John Casey - Spartina

D ick heard an engine. It was just dark enough to see headlight beams swing through the trees. He went back up the path and recognized the close-set squint of jeep lights.

Elsie got out the passenger side and asked Dick if he could give her a ride home. He said yes and Elsie sent her partner away with the jeep.

By the time Elsie walked to him, the jeep was in third gear on Route l. She took his hand and said she was sorry his house was so hard hit.

Dick said, “It could be worse. How’d your house do?”

“The greenhouse roof has a hole in it. Mary and I got the big window covered. It’s okay.” Elsie let his hand go and said, “I’m bushed. I’ve been chasing folks out of their wrecked houses all afternoon. Some people wanted to spend the night in houses that would cave in if someone sneezed.”

It took Dick by surprise that she leaned in to him just then, pulled herself in with her arms around him. He’d forgotten how short she was, how compact and strong. She put a hand on his chest and tilted her head back. “I’m glad to see you. I’m glad I saw your truck just now.” She touched his cheek. “Come on, Dick. You can be a little glad to see me. A little gladness isn’t going to kill you.”

She kissed him on the cheek. “Okay,” she said, “I don’t mind a more chaste tone, just so long as you’re glad to see me.”

Dick said, “Yeah, I’m glad to see you.”

Elsie said, “In spite of yourself,” and shook his upper arm. He’d forgotten she had tomboy gestures like that, especially when she was in uniform. They were as surprisingly off center as when she got dolled up in lipstick and her backless dress.

“Oh,” she said, “Captain Texeira’s back. He stopped by to see Miss Perry.”

“Did he leave flowers?”

Elsie laughed. “Yes. I don’t know where he found any, but he did.” Elsie added, “Oh, hey, could you do me a favor? While it’s still light enough?”

What Elsie wanted was to go into the salt marsh with his truck. She said, “I know you know where the old causeway is.” She laughed. “I want to get something I saw from the beach.”

They drove into the bird sanctuary and then out onto the marsh, slithering a little in the debris that had caught on the slight rise made by the submerged slabs and boulders of the old causeway. They got to the little plateau of marsh where the Spartina patens gave way to Spartina alterniflora , a little salt meadow between the salt marsh and the back of the dunes.

Dick turned the truck so the beams shone where Elsie pointed.

“Do you see it?” Elsie said. “There it is. The blue canoe.”

Dick shut off the light and they walked out to it, their feet squeezing up water through the matted stalks. Dick called to Elsie, who was ahead of him, to slow down. “There may be some funny holes in here.” She waited for him and took his hand. They walked another fifty yards, steadying each other hand in hand, but when they got close, Elsie hurried ahead.

She walked around the canoe bent over, her hands on the gunwales.

“I don’t believe it! It’s whole!” Elsie’s voice sounded girlish. “It must have just surfed up here on the surge. Or sailed along in the wind. And caught here in the grass. When you think of everything else that’s smashed …”

Dick peered toward Sawtooth Pond. In the evening light he could just make out the silhouette of the rocks on Sawtooth Island. He said, “It must be a mile from the point.”

Elsie came round to his side of the canoe and began to cry, holding on to him like a crying child.

After a bit Dick said, “What is it? What is it, Elsie?” He thought she might be about to tell him she was pregnant. He felt his worry about her turn, just a little shift that changed it from being hard-pressed and taut to being tender.

Elsie said, “Jesus. I don’t know why.… I’ve only cried two times in ages, and both times it’s been with you.”

Dick shifted his foot that was getting wet in the hole it had made.

Elsie said, “Maybe you’re the only person I know who’s as tough as I am, maybe that’s why.”

“I don’t think so.”

Elsie wiped her eyes. “This was just old, old stuff. Sally and me. And poor old Mr. Bigelow. And everything.”

Dick said, “I thought you were going to tell me you’re pregnant.”

He was instantly sorry. She went stiff and turned away.

After a bit he said, “Here, you sit in the canoe. I’ll slide you along.”

Elsie sat in the canoe facing him. When Dick pushed it, his feet sank in six inches. The canoe lurched forward a yard, but Dick couldn’t get his feet free, and he fell on his knees. Elsie laughed. Then she said, “Come sit with me for a minute.”

They sat in the seats, facing each other, their hands on the gunwales. Elsie said, “I’m glad we’re here. I like the marsh.”

“Wait till the mosquitoes come out.”

“I think the storm cleared them out,” Elsie said. “How’d you guess I’m pregnant?”

Dick lowered his head.

Elsie said, “I’m glad you guessed.”

Dick had been about to lie a little, tell the truth a little — say that his truck had stalled and he’d heard her talking to Mary Scanlon. He let it go by.

“I’m going to have the baby,” Elsie said. “I want to. I’m glad you’re the father.”

Dick looked up at the sky and got dizzy. Elsie said, “No one will know. Well, Mary will know. And I’ll tell my sister. I don’t have to tell Jack.”

“If you tell your sister, she’ll tell Jack. You can’t be married and not tell.”

Elsie looked surprised. She said, “Does that mean you’ll tell May?”

“I didn’t mean that,” Dick said. “But it seems like I ought to. It might end us.”

“You mean you and May,” Elsie said.

It took Dick a second. He said, “Yes.”

“I don’t want to have an abortion,” Elsie said. “I’ve thought about that, and I won’t do it. I have friends who’ve done it.” She hesitated and said, “I did it once, and I won’t do it again. And I won’t give the baby away. There’s not anything I’m sure of, but I’m surer about this than about anything else.” She leaned forward and put her hands on the thwart between them. “But what I can do is say to the people I have to say something to that I adopted the baby. I’ve talked about that enough so it’ll fly. And I’ll raise the child. I’ve got enough money. And if it’s not enough, one of Jack’s virtues is that he’s generous. If Sally asks him to help, he will. And eventually I’ll have some money from my mother’s side. My father may have some too. And of course Mary will be around. I won’t ask her to pay for the child, but she’ll help with the house. But mainly I can do it myself. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Dick said. “That’s what it comes to. No matter what.”

“Oh, Dick, I know. I know it must seem to you I’m being highhanded.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” Dick said, “I didn’t mean you’re getting your way no matter what. I meant there’s a life no matter what. No matter what you or I think. I got to admit I’ve worried some. I’m still worried about how it’s going to work out if I tell May. If I tell the boys. If they forgive me or don’t forgive me. And I worry how I’ll feel having a kid who’s not in my life. You got pregnant. I got you pregnant. No matter how we say it, you’re pregnant. No matter whether you should have said what you were up to. You were up to something, weren’t you?”

Elsie said, “Yes. I wasn’t as cold-blooded as … I mean, in some ways it was an accident. I could make a case that in the heat of the moment I forgot I was off the pill. And that the next time it should have been okay. But in some way, yes. I knew it might happen. But I’m going to take care of it. That’s what I meant by ‘no matter what.’ I mean to handle it. I’m in a position to take care of—”