Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

It isn’t the beginning she imagined. She thought crossing over would feel exhilarating. She imagined they might enter at Niagara Falls. Fifteen years have passed since the time her father took her there, but she still remembers the bellow and crash of the water, the jagged rocks and hovering rainbow. Today, when she woke up in the passenger seat and realized Fletcher had opted for the Lewiston bridge instead, she couldn’t help feeling disappointed. But then, she’d never voiced her preference, so how was he to know? He’s the first lover she has ever had. Sometimes she worries about putting too much faith in him.

As they finish repacking the camper, she doesn’t ask what happened in the building and he doesn’t tell her; he only seems impatient to get on the road again. It’s enough to allow a shade of doubt back into her mind. No, she’s paranoid. But once they’re driving away, she turns to him and says in a breezy tone, “You didn’t actually hide anything in the camper, right?”

He shoots her a look of disbelief.

“It would have been funny if you had, that’s all,” she says, giving a little laugh. He doesn’t respond, and she feels the seat’s ripped vinyl digging into her back.

“The man inside told me it could have been worse,” says Fletcher. “He said sometimes when they do inspections they take apart the engine too.”

She decides not to ask him who’ll pay for the seats to be repaired. They drive on in silence. Then, a few miles down the road, he says, “When we get to the farm, don’t tell Brid what happened, all right?”

Maggie frowns. “Why not?”

“It was a hard sell getting her to come up here. You know how she feels about cops. I don’t want her taking against the place.”

“But she’ll see what they did to the seats.”

“Oh. I guess that’s right.”

She dislikes seeming to correct him. His face always gains such a downhearted expression when she does. It happened one time after he pronounced “peony” the wrong way and she mentioned it didn’t rhyme with “macaroni.” In March, after he told his father about dropping out of law school, he wore the same chastened expression for a month. Now she studies the shape of his eyes, his mouth, willing him not to take things personally. He holds still, apparently aware of her gaze, until finally he starts to squirm and laugh as if her eyes are tickling him.

On a whim, she slides her fingers into his lap.

“Why hello there,” he murmurs. But she can tell he isn’t into it.

“You okay?” she says, drawing back her hand.

“Sure. Still a bit wound up, I guess.” He reaches over to squeeze her leg. “It’s only a few more miles. If Brid and Pauline aren’t there yet …” He flashes her a grin.

“Oh, really,” she says, brightening. “Tell me more.”

“Maggie, I’m a gentleman,” he says, feigning indignation.

“Then tell me what it will be like on the farm,” she says. She doesn’t want him stewing over what happened at the border.

“Aw, we’ve talked about things plenty, haven’t we?”

“I want to hear it again.”

He takes a breath and smiles. “Well, it’s going to be amazing. Up here, there won’t be any war or election, and we’ll get to make the rules ourselves. At first, we’ll help Brid and Wale look after Pauline—it’ll be four parents for one kid. Then, after Dimitri and Rhea turn up with their boys—” He breaks off. “You know all this. You really want to hear it?”

She nods, but she has a thought. “Wait a second. Let me get the movie camera and the tape recorder.”

He looks surprised. “Now? We aren’t even there yet.”

She’s thinking that the border wasn’t the right way to start, but maybe with the camera they can have a second chance.

“Pull over,” she says. “It won’t take more than a minute.”

“The turnoff’s only a mile away.”

“Yeah, but I want to get started right now.”

The first shot follows the camper van down a country road as its tires swim through the heat haze. Next, the camera gazes out from the passenger-side window, capturing clusters of bungalows, rows of grapevines and peach trees with the sun strobing between them. The scene is tranquil but the camera shaky. There’s the low thrum of the vehicle’s engine and, from outside the frame, the sound of Fletcher’s voice.

“America’s too far gone to save,” he says. “The land’s polluted and the politicians are corrupt. They send the army to slaughter kids halfway around the world, then order up the National Guard when people protest. In this country we’ll do things differently. We’ll live peacefully and fairly. We’ll get people from all over, people who want to escape the city, who are sick of the crime, the rat race, who want their children to breathe clean air. The farm will let us provide for ourselves. We’ll grow our own food and sell what we don’t eat. Eventually we’ll make enough money to buy the place. It’ll be a life we could never have in Boston. We’ll be a model for everyone.”

The camera pans away from the landscape and across the dashboard before settling on his face. When he turns toward the lens, he crosses his eyes and blows a kiss. There’s the sound of some unseen object bumping against the microphone.

“How was that?” he says. “Hey, why don’t you drive and I’ll film you?”

“It’s okay,” says Maggie. “Let’s keep on the way we are. I’m just getting the hang of it.”

She films him until they leave the highway for a gravel road. Then she puts away the camera, wanting to see properly what’s ahead. There’s only one other house along the half-mile stretch, a mobile home with a gated lane. Soon afterward they reach a dead end and the driveway to the farmhouse. The building is red brick with gabled dormers and a broad porch. An overgrown lawn sprawls in all directions. Fifty yards behind the house, countless rows of cherry trees begin.

“Fletcher, it’s gorgeous,” she says, and he beams.

Once he has brought the camper to a stop, they exit on their separate sides, Fletcher stretching out his long legs, Maggie pulling her dress away from her body where it clings. For a time they stand there looking at the house. Then they exchange a loud, playful kiss and start up the porch stairs. At the door, he pats under the welcome mat, but there’s nothing to be found.

“Maybe Brid and Pauline got here ahead of us,” he says.

“There’s no car,” she points out. “Wale, maybe?”

He hollers Wale’s name. No one answers, so he goes around behind the house while Maggie lights a cigarette and retreats down the steps to take in the place again. The roof is missing a few shingles, and the eavestrough is held up at one end by a loop of wire. In the middle of the lawn, an old wooden sign reads Harroway Orchards . At the entrance to the driveway there’s a mailbox on a post, and beside it stands something obscured by the shadow of a tree. When she looks closer, she realizes it’s a man. Tentatively she waves at him, but he doesn’t seem to notice her, only starts along the gravel road toward the highway.

From behind the house, there’s the sound of breaking glass. Fletcher doesn’t respond to her calling, so she stamps out her cigarette and starts after him. A moment later the porch door rattles open and there he is, licking a cut on his hand.

“First order of business,” he announces, “replace the back window.”

When she goes to examine his wound, he dips and catches her just above the knees, lifts her off her feet, and heads for the door.

“It’s not like we got married,” she says, laughing. With a grunt, he carries her across the jamb and sets her down.

Inside, the foyer is dim and cramped. On the left, a wide staircase leads to the second floor; on the right, there’s a corridor with a few nails protruding from the walls. He starts searching for a light switch, but she takes his hand with a wink and leads him upstairs. Pink roses stare from the wallpaper as they ascend. At the top, Fletcher takes delight in pointing out the hardwood floor, the rectangles of natural light falling from open doorways.