Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

Retrieving the first cartridge from the dresser, she lifts its plastic tab, then begins to pull out film by the handful.

It’s amazing that so much can be contained in such a small space, her body and Fletcher’s connecting thousands of times over, destroyed in an instant as she yanks them into day. At some unseen level, chemicals are going crazy. On the bed, Fletcher vamps a while longer before he realizes what she’s doing.

“Hey, why are you—”

At that moment, she reaches the end of the strip. “I changed my mind,” she says, tugging hard and snapping the final length of film in two.

“What’s wrong? Didn’t you like it?” He sounds genuinely confused. “I must be pretty ugly if the idea of watching me is so horrible.”

“Don’t be silly. It’s just not my style.”

Going to him, she tries to smooth out the wrinkles from his forehead. Then his eyes widen as though he has just gained some deep and sobering knowledge.

“Maybe I understand,” he says. “I can’t take a leak when someone’s in the room. Is it the same kind of thing?”

Despite herself, she starts to laugh.

“What? What is it?” he asks, smiling too. “What did I say?”

“Yes, I think you’re right. It’s probably the same kind of thing.”

That night, she tells him it’s too hot and she’s going to sleep downstairs. It’s easier than saying she wants some time alone. When she arrives in the living room, it smells of weed but blessedly lies vacant. She collapses on the couch and tosses for an hour, snatched from the brink of sleep half a dozen times by creaking floorboards and noises from outside.

It’s after two when she hears someone come downstairs. Through the doorway, she glimpses the distinctive profile of Dimitri, his pot-belly overhanging his slim legs as he canters down the hall. At the sight of him she has a ludicrous, uncontrollable impulse. After listening for the sound of the mud room door opening and closing, she gets up to follow him.

From the back of the house, she can see a flashlight’s beam passing over the ground toward the orchard. She slips out to follow. The barracks is dark and silent. When she reaches the trees, there’s enough moonlight for her to make her way while keeping Dimitri well ahead of her. At the wrecking yard wall in the far corner, he comes to a halt. Taking a few more steps, she perceives his outline along with that of the thin girl from next door. They’re pressed together in a kiss.

For the first time, Maggie thinks she should have stayed inside. A second later she snaps a branch underfoot. The two bodies separate, and suddenly the flashlight’s beam is blinding her.

“What are you doing out here?” says Dimitri in an accusing tone.

“That’s the one I told you about,” Maggie hears the girl say. “The one who got heavy with me and Jacqueline.”

Feeling brave, Maggie steps toward them, shielding her face until Dimitri turns the flashlight away from her. “Hello again,” she says. The girl wraps her arms around herself and doesn’t reply. “Just you tonight?” Maggie asks her. “Where’s your friend?”

“Dead,” says the girl sourly. “From smoking that joint last month. It’s your fault for not stopping her. Thanks to you, my best friend is dead from a pot overdose.”

“Knock it off,” Dimitri tells her. To Maggie, he says, “It was her cousin, visiting for the summer. She went back home today.”

“Tell her everything, why don’t you,” mutters the girl.

“Lydia, maybe you should go home,” he says.

“What, because of her?” says the girl, gesturing to Maggie. “We just got here.” Dimitri stares at her until she gives a humph. “Fine, then.” Bending down, she picks up something that has been lying at her feet and hands it to him. Squinting through the night, Maggie realizes it’s an aerosol can. “You can explain this to her.” Before Dimitri has time to react, the girl kisses him on the lips, then turns and passes Maggie without looking at her.

“What does your father think of you coming over here?” Maggie asks. “I thought he didn’t like hippies.” She’s determined not to let the girl have the last word.

“My father’s an idiot,” says the girl. “Tell him everything if you want, I don’t care.” She turns back to face Dimitri. “If you decide to stop being so square, let me know.”

She walks off, following the curve of the wrecking yard wall. Maggie waits for the sound of her footsteps to disappear before addressing Dimitri.

“So that’s what you call looking for your cat?”

“I’ve been doing that too,” he replies.

“Are you sleeping with her?”

“That what George Ray told you?”

“George Ray?” She does her best to sound confused, glad for once of the darkness. “I was on the couch tonight and heard you going out.”

“So you followed me.”

She isn’t going to let him make her feel guilty. “How old is Lydia?” she asks. “Fifteen?”

“Sixteen. So yeah, screwing her would be legal up here, if that’s where your mind’s at. But we’ve just been hanging out.”

A thirty-year-old man hanging out with a teenage girl. He must think Maggie’s an idiot.

“What’s in that?” she asks, gesturing to the can he’s holding.

“Spray paint,” he replies, throwing it to her feet. “She brought it. I don’t know why.” Maggie waits, until he heaves a sigh and says, “The other night I made a joke about writing something on the wall. Maybe she thought I was serious.”

“Kids are impressionable,” she agrees.

“Oh, fuck off.”

Then Maggie remembers her conversation with Rhea in the bathroom and grows angrier. “I can’t believe you’re doing this under Rhea’s nose.”

“She isn’t wife of the year, you know.”

“And trying to get George Ray sent home. You’re such an asshole.”

“He did tell you, didn’t he?”

She doesn’t reply. Instead, she says, “If someone found out about the girl and you’re still seeing her, you’re certifiable.” Then, although it would probably be better not to, she adds, “Are you back to sticking needles in your arms too?”

“Rhea told you, huh?” There’s a wistfulness in his voice.

“She’s worried about you.”

“Sure she is.” Maggie tries to imagine what he and Rhea have been through for him to speak the words with such sadness and incredulity.

“Does Lydia know you’re married?” Maggie asks, and he gives a bark of laughter. “You doing drugs with her?”

“Nothing hard.” In a softer tone, he says, “Listen, if you’ve talked to Rhea, you know things have been tough for us.”

“So now you’re making things tougher?”

“I know I’m messing up.” There’s an ache in his voice. “Maggie, I’m hanging by a thread.”

“Okay,” she murmurs.

“Promise you won’t tell anybody about tonight,” he says, and she hesitates. George Ray made the same vow, and what good did that do?

“You’ll stop seeing the girl?” she asks. It doesn’t feel right to bargain over such things. But Dimitri promises, and all at once there seems nothing else to say.

They start back toward the house together. As they go, she has an urge to extract something more from him, a promise to stop arguing with Fletcher, to drop the complaining about George Ray. It would practically be blackmail. Is that what’s necessary to keep this place together?

They’re almost out of the orchard when Dimitri stops and grabs her arm. “You smell that?”

She inhales and gets a whiff of something awful. “Smells like shit,” she replies.

“Cat shit. John-John. That little bugger’s around here somewhere.” He peers into the branches overhead.