Diana S. Adams’ To The River, is a delicious novella – the first of a trilogy – that is both resolutely gritty and often magical. It’s a wonderful, modern-day exploration of urban life, with characters who stick to the ribs and travel well past the final pages. Adams is a spare, clear-eyed and fearless writer who wades into the lives of her characters and reveals just enough to give them perfect breath. A mere glimpse of a character in an Adams’ novella is full meal – with wine, dessert and an espresso. She reveals the right flavours and readers come away with a full understanding, complete with unanswered questions.
You know these characters – they are your neighbours, your acquaintances, the people you work with. Adams peels away the layers and we get a look at the eccentric, the unconventional, and the banal oddities beneath. Adams reveals them providing mysteries within mysteries.
—Thomas Trofimuk, Author of Waiting for Columbus
In her provocative new novel, To The River, Diana S. Adams presents us with a landscape that is fraught with tension: the deathly currents, "paper birch," and "spring debris" that surround the protagonist are gradually revealed as both beautiful and violent, as luminous as they are destructive. As the book unfolds, each of Adams' expertly described characters see "their own warped reflection" in the world around them, suggesting a complete breakdown of boundaries between interior and exterior, self and world. To The River explores these complex philosophical questions about landscape, interiority, and projection with great elegance, offering tentative answers in the work's most subtle stylistic choices. Diana S. Adams is a writer to watch.
—Kristina Marie Darling, Author of Failure Lyric
The inventiveness of To The River by Diana Adams seems never-ending. It leads you into unexpected spaces, resonated by a unique strong vision. Through a juxtaposition of contrasts and a countless array of brilliant images and atmospheres, Adams reveals an energetic intelligence. At once dramatic and surreal, organic and synthetic, ornate and evocative, To The River is a poignant journey and a compelling delight of a narrative.
— Geoffrey Gatza, Author of Apollo
Diana Adams is an Edmonton, Alberta based writer with work published in a variety of journals including Boston Review, Drunken Boat, Fogged Clarity, Oranges & Sardines, The Laurel Review, Ekleksogaphia. Her work has been included in several anthologies including the 2009 Rhysling Anthology. Her work will be included in Best American Experimental Poetry 2016. Her third book of poetry Hello Ice was published by BlazeVOX Books. Theaters of the Tongue was also published by BlazeVOX Books in 2008. Corrupt Press recently published her poetry chapbook Catch. Larry Fagin kindly published her chapbook Lights on the Way Out through Greenzone Press. To The River is the first of a three novella sequence that will be completed this year.
Book Information:
· Paperback: 108 pages
· Binding: Perfect-Bound
· Publisher: BlazeVOX [books]
· ISBN: 978-1-60964-213-6
Diana S. Adams’ To The River, is a delicious novella – the first of a trilogy – that is both resolutely gritty and often magical. It’s a wonderful, modern-day exploration of urban life, with characters who stick to the ribs and travel well past the final pages. Adams is a spare, clear-eyed and fearless writer who wades into the lives of her characters and reveals just enough to give them perfect breath. A mere glimpse of a character in an Adams’ novella is full meal – with wine, dessert and an espresso. She reveals the right flavours and readers come away with a full understanding, complete with unanswered questions.
You know these characters – they are your neighbours, your acquaintances, the people you work with. Adams peels away the layers and we get a look at the eccentric, the unconventional, and the banal oddities beneath. Adams reveals them providing mysteries within mysteries.
—Thomas Trofimuk, Author of Waiting for Columbus
In her provocative new novel, To The River, Diana S. Adams presents us with a landscape that is fraught with tension: the deathly currents, "paper birch," and "spring debris" that surround the protagonist are gradually revealed as both beautiful and violent, as luminous as they are destructive. As the book unfolds, each of Adams' expertly described characters see "their own warped reflection" in the world around them, suggesting a complete breakdown of boundaries between interior and exterior, self and world. To The River explores these complex philosophical questions about landscape, interiority, and projection with great elegance, offering tentative answers in the work's most subtle stylistic choices. Diana S. Adams is a writer to watch.
