Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

The rest of June passes by on television. During the day they occupy themselves with cutting away the dead limbs of cherry trees and planting vegetables in a corner of the backyard, and on weekends they drive the countryside in search of lawn sales from which to furnish the house and barracks, but the evenings are spent in front of the little metal spaceship with its screen aglow. Whether they watch the local channel or the ones from Buffalo, it doesn’t matter, it all seems to be about America: the Libertarian Party convention, Angela Davis’s acquittal, the break-in at Democratic offices. Their country has moved on without them, but television lets them peek back in at their leisure.

Whenever Maggie tries to read the copy of Middlemarch she picked up at a yard sale, the sound and images from the TV keep tempting her eyes from the page. It’s better when everyone gathers in the playroom to watch the latest film she’s shot. Those nights they eat bowls of popcorn, and Fletcher makes shadow puppets between the reels. Maggie hasn’t yet figured out how to match the film with the audiotapes she’s recorded, so the four of them take turns doing each other’s voices. Afterward, Brid and Fletcher compliment her camerawork, and Maggie’s relieved, because each day she picks up the camera expecting one of them will say it’s a frivolous thing to do. She wonders how long they’ll let her get away with it.

Often, after dinner, Fletcher spends long hours in the kitchen with the telephone receiver cradled under his chin, bribing and cajoling friends into coming up. None of them arrives, and there’s no sign of Wale. Still, Brid and Pauline remain at the farm, and nobody mentions Brid’s threat to leave. No one asks Maggie about her father, either. She hasn’t heard from him again, and she should be glad, but she finds herself contemplating a call to Gran, just to make sure he’s all right. She never did send a reply to Gran’s letter.

In the last week of June, they watch on television as Hurricane Agnes arrives in America. The storm rains and rains over Pennsylvania until rivers break their banks, levees are overtopped, and thousands flee their homes. Maggie takes in the images, hears the statistics about the dead and displaced, then goes about her business in the orchard sunshine. But that night the storm escapes the television set. Suddenly it’s outside the house, rattling the gutters, still raging after many inland miles, vengeful over a crime no one remembers committing. Lakeshore towns nearby are flooded, while the slimy creek at the back of the property swells into gouts of dirty water. The farmhouse roof springs a dozen leaks, everyone scurries for pots and buckets, and hourly Maggie makes the rounds to empty them. When the power goes out, they play cribbage and crazy eights by candlelight. The next morning Maggie stands at the bedroom window, still in her nightgown, and films the wind as it presses the cherry trees toward the ground. By the time the storm has passed, countless branches lie strewn about the orchard, a new multitude of automobile parts spread among them. The outhouse has been flattened, and the vegetables Maggie planted are drowned. It should be considered a disaster. Yet when the rain abates and she steps outside to film the ruins, she does so gladly.

A few days later, George Ray turns up at the door carrying a battered suitcase. Everyone files onto the porch to meet him, Fletcher pumping his hand energetically, Brid giving him a pasted-on smile that makes her reservations clear. Pauline hides behind her mother’s knees and refuses to say hello, while Maggie hangs back and listens to Fletcher talk about the damage from the hurricane.

“George Ray, what would you like for dinner?” Maggie asks after a time. For some reason the question seems to fluster him.

“That’s kind of you,” he says, not meeting her eyes, “but I won’t be able to join you tonight.”

“He’s going to live in the barracks,” Fletcher explains, then starts down the stairs as if to flee any questions. “Come on, George Ray, let’s get you moved in.”

“He isn’t staying in the house?” says Brid.

“It was something he decided,” replies Fletcher defensively.

“Don’t worry,” says George Ray, smiling at Brid and then at Maggie. “It’s better for me this way.”

Brid bites her lip and says nothing more, but at dinner, when George Ray stays true to his word and doesn’t join them, she demands that Fletcher explain what’s going on.

He shrugs. “A religious thing, maybe? Honestly, it was his idea.”

“Well, it looks terrible, him out there and all the white folks in here.”

“Who cares how it looks?” he says, tossing his fork onto his plate. “There’s nobody here to see it. Let’s just be glad we have him.”

The rest of the meal passes in silence. After Pauline has been put to bed, the top story on the TV news is Nixon’s announcement that no more draftees will be sent to Vietnam. Maggie lets out a cheer, but Fletcher and Brid stare at the screen with ashen faces.

“That’s great, isn’t it?” says Maggie, confused.

“It’s awful,” replies Fletcher. “It means no one else is coming up here.”

“Of course they’ll come,” Maggie says.

“Nope, we’re screwed,” says Brid. She stands with the pillow she’s been clutching, then tosses it into Fletcher’s lap.

“But things down south are getting worse,” insists Maggie. “People know that.”

“Sleep well, you two,” says Brid, disappearing into the hall. “Don’t run off and leave the country before I’m up to join you.”

Gordon hurries through the jungle with Yia Pao’s baby boy wailing in his arms, Xang eight months old and too heavy to let Gordon run very long while carrying him. The trail has grown slick with rain. Again and again Gordon falls, taking the earth hard with his shoulder because he can’t let go of the child. When his red bandana slips from his neck and drops to the ground, he doesn’t even notice.

There’s no one at the waterfall when he gets there, just the stream of water pouring onto ledge rock. Then someone calls his name, barely loud enough to be heard above the cataract, and he sees Yia Pao step out from a hidden place behind the falls. Gordon goes to him and pushes the crying baby into his arms before bending over at the waist to take deep gulps of air.

“I won’t forget this,” says Yia Pao. He draws Xang close and tries to soothe him. “Did anyone see you?”

Gordon stands straight and shakes his head.

“Your neck,” says Yia Pao.

Gordon frowns and reaches up to touch the thick white scar along his throat. “From the war,” he says. When he sees Yia Pao’s bemusement, he adds, “The one against Hitler.” He tucks his chin toward his collar but isn’t quite able to hide the scar from sight.

“I must leave,” says Yia Pao, and Gordon puts a hand on the other man’s shoulder.

“Go with God,” he says. Then, as if he can’t help himself, he asks, “Why are they after you?”

Instead of answering, Yia Pao draws back. An expression of terror has overtaken him. Gordon has only a moment to turn and glimpse the men in the distance before Yia Pao is pulling him toward the waterfall, into the dark place behind the rushing water.

The chamber is narrow, a wedge of wet air between the falls and a rock face tufted with moss. The light that filters through the water seems to be in motion, running down their clothes and faces.

“Did they see us?” Gordon whispers, but his words are lost in the tumult. Yia Pao is busy with Xang, trying to hush his crying, rocking him almost violently.

There are sounds from outside that could be men’s voices. Gordon tries to peer through the waterfall, but a moment later he recoils. On the other side is a human shape stepping onto the ledge rock. The cries of the baby have ceased. When Gordon looks, he sees that Yia Pao has slipped a hand over Xang’s mouth, and the child’s face is bright red.