Russell Banks - The Sweet Hereafter

“I know how sentimental you are about that junker, Dolores. It’s like I am about some of my dogs. But I ain’t going to put your car down. In fact, I’m going to give the old boy a second life. Maybe you should think of it that way,” he suggested.

I did, but I also made sure not to be home when he arrived with the big blue wrecker. In fact, that night Abbott and I drove into Placid for supper at the Ponderosa restaurant, where they serve good beefsteaks cheap and have a long salad bar that Abbott particularly likes to partake of, because he can reach everything from his wheelchair. He always returns for seconds and even goes after salad for me. “Sit … now … and … I’ll … serve,” he says. “Everyone … must … serve … sometimes,” he says.

I’m not inclined to notice, but now and then poor Abbott must feel a wave of guilt because of the way I’ve taken care of him in these last years of our life together, and the few occasions when he can perform some little physical task for me are no doubt of greater importance to him than they are to me. I try to keep alert to such opportunities and to make myself available to them, but they rarely come along, due to his condition. To me, it never matters, because it’s his mind that takes care of me, not his body. In the old days, before his stroke, he took wonderful care of me with his body, which I will say was always a creamy white and tender delight to me, providing me with all the necessary and loving services a woman could imagine, and consequently I did not pay sufficient attention to his mind, which from the beginning was superior to mine, more logical and just. Now Abbott and I live together like the perfect brother and sister, and I do not think I would have been intelligent enough to do that back before he had his stroke.

When we reached the edge of the field, we had to cross the track behind one of the fire engines to get to the right-hand corner of the grandstand, and I saw a few folks there that I recognized, volunteer firemen from Sam Dent, and I know they saw and recognized me — I’m pretty easy to recognize, even in twilight dark: I’m big and have red hair, and here I am pushing this small man in a wheelchair. Not wanting to put myself in a needy position, though, I merely nodded a short hello, which I was glad of right after, as not a one of those boys acknowledged me and Abbott when we passed by the fire engine and crossed the track.

We came up on the gate, where I paid, and passed through to the bottom of the grandstand. The thing was nearly filled already, with lots of folks standing around at ground level by the rail. I knew many of them, naturally — most of the town of Sam Dent comes out for the demolition derby — and saw them glance at us and then look quickly back toward the track and stage in front or nudge the person next to them, who would then take his turn casting a quick expressionless glance at us. No one said a word to me and Abbott or even acknowledged our presence. I knew it was not Abbott they were snubbing; it was me. But he was with me, so they ignored him too. That made me mad.

Several times I started to say hello, to force the issue, but before I could open my mouth, the person had turned his back to me.

I studied the stairs for a second; they looked steep and long. Down here in front, I might be able to see some of the action over and around the crowd of people at the rail; but not Abbott. “Hold on tight, honey,” I said to him. “I believe I can get you up there a ways.”

He has the good use of his left hand and arm, although his right is gone, of course; consequently, when he grabbed the left armrest tightly, he had to flop his whole body against that side of the chair for leverage, which put the chair all out of balance. Still, it was the only way to do it. I backed him around and drew the chair up backward to the first step, thinking I’d try to lug him up one step at a time, thinking also that maybe someone kind would see me struggling and would come to my aid. It’d probably have to be a stranger. A tourist, even. I grunted and yanked, and the chair came along with a thump, and we were up one step. Then another. Then a third, until soon we had made the first landing.

Out of breath, with my back and legs hot and wobbly from the effort, I had to stop for a breather, when, all of a sudden, of all the people I did not want to see, there was Billy Ansel standing right next to me, with a woman I didn’t know bouncing up the stairs behind him.

He grinned widely, which was not exactly a characteristic expression, and said, “H’lo there, Dolores! Come out to see the demolition derby, eh? Attagirl, Dolores!” he said in a loud voice, and for a second I thought he was making cruel fun of me. His grin made his teeth show through his beard, like he was clenching them. He was dressed up, in his usual way, khakis and white shirt and loafers, but I saw he was carrying a small paper bag with a bottle in it, and then I realized he was drunk.

I took a look at the woman with him. She was maybe thirty-five trying to look twenty — barefoot, in tight cutoff shorts and a tee shirt with the words “Shit Happens” printed across the front. Taller than Billy and skinny as a stick, she was dark-haired and had a small head made to look even smaller by one of those pixie haircuts that used to be so popular with teenagers. Her thin lips she had painted over and around with bright red lipstick, trying to make her lips look full; it only worked from a distance, though. Not the sort of woman you’d expect to see in Billy Ansel’s company. She was drunk too.

“Goddamn, Dolores, you look like you an’ ol’ Abbott here could use a hand,” Billy said, and he passed his brown bag to his friend. “Oh, sorry, this here’s Stacey,” he said. “Stacey Gale Morrison, from Ausable Forks. Stacey Gale, like you t’meet Dolores an’ Abbott Driscoll, old friends from Sam Dent. Salt of the earth, both of ‘em,” he declared.

“Pleased to meetcha,” Stacey Gale said. She didn’t put her hand out to shake, and neither did I.

“Where you headed, Dolores? All the way to the top? Lemme give a hand here.”

“No, that’s okay,” I said. “I can manage.”

“The hell you can. Here, you get on one side, an’ I’ll grab hold the other, an’ we’ll scoot ol’ Abbott right to the top, just like that. What’s a neighbor for, right? We got to lend each other a helping hand, right, Abbott? Neighbors got to help each other out. Am I right?”

Abbott swung his head around and looked straight into Billy’s bearded face, probably seeing grim things there that no one else could. “You … help … Dolores … help … me …,” Abbott said to him. “Give … thanks … then … all … around,” he added.

“How’s that, Abbott? I didn’t quite getcha. What’d he say, Dolores?” Billy asked. “No offense, Abbott.”

I told him, although I doubt he really got it.

“Damned straight. Let’s go, Dolores,” he said, and he grabbed onto one side of the chair, and I grabbed the other, and we lifted Abbott and his wheelchair together and crab-walked our way sideways up the stairs. Stacey Gale came along a few stairs behind us, looking slightly put out by the whole thing.

At the top, we put the wheelchair down, and I set the brake and parked it there on the landing. The folks who were seated along the last row silently moved in a bit on the long bench and made room for Stacey Gale and then Billy Ansel and, finally, me. I noticed a few familiar faces down along the row — a couple of the Hamiltons and Prescotts, some Atwaters from up to Wilmot Flats, a bunch more from town — but everybody kept themselves face-forward, like they hadn’t noticed our arrival.

I sat down on the end seat, with Abbott on my left and Billy Ansel on my right, and dropped my head and put my face in my hands. Oh, this was hard on me. Much harder than I’d imagined. My heart was pounding lickety-split, and my ears were hot. I was truly sorry that we had come.