—Kristina Marie Darling, Author of Failure Lyric
The inventiveness of To The River by Diana Adams seems never-ending. It leads you into unexpected spaces, resonated by a unique strong vision. Through a juxtaposition of contrasts and a countless array of brilliant images and atmospheres, Adams reveals an energetic intelligence. At once dramatic and surreal, organic and synthetic, ornate and evocative, To The River is a poignant journey and a compelling delight of a narrative.
— Geoffrey Gatza, Author of Apollo
Diana Adams is an Edmonton, Alberta based writer with work published in a variety of journals including Boston Review, Drunken Boat, Fogged Clarity, Oranges & Sardines, The Laurel Review, Ekleksogaphia. Her work has been included in several anthologies including the 2009 Rhysling Anthology. Her work will be included in Best American Experimental Poetry 2016. Her third book of poetry Hello Ice was published by BlazeVOX Books. Theaters of the Tongue was also published by BlazeVOX Books in 2008. Corrupt Press recently published her poetry chapbook Catch. Larry Fagin kindly published her chapbook Lights on the Way Out through Greenzone Press. To The River is the first of a three novella sequence that will be completed this year.
Book Information:
· Paperback: 108 pages
· Binding: Perfect-Bound
· Publisher: BlazeVOX [books]
· ISBN: 978-1-60964-213-6
Diana S. Adams’ To The River, is a delicious novella – the first of a trilogy – that is both resolutely gritty and often magical. It’s a wonderful, modern-day exploration of urban life, with characters who stick to the ribs and travel well past the final pages. Adams is a spare, clear-eyed and fearless writer who wades into the lives of her characters and reveals just enough to give them perfect breath. A mere glimpse of a character in an Adams’ novella is full meal – with wine, dessert and an espresso. She reveals the right flavours and readers come away with a full understanding, complete with unanswered questions.
You know these characters – they are your neighbours, your acquaintances, the people you work with. Adams peels away the layers and we get a look at the eccentric, the unconventional, and the banal oddities beneath. Adams reveals them providing mysteries within mysteries.
—Thomas Trofimuk, Author of Waiting for Columbus
In her provocative new novel, To The River, Diana S. Adams presents us with a landscape that is fraught with tension: the deathly currents, "paper birch," and "spring debris" that surround the protagonist are gradually revealed as both beautiful and violent, as luminous as they are destructive. As the book unfolds, each of Adams' expertly described characters see "their own warped reflection" in the world around them, suggesting a complete breakdown of boundaries between interior and exterior, self and world. To The River explores these complex philosophical questions about landscape, interiority, and projection with great elegance, offering tentative answers in the work's most subtle stylistic choices. Diana S. Adams is a writer to watch.
—Kristina Marie Darling, Author of Failure Lyric
The inventiveness of To The River by Diana Adams seems never-ending. It leads you into unexpected spaces, resonated by a unique strong vision. Through a juxtaposition of contrasts and a countless array of brilliant images and atmospheres, Adams reveals an energetic intelligence. At once dramatic and surreal, organic and synthetic, ornate and evocative, To The River is a poignant journey and a compelling delight of a narrative.
— Geoffrey Gatza, Author of Apollo
Diana Adams is an Edmonton, Alberta based writer with work published in a variety of journals including Boston Review, Drunken Boat, Fogged Clarity, Oranges & Sardines, The Laurel Review, Ekleksogaphia. Her work has been included in several anthologies including the 2009 Rhysling Anthology. Her work will be included in Best American Experimental Poetry 2016. Her third book of poetry Hello Ice was published by BlazeVOX Books. Theaters of the Tongue was also published by BlazeVOX Books in 2008. Corrupt Press recently published her poetry chapbook Catch. Larry Fagin kindly published her chapbook Lights on the Way Out through Greenzone Press. To The River is the first of a three novella sequence that will be completed this year.
Book Information:
· Paperback: 108 pages
· Binding: Perfect-Bound
· Publisher: BlazeVOX [books]
· ISBN: 978-1-60964-213-6
Copyright 2016 Published by BlazeVOX [books] All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced without the publishers written permission, except for brief quotations in reviews. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the authors imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental. Interior design and typesetting by Geoffrey Gatza Cover Art by Diana Adams First Edition ISBN: 978-1-60964-213-6 Library of Congress Control Number: 2015937805 BlazeVOX [books] 131 Euclid Ave Kenmore, NY 14217 Editor@blazevox.org
take a sip, but he knows it could make him sick if he drinks from it. The river runs down from the mountains through two towns before reaching this spot in the ravine. He dips in a finger; the current is full of strength and loaded with spring debris. He can see his own warped reflection. The North Saskatchewan River could easily own him right now; it is reeling back at him and the paper birch along the bankthey could go down too. The branches hang low to flick their black onto the waters surface. As he looks past the line of trees he sees a woman running with a German shepherd. Shes fast, sprinting on the pathway, and her face is rigid with exertion. The dog, soft-eyed, watches him as though sensing him out. A few yards away the gish-gish sounds of her running shoes stop on the pathway; shes not going this close to the water. She is cautious but athletic-bound and must walk past him to
continue on with her run. The dog pulls on the leash,
trying to come closer to him, but she yanks the dog back, scolding it into submission. Hes seen her before, broad-faced, healthy, hair tied back in a thick ponytail like a schoolgirl. He recognizes that shes a certain type of woman, the type to always do the right thing. He moves his weight onto his thighs and relaxes his body. Now that he is being watched, it is easy to shift into his ordinary self, the more casual John Donner he has learned to become to keep people at ease. Hello, you have reached John Donner. His name on the old office recording flowed nicely with vowel sounds strung together. He made his voice a little higher in tone too, aiming to please. Clients. Back then he was taking peoples money and basically gambling it away. The market was a playground, cash flowing around the world, overnight, when he got up, before he went to bed. The river is only a background now, rolling away from him. He gives the woman a small smile of greeting and holds out his hand to the dog. Hey, big fella. The dog wants to come to him; he can see it in its beige-black eyes. He knows dogs deep inside, their pack needs, wolf thoughts.
10
The woman nods with her eyes averted and then
her right foot slips, or at least thats what he thinks. There is a blank space of time and then before he knows it he is holding on to her forearm, her red running jacket twisting in his hand. But she is looking at him in astonishment and there is raw fear in her eyes. Thats when he has his first shock of doubt: Why isnt she grateful? Her mouth opens and before the word Help can begin to come out of it, hes got his other hand over her mouth. He wont be able to clear this from his head for months. At work, at home, every time he steps through his front door. Her dark blond hair falling out of the ponytail. His hand going over her mouth, her lips underneath his palm. She tries to bite his hand. He pushes his palm down on the lips harder, feeling her teeth underneath the gums. He cant seem to breathe properly and he doesnt know if she is pushing or pulling. The river is churning dangerously only one foot away. For a long moment they are locked in this awkward hold. Now he is afraid she will push him over the bank into the water. His confusion and fear is so great hes tempted to take her to the ground. Its like he has somehow stepped into a movie. Surely this very scene has played out before; he remembers it detail by detail.
11
He keeps going over the facts in his mind, about
her foot and whether it slipped. She is wearing blue and red running shoes that had little mud on them until now. If she didnt slip, then he is in deep trouble. A few seconds ago he was so mesmerized by the river that he now wonders if he didnt create the very event he was afraid of. There it was; thats what really worried him. He was capable of screwing up again. Self-sabotage was the word Dr. Enzer had used. How many traps can he make for himself? Messing up other people and himself at the same time? So far in the past two years he had kept it all together, and he just wanted to get through this next phase without trouble. But here was trouble in a gigantic way, lurching up at him like a big black bus that he might not be able to avoid. He remembers Dr. Enzer saying that he must release himself from an event at the first recognition, he must engage in dialectical behavior therapy. But her foot did slip, he tells himself, this is not that. Now he is sure of it. The image of the shoe is burned in his brain. This is not one of those events, he tells himself again, and he tries to calm himself with deep breaths through his nose.
