T. Boyle: San Miguel

By the time the horses came into view, Jimmie leading them on a short halter and the girls running on ahead, the sun had driven through the mist to play off the rocks and ignite the chaparral with color. The sailors, Bob Brooks and the two hands caterpillared along behind them under the weight of full packs, and all she could think of was those African expeditions she’d read about, Speke and Burton and the native bearers weaving their way through the uncharted lands. She watched them out the kitchen window, busy to the last moment, but when they crested the hill, she put down what she was doing, slipped out of her apron and went out to the gate to greet them. She had to shield her eyes against the brightness, the hills and fields that had been so dull all day lit suddenly with sienna and gold and a green so pale it was nearly translucent, while overhead the haze had dissolved and the sky opened up to a solid clear blue, not a cloud in sight. The day had turned out nice, after all — more than nice, beautiful, the kind of day that reaffirmed every choice she’d ever made. She came across the yard, breathing deeply, gratefully, taking it all in.

The girls got there first — racing the last hundred yards, Marianne, with her longer legs, in the lead all the way — and she saw that they were both chewing something, Wrigley’s gum, as it turned out. Their knees flashed in the sun, their hair, which she’d cut short for summer, sparked blond, and then their elated faces and quick squealing gasps for air burst suddenly on her: here they were, darting round her, singing out their excitement—“What did you get us? Come on, tell us!”—until she put out a hand to stop them. “Now, don’t you run off,” she warned. “We’re going to need you to help bring the things in — and then we’ll see about dinner. And then, once everything’s been cleared away and put back in order, you can open your presents.”

Pomo was next — he’d been guarding the flank like a good sheepdog, and now he broke free to sprint across the field and through the gate, flushing the chickens and terrorizing the gander, which flapped to the roof of the shed and let out a long withering hiss of disdain. And then the sled, and Jimmie, who tipped his finger-greased straw hat and gave her a smile that opened up around a new gap where his front teeth used to be. Bob Brooks and the others were winded, she could see that, and before she did anything more by way of greeting than call out each of their names, she led them into the kitchen so they could set down their packs and she and the girls could get started on filing everything away. She thought of Herbie then — this was his favorite part of the ritual of resupply, sorting through the groceries and putting everything on its proper shelf in his precise way, the cans stacked with their labels turned out, the sacks of rice, beans and pasta upended in the big brown crockery jars set aside for each, greens in the cool room and onions, potatoes and garlic in the root cellar — but she supposed he’d got distracted and let the time slip away from him, which seemed to be happening more and more lately. He’d be making his way back by now, and if he felt bad for missing out on the sorting of the canned goods, he could always come out to the pantry later on and shift things around to his heart’s content.

Before long they were all gathered on the porch, their feet up, cigarettes at their lips and the bottles of red wine and whiskey circulating. She served the fritters and bread out of doors to take advantage of the weather. Bob Brooks had brought the latest newspapers — war news and not much else — but she didn’t do more than skim the headlines because she didn’t have time, for one thing, and for another, this was supposed to be a celebration, Betsy matriculating to fourth grade and Marianne to seventh, and she didn’t want to spoil the day. There would be plenty of time for her and Herbie to read through every last line and suffer all over again because the world was fraught and savage and men had to make war to justify their place in it.

Both Manny and Jesus, the shearers Bob had brought along, praised her hot sauce, into which they dipped their fritters delicately before leaning out over the dirt to bite into them so that any excess wouldn’t stain the floorboards that had been stained a thousand times before. Jimmie rocked back on his heels, spinning out stories, the sailors joined in and Bob Brooks stirred his whiskey with a twig he’d snapped off the hacked remnant of a sage bush growing just outside the gate, grinning happily. “It’s for the flavor, Elise,” he said, “you ought to try it.”

They all asked about Herbie and she covered for him as best she could. “He’s patrolling,” she said. “The Japs, you know? They really put a scare into us with that business back in February.” Everybody chimed in in agreement and the conversation took off in the direction of the war, though she hadn’t meant it to. In any case, she had dinner to serve, and she went on into the house and took the lamb out of the oven to sit while she mashed potatoes and worked in a good dollop of the butter that had just arrived.

Dinner came off beautifully, the conversation free-flowing, the guests uncritical and appreciative of the chef, old friends and new gathered for the feast, and if they missed Herbie — and they did, every one of them, of course they did — they tried to work around it and ignore the vacant chair and unused place setting at the head of the table. “He probably went all the way out to Point Bennett, that’s probably what it is — he’ll be back anytime now,” Jimmie offered when they sat down at the table, and that seemed to put the issue to rest for the time being. Still, at every noise from the kitchen or thump from the porch — Pomo scratching fleas or a raven lighting on the roof — everyone looked up expecting Herbie to come sailing through the door with a bottle held high and a story spilling from his lips.

Then it was coffee — and with the coffee, the pudding and the pineapple upside-down cake she’d baked for the girls and had meant to hold back till Herbie showed up — and afterward the girls’ presents. It was half past eight now. The light was nearly gone and the fog beginning to seep in. Dinner was over, the plates strewn with crumbs and the guests easing back in their chairs and lighting pipes and cigars. She couldn’t have kept the girls waiting any longer — it just wasn’t fair — and if she’d felt a sudden flare of anger for Herbie, so much the worse. What was wrong with him? He knew how much this meant to them. And certainly, no matter how blue he might have been feeling — if that was it — he wouldn’t want Bob Brooks to know about it or guess just how deep it went.

It was then — just as she was getting up to clear the dessert plates while Marianne turned over the pieces of her new chess set and Betsy made wide blue streaks on a sheet of construction paper with her new watercolors — that she thought of the note. The thought came hurtling at her, suddenly broken free of the cage in her mind where she’d kept it locked up all through the afternoon and through dinner and into the evening, even till now, when it hit her so hard she nearly dropped the plate in her hand. She saw the look of Herbie’s face when he’d leaned over to kiss her, his jowls gone heavy with gravity, the furrows digging at the corners of his eyes, the white bristle of his sideburns. She heard the deadness in his voice. Nothing to worry over, he’d said. It’s just a note. I’ll leave it in the house .

No one noticed as she set the plate back down and crossed the room to the desk, the conversation gone on into another mode now, the after-dinner-and-cigars mode, men’s talk, moistened with whiskey — sheep and war and boats and money. She couldn’t seem to catch her breath. There was a new rhythm inside of her, a drumming premonitory throb she couldn’t fight down. She snatched at the scatter of papers, tossed the book aside, slammed through the drawers. Bob Brooks’ voice, distant, otherworldly: “Elise, is everything all right? What are you looking for? Elise?”