T. Boyle - San Miguel

Margot didn’t bother to wait while Elise dressed the baby in her jacket and dug out the umbrella, going on ahead with the scarf cinched tight under her chin and the cloth bag containing the few things she’d managed to bring off the boat with her clenched under one arm. Elise followed her tracks in the mud all the way down the road and across the beach to where the dinghy was cutting through the curtain of rain, already halfway to shore. There was a man at the oars — narrow shoulders, blue cap: Dick — and behind him, in the stern, a figure she couldn’t quite make out, though she was sure it was Herbie, Herbie come back to her with pills and emollients, stitched up maybe, but whole. It took her a moment, the oars dipping and rising, the tight slashing bow of the boat coming closer, to realize she was wrong. This wasn’t Herbie. This wasn’t Herbie at all.

The rain slanted down. The surf crashed. She felt all the will go out of her. She watched the boat as if it were a bullet suspended in slow motion and driving straight for the core of her, where the real pain lived. That was when she recognized the figure in the stern, the little loose-limbed man perched there like a monkey, his hair gone to gray and the slicker drawn up to magnify the fixed black stare of his eyes. It wasn’t Herbie. Not Herbie. No — and what this meant she could only guess, and even her best guess chilled her — it was Jimmie.

“He’s going to be fine,” Jimmie said, flinging boxes ashore as she stood huddled beneath the umbrella with Marianne and the rain drove down till it was hard to distinguish the air from the water. “I guess he called Bob Brooks the minute he got in with Dick here and Bob come up from Los Angeles in his car and took him to his own doctor, not the VA — he don’t trust the VA because they’ll just put you off — and the doctor said he needs an operation soon as possible.” He looked up from beneath the brim of his hat and gave her a ragged smile. “So Bob put me on the boat and I’m to stay and help out till Herbie can…” he trailed off, intent suddenly on digging through the inside pocket of his sheepskin jacket. “Here,” he said, thrusting a letter at her. “It’s all in here.”

Dick Graffy was helping unload things, but Margot was already in the dinghy, her face set and shoulders hunched beneath the slicker her husband had wrapped round her. Elise clutched the letter in her hand, struggling with herself. All she wanted was to tear it open, but she had Marianne in her arms and she was trying to work a finger in against the seal and balance the umbrella on her shoulder all at the same time. And Margot was watching her. And Dick. And Jimmie. She wanted a moment’s privacy, a moment to herself to absorb the news and defuse the terror that had seized her the instant she saw that it was Jimmie in the dinghy and not her husband. Finally, she turned her back on them, set Marianne down in the wet sand, in the rain, and slit open the envelope.

Dear Elise:

My diagnosis was correct, according to Dr. Morrison, Bob’s man, and I’m to go into the hospital so they can remove the metal fragments that showed up on the X-ray machine. You’re not to worry. I’ll be home as soon as I’m able. In the meanwhile, know that I love you and Marianne and will miss you every minute until I’m back with you on the island.

Your Loving Husband,

Herbie

P.S. Be sure Jimmie sees to the horses and the sheep if I’m not back by the time the shearers come. And remember to disconnect the blades on the windmill for the water pump if we get a gale so the mechanism doesn’t wind up destroyed. Let Bob pay the shearers. And send Jimmie out for wood; I don’t want to get back and tear out my stitches swinging an axe.

If I’m not back by the time the shearers come. That was the phrase that leapt out at her: they weren’t due for a month yet, six weeks even. How could he possibly be gone that long? What was this operation? What was it exactly? What were they going to do to him?

“Elise.” It was Dick Graffy. He was right there, right beside her, the rain darkening his blue cap till it might have been black, and he was holding out his hand. At her feet, Marianne scrabbled in the sand, already wet through, and she took Dick’s hand and released it and canted the umbrella over her daughter all in the same motion. “We’ve got to be going,” Dick said. “We’re way off schedule as it is. The bank, you know. It’s my millstone.” He laughed. “And Margot’s anxious to get back. As you can imagine.”

“I understand,” she said, so distracted she could barely summon the words. “I’m sorry for all the trouble we’ve given you—”

“No need to be. I’m only glad God put us here to help. And don’t you worry, your husband’s going to be fine, better than ever.” He glanced at Jimmie, who was piling up the supplies on the dune at the crest of the beach. “And we’re leaving you in good hands, I know that.”

She thanked him then, the emotion coming up in her so suddenly she had to turn away for a moment. “You’re a saint,” she said. “And please come back, both of you, when we can have you to dinner and make you comfortable.”

“We’ll do that,” he said, turning to walk back to the boat.

She raised a hand to wave to Margot, then bent to lift the baby and see what she could bring up the hill before the rain carried everything away. She never did see if Margot waved back.

* * *

If it was strange to find herself a married woman living under the same roof with a man who wasn’t her husband — or unconventional, maybe that was a better word — she tried not to let it affect her. Because it was temporary and necessary and Jimmie was a hired hand — and he was old too, almost like a grandfather. Anybody stopping by — and this wasn’t exactly Times Square — wouldn’t have thought a thing of it.

They got into a routine, just as she had with Herbie, she managing the household and Jimmie looking after the animals, collecting and cutting firewood, wandering the hills with no discernible purpose because he was a man and that’s what men did. At the end of the week the Hermes brought the mail with another letter from Herbie — the operation had been a success and he’d be home any day now, couldn’t wait, and he’d have something for her — a surprise — and a toy for Marianne too. She read the letter over three times — he was all right, he was well, his spirits high — and she read it aloud to Marianne and pitched her voice to tell her the news: Your daddy will be home soon. Daddy! She didn’t care about the weather, didn’t care about anything except for Herbie, but it was miserable all the same. Rain and more rain. The week dragged by and then it was gone and still no Herbie. Then there was another letter, delivered by one of the local fishermen.

This letter, the third one, caught her by surprise. There had been complications — an infection they were treating with sulfa — but nothing to worry over. If it was up to him he’d have got up and walked out the door days ago, but he had to listen to the doctors and to Bob Brooks too. Bob was insistent and she knew how Bob could be, didn’t she? He had to admit he was weak still — and the sulfa made him feel strange, as if he were hardly there at all, as if he were made of paper and liable to tear, and it seemed to be affecting his vision too so that he couldn’t even read to pass the time — but still she shouldn’t worry and there was no reason in the world for her to make that long trip to see him with the baby, especially in this weather, because he’d be home before she’d even had a chance to really miss him, he promised. She’d see. Don’t count old Herbie out yet.