12
The shepherd is whimpering, turning around
and around in circles. Somehow even the dog is aware that he is not accosting her. He tilts his head to the animal as if to say, There, there is my proof. He knows he has to let her go but worries that she might put them both in the water. He needs to somehow make things right. It is like pushing a huge rock up a steep hill. He needs to change the situation now. There must be an explanation; it cant go down this way so suddenly. He removes his hand from her mouth. They move quickly away from danger. Her panicked breathing is studded with coughing, and now they stand apart on solid ground far from the edge of the river. There is a small amount of blood on her lips. He knows he has to steer this now. Hes done it before and did it well in front of a judge and the attacking lawyers. A jolt of hope runs through him. He can do this, yes, yes, he can. Im so sorry, he hears himself saying calmly, in his best voice, the one everyone wants to hear. I thought you were falling A heavyset man is approaching them, his fat legs running comically light on the path. And now the dog is barking, followed by low growls at the other man. Johns hands are up in the air. Everything is
13
fine, he says. The man is appraising him, putting
himself between the woman and then advancing stealthily toward him. His hair is shaved short around his round face and there is sweat on his smooth forehead. Then, without much movement, he grabs both of Johns arms and wrenches them up behind Johns back. Beth, whats going on here? Is he causing any trouble? She and John study each other, her flat greenbrown eyes darting to the river and back. She shakes her head. I dont know, I dont know, she says. John is starting to get queasy and might easily be sick if not for his ability to somehow get a hold of a problematic situation, as he has done so many times before, an expert at changing a difficult encounter from confrontation to affirmation. I tripped and he, yes, he did keep me from falling. But it was a bit too much to cover my mouth. It hurt. I thought you were going to panic, thats why I did it. We both could have ended up in the river. His arms are set free; he shakes them to get rid of the deep ache in his shoulder joints. Then he takes out his wallet and finds his drivers license. Hes not
14
sure whyits the last thing he would normally want
to dobut there is something official about it. He shows them the photo, the amiable smile and cleanshaven jawline of health and success. Look, I thought you were going to fall and tried to pull you back. Im sorry if I startled you, but the river is very dangerous at this time of year. For a long moment she and the heavyset man both stand there, examining him. His dark-blue golf jacket, the khaki pants, reasonably pressed. The man takes Johns license and flattens his lips. The high sides of the ravine surrounded them, with only the narrow pathway between them and the river. The slopes are thick with shrubbery and rock, brown with flecks of green just starting to emerge in the undergrowth. In the winter John had seen a pack of coyotes coming down the banks, healthy beige-furred beasts that had no intention of wavering their course even though he was directly in their path. He yelled and hollered, and the coyotes finally retreated, traversing the sloping banks before coming down onto the pathway some distance ahead of him. John, is it? The man is looking back down at his license. Im Len, Len Crawford. You reside on 14477
15
Ravine Drive? So happens you two are only a few
doors away from each other. John nods, relieved that Len is now conversational. Are you with the police? I retired from the force a few years ago, but I still have a knack for detailing a scene. Yeah, you seem okay. Sorry if I got confused there for a second, you were just trying to help. Im sorry for wrenching your arms. The womans eyes are shifting erratically, as if shes going over the events, looking for the answer as to why there is something missing. The dog is sniffing the ground, still moving around in circles, and then it flops down to rest. She squats to pat it and then grabs the fur around its neck, her eyes moving again from him back to the river behind them. John says, Can I do anything for you? This is all bit confusingI was sitting here by the river worrying about the possibility of someone falling in, and then there you were. Shes pulling herself together and nodding. Everything hes saying hits the right mark. He feels more relief wash over him. She is adjusting her jacket and scraping mud off the bottom of her shoes on a rock, shaking her head at the other man. There is a
16
slight smile of embarrassment on her face. The pupils
