Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

“Was that okay?” she says to George Ray on the drive home.

“She asked you a lot of questions.”

“Not too many.”

The radio towers blink on the horizon, starlike in their fixity. When Maggie speaks again, she feels detached from her words.

“In the kitchen, Lenka told me I should have an abortion.” She keeps her eyes on the road as he turns to her.

“I didn’t know there was a baby.”

“There might not be. Fletcher thinks I’m just stressed.”

George Ray ponders this information while scanning the dashboard as if scrutinizing lines printed there. “Why would she suggest abortion? Because you aren’t married?”

“Actually,” she replies, “Lenka seemed more concerned that you were the father.”

He gives a surprised laugh that stutters into silence. “You must be glad your man is returning soon,” he says finally.

“Yes.” But she doesn’t hear gladness in her voice. “And soon you’ll be home. You’ll get to see your family.”

To this he doesn’t respond.

At the turnoff for the road to Harroway, there’s the noise of the tires transferring from pavement to gravel. A minute later Maggie steers them up the farmhouse driveway. Once the camper’s at rest, she and George Ray exit on their separate sides. As they cross over in front of the vehicle, she makes herself busy rifling through her purse.

“Good night,” he says.

“Oh! Right. Good night.” They stand facing each other until awkwardly she puts out her hand. He shakes it with an exaggerated pump. “Sleep well,” she says, starting up the porch stairs. At the top, she turns to find him in the same place as before. “You okay?”

“Yes. I was just thinking.”

“Do you want to come in for tea? No, of course. Sorry, I shouldn’t—”

“It’s just that it’s late.”

“Yes.”

“Maybe one cup,” he says.

She smiles, fumbles to get her key in the door while he climbs the stairs. When she gestures for him to enter, he hesitates.

“What is it?” she says.

“Nothing.” But still he won’t go in. Finally she reaches up, takes his head in her hands, and turns his face to meet hers.

“Hello,” she says.

“Hello.”

As if in response to their greetings, there’s a meow. They look down to see the grey cat circling their feet and brushing against their ankles. George Ray bends to pick him up and rocks him against his chest. When she goes to pet him, Elliot pushes his cheek into her fingers.

“You take him tonight,” says George Ray.

“No, it wouldn’t work. I’ve tried. He just yowls to go outside. He likes you more.” She glances back into the house. “Will you—”

“I should go,” he says, setting Elliot down. “You know?”

She swallows before putting on a smile. “Sure, of course. Good night, then.”

She watches until he has disappeared around the side of the house. Then the cat bounds down the porch steps and sets off after him.

The next morning, she tells herself she didn’t do anything wrong. If she confessed it all to Fletcher, he’d only praise her for being sociable. It isn’t true, though. He wouldn’t be glad to know about her holding George Ray’s face, feeling his cheekbