then, apparently, the planned-for, population had never materialized, for most of the lots were still empty, though none of them was uncared for, and the wide green lawns, bordered by trees and occasional gardens, created a parklike, spacious feeling.

Nowhere was there a building that looked new, yet nowhere was there a building that was in disrepair. The village was small: a general store, the post office, a drugstore which did double duty as the only cafe in town, two gas stations-one of which had a garage-a tiny school, and the church. All of it neatly arranged around the little square, all of it shaded by immense old trees, and all of it cradled in the bend of the river.

Janet paused in the square and tried to reconcile what she was seeing with what Mark had told her about Prairie Bend. But slowly, she began to realize that he had never said much about it at all-only that he hoped never to see it again.

But why?

There was nothing threatening about it, nothing out of the ordinary, really, except for its loveliness.

Then what was it that Mark had hated so much?

And why had Prairie Bend never grown?

Why had a place so lovely stayed so small?

She didn't know, and she probably never would know.

Unless she stayed.

It was the first time she'd let herself fully face the idea that had been niggling at her mind all morning, but now, in the quiet and peace of the spring noontime, she began examining the idea, making a mental ledger of its advantages and disadvantages.

She had family, albeit in-laws, in Prairie Bend; none in New York.

She had little money in either place, and nothing much in the way of professional skills.

She would be able to keep her apartment in New York for the moment, but only for the moment. Eventually, she would have to find a cheaper place to live.

In Prairie Bend, she owned a farm.

Mark had hated Prairie Bend, but had never told her why. Perhaps there had been no reason, or at least no good reason.

She thought about her in-laws. Good people, kind people, who wanted to take care of her. But why? Who was she but the widow of the son who had rejected them? Why should they care about her?

Yet, even as she asked herself the question, she was sure she knew the answer. They cared about her because they were warm and loving people who didn't hold their son's actions against her or her child. No-they wanted her, and they wanted Michael. And for a while, at least, she wanted to rest in the refuge of Prairie Bend and the love of Mark's parents.

As she left the square and passed through the rest of the village, then started out toward the Halls', she knew her mind was made up.

Forty minutes later she walked into Anna Hall's kitchen and sat down at the table. Her mother-in-law glanced disapprovingly up from the cake batter she was stirring, then away.

"Did you get your thinking done?" she asked in a voice that implied a sure knowledge of the outcome of that thinking.

"Yes, I did," Janet said quietly. "I'm going to keep my baby, and I'm going to keep my farm. Michael and I are going to live here."

Anna Hall put down the spoon, then held her arms out to Janet, who slipped willingly into her embrace.

"If that's what you want," Anna whispered. "If you're sure that's what you want, then you're welcome here. More than welcome. But I warn you," she suddenly added. "Once you become a part of Prairie Bend, you'll never be able to leave."

A shiver passed through Janet, but a moment later she had forgotten it.