of her eyes are huge. He knows how she works, always putting things together in her thoughts and fitting them into the perfect holes and squares. Ill walk back with you, Len says to her, holding her by the elbow. The dog is leading her, anxious to be walking again. If I were you, I would try not to stand so close to the bank next time, Len says to him with firm politeness. She looks back only once as they walk away. Hes alone again, and the rushing sound of the river is getting on his nerves. From the pathway that goes up the hills of the ravine he can see his house, a small stone-faced bungalow constructed in the late 1960s in a Frank Lloyd Wright style, built to last in a classic yet modern line. Pride swells thick in him. He walks faster, his boots taking up mud and grass in the treads. Although he has lived here two years now, he still finds it hard to believe the house is his, his alone. Claire is nowhere near this house, except perhaps in the car parked in the dirty-floored garage. The car she insisted they buy, dark red and curved like an animal. She would never own a house like this and
17
probably had never even been in one, mortar
crumbling around the edges of the stone, the swirled half-circles of rusting white wrought iron on the front railing, the impossible wallpaper inside of snakes and ferns. Her need for beauty would be repelled by the beige shag carpet and the green fabric lamps that havent moved in more than thirty years. And the river too; it would be too much for her. It was not a scenic lake or a swelling ocean; she had no use for bodies of water that she couldnt swim in. So, the river became his own, a place he could go to get outside of the ovens of the Bonnet Bakery after working since the early hours of the morning, to get outside of his own head and get outside of hers, her thoughts still running through him daily like a drip. The wooden steps out of the MacKinnon Ravine are steep. He runs up them, the mud caked on his boots slowing him down. His heart thuds so rapidly it almost hurts. When he first thought about what it might be like in Edmonton, he imagined it would be dry and flat. Instead, he was confronted with a lush river valley, dense and jungle-like, with some of the tallest trees hed ever seen. Towering spruce and pine line the ravine, digging their roots into the rich Alberta earth in search of a sip of the water table that
18
rises up the steep banks of the North Saskatchewan
River. Oil Country, hockey, oil money. Hey, Donner. Hanging over the wooden railing at the top, a man waves his large, fleshy hand. George, a retired anesthesiologist, is his neighbor six doors down. As he tells anybody who will listen, since his wife died five years ago hed packed on the weight and was eating through grief. He still found it necessary to give out medical advice, particularly during flu season. Whats up, George? I usually dont see you till much later. Damn knee. Got me up early, probably when you were only halfway through work. Yeah, yeah. Big game tonight. The Kings. Want to grab a bite at the bar and watch? Before he can answer, George has a low croak of a cough. The sound shocks him and just for a second John can see into his mouth. Luminous and red, the thick pads of his cheeks are cartoonishly round. John looks away to the houses behind them so he doesnt have to see George spit into the dirt.
19
Just a lingering bronchial difficulty. He reaches
into his coat, and John wonders how many years he has had this black coat, as it barely stretches over his large stomach and looks like it cuts into his waist. Instead of tissue, George pulls out an egg salad sandwich, undoing the tight cafeteria wrapping with efficient fingers. Protein, something you bakers dont get enough of, George says. Oh, come on, I eat more than bread. Im just damn good at making it. And then, not wanting to offend George, he adds, Ill take a pass on tonight. I dont work tomorrow and I have some things to catch up on. Next time then, plenty of games coming up. Back at his house John faces the bare spaces of early evening. He sits in the armchair covered in softyellow synthetic fabric; it is thick with foam slabs about to pop out of the armrests. Theres a light on the fireplace that he forgot to turn off last night; it is directed at a piece of polished yet cracking driftwood. It has been two years, but he still hasnt bothered to redecorate. He likes the retro feel of the space. Theres a museum quality to the furniture and odd knick-knacks that he finds appealing.
20
It would be easy to sleep in the yellow chair in
front of the television, but he has learned that when he comes home from a shift he has to get into bed or he will never catch up on rest, and that would lead to other days without proper sleep and then, worse, to a kind of mental distraction that makes everything feel wrong. John is not a psychologist but has gleaned a few things from Dr. Enzer over the years. There is some comfort in this, self-knowledge, a sign that he has better insight into things and is no longer the fuck-up he was before. He wonders if the woman named Beth is going to be afraid to go down to the ravine alone again. The shepherd should be enough by way of protection, yet obviously it cant be completely relied on to ward off perpetrators. There was something stubborn in her thick lips, something about the way she controlled herself even in the face of being utterly scared that he had to admire. He sensed she was wealthy, not only because of the large diamond ring on her finger but the air of polite aloofness with just the edge of a scold at the back of her glance. When she realized he was not her attacker, it all vanished; the scold, the indifference all moved to a shared common ground.
21
He pictures her going home and crying a little as
she told her husband about what had happened. That she might have fallen into the river if it hadnt been for a man who was carelessly perched at the edge of the riverbank. What man? the husband would ask. It turns out hes in our neighborhood, she would say. At first I thought there was something not quite right about him. John imagines the husband giving her a brief hug and telling her that she shouldnt be going down in the ravine alone. His protective tones would do nothing for her as she clearly makes up her own agenda and thats exactly what the husband likes about her. They would each return to the topic over the course of the evening, unless there were children around, at which point she and her husband would wait until they were alone again so they could discuss it deeper and not alarm them. Again John has the odd sensation of both watching and being in a movie, a scene in which a curtain blows out from an open window and every shot includes a subtle threat, all leading up to some greater act of horror. He assumes he is just tired but also worries whether he is getting a bit overwhelmed. He reminds himself that there is no reason to
22
experience dread again like this; confusion maybe,
but not the anticipation of an event that was obviously not part of reality. It doesnt seem right to me, a healthy young man living alone without comfort, George had said a few days ago. It sounded old-fashioned at the time, as though this were the 1960s and wives were popping pot roasts into the oven while husbands snoozed into their papers in armchairs with footrests. There was some truth to it, now that he thinks of it: maybe too much solitude isnt good for him. He should get out and play a game of squash after work, thats it. Something other than going home to this empty house full of books and figurines. This is the first time in his adult life he has been totally alone, and hes not sure he likes it. Then he remembers his drivers license. Shit. The man named Len still has it. And Len is short for what? He bangs his fist on the chair. John recalls Lens last name. Hell look up L Crawford in the morning and try to get his license back. Still, the idea of someone else holding on to a major piece of identification bothers him. God, how he hates this kind of thing. He was hoping for a little anonymity at this point. Something he has been afraid of, if not
23
obsessive aboutidentity theft, shredding his mail,
anything with an address or phone number on it. It had already been a demanding day and now he has to worry about this too. He walks to the main floor guest room and stretches out on the bed. The previous owner had painted the room lavender. Although it would have never been his color choice, he finds it oddly comforting. Even though there are three bedrooms upstairs, including a large master bedroom, he has claimed this one as his own. He still has to use the bathroom upstairs though. He filled the closet of the guest room with his few possessions and stacked up books on the floor. He used to be surrounded by books on finance and now he has every book on baking he can get his hands on. The Cordon Bleu textbook was as good as a degree in culinary arts. John chose this room because it is easier to live on one floor, and also because of the strong dusty smell in the master bedrooma kind of borderless orchard of must. The smell of old people and, even worse, the smell of the sick or the nearly dead. John is learning about the former owner of the house, sometimes more than he wants to know. He found out that she died by falling between the tub
24
and the pea-green sink in the upstairs bathroom. He
cant help but think about Dot Burrows whenever he shaves at the cracked sink or takes a shower. Sometimes in the kitchen he can half imagine her standing there, assembling a roast chicken and potatoes, tipping back a small sip of sherry from the rose-etched glasses that sit at the back of the cracked white cupboards. George told him that Dot had tried to take her own life a year before she died from her fall, and that hed been the one to help resuscitate her. After swallowing a bottle of lorazepam, Dot had lay down on the kitchen floor and then experienced a drastic change of heart. She called George with whatever lucidity she could muster. He got the ambulance there quickly and helped insert a gastric lavage into her stomach. The guest-room bed is small and narrow, but it is better than contemplating a dead woman. There were too many traces of her in the upstairs rooms, and he hasnt the energy to clean out the shelves full of perfume bottles, the wig on the stand that creeps him out, or the books on gardening that are older than even she was at the end. It is still too light in the room to sleep, even though he has pulled the heavy off-white drapes
25
together. The outside light comes through a small
gap between the left and right drape and lands right on his pillow. He gets up and yanks the drapes closer together to create a little dark in the early evening. Most days he is physically tired from the labor of hoisting so many flour sacks at the bakery. Even with the help of industrial mixers, it is still a hard lifting job. His mother would have fought the mixers or, even better, left and set up a small shop of her own to sell pain au levain. Pain au levain is a demanding dough, concocted from water, flour, and the wild yeast that exists in the air. A Frankenstein bread, or so he thought at twelve years old, because it was his job to build the bread out of starters, feeding them every three days a mix of potato water and the tough unbleached flour that came from France. And then there was the endless kneading, dozens of balls of dough transformed to perfect domed loaves that made it into hotels and restaurants. Some were also sold to private customers from the main floor of their house. Before his mother got sick, she had kept the final details of making bread to herself, only allowing him to experiment with the starters and dough, never allowing him to finish the final loaves. He learned to
26
be dutiful around her as she worked, staying low and
quiet. Bread is alive, she would tell him. A living thing comprised of cells that feed on sugars. It needs to be coaxed into its own perfection and rise with growing cells, a being. As a child, he knew he would have to decipher her moods in order to work with her. If she was tense from the pressure of producing a large amount of bread, her shoulders snapped back, as if good posture was being judged. She would dart around the kitchen like a bird, clearing her throat at regular intervals. If, on the other hand, she was pleased with the orders and the way the bread was proceeding, there was a dance-like movement to her work; she might sing a little. On really bad days, he stayed away altogether; it was what she expected and he was only too happy to comply. For if he made any noise, talked, or questioned her on these days, she would thunder him with her anger. Her face broke out of its emotionless French mask, wrinkles cragging up the flat space between her brows and down the sides of her mouth. The noise of the mixers is still with him now, a sub-whirring deep in his ears. A close relative, a sister to the sounds of vacuums, refrigerators, and floor polishers. A working-person sound. Sometimes he cant sleep because it blends with the creaks and
27
running water sounds of the house. The bungalow is
full of exchanges, gusts, and broadcasts from being built too quickly in a cold climate and the business of being there too long, old and stone-faced. As he is about to enter the pre-dream state of a good rest, the doorbell rings. Long, sonorous Big Ben notes. He decides not to answer it. After three more extended Big Bens, he gets up and hastily puts on his pants, hoping it might be Len Crawford with his drivers license. He hurries to the peephole not to see Len but the woman from the ravine. He unlocks the door and before he can say anything she quickly says, Im sorry to bother you, but its Elizabeth LawrenceIm not sure you caught my name in all that kerfuffle. Shes holding out a loaf to him, banana bread. He can smell the over-ripe bananas through the tight plastic wrap layered with condensation. Not wanting to take his hands off the door, he doesnt take the bread, but she insists, shoving the loaf at him as she steps inside despite the fact the door is open only a few inches. He feels caught off-guard, and in his current mood hes not sure he can pull out the social niceties required.
28
Thought Id say thank you. I felt bad the way Len
did that to you. And you might have just saved my life. She doesnt hesitate to scope out the house. I wondered who bought this place, she says and pauses, but I have never once seen you around. Her look parses past him, x-ing back on the driftwood on the fireplace, looking into the living room and up the celery-green-carpeted stairway, wonderstruck. His lack of response is now a form of rudeness. She takes one step back, a little out the door, then comes back in. Her face softening, she has clean-lined brows and a smile on her plump mouth. But its exactly the same! Sorry? he asks, completely bewildered. I used to play in this house with Veronica Burrows. We went to school together. He knows he should participate in a simple chat, an exchange of what is required, and perhaps even invite her in for a tour of the main floor. It would be easy to dish out a few compliments on the banana bread or ask her questions about who with and what years she had played in the house. Talk about her husband who works too much, or her children who might be teenagers causing her some stress. He could hit on her in some small wayflirt chat came easy to
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him, practically required when it came to the world
of finance. And she is attractive enough to expect that kind of talk: a small smile, her scrubbed-fresh smell, pushing off the compliments, controlling the flow. At minimum he could offer her coffee to thank her for her peace offering, so that this woman who has obviously taken the pains to bake an extra loaf of past-due banana bread after being scared out of her wits will go away pleased, and when other neighbors bring him up, or ask about the new occupant in the old Burrows house, she might say something simple, half-nice. Id have you come in, but Im not quite feeling well. I must be coming down with something, he offers, pulling the line from the primetime soap opera hes been watching lately to try to fall asleep at 8 p.m. so he can be up in the early hours of morning to get to the bakery. His insomniac boats of eyes straining at the bedroom television, eventually waking himself up with a snore. The cedar-redhaired woman on the soap opera, her plush-lipped response to a caller. A man named Jake, with slant eyes and dark whips of hair, who later turns out to be a stalker at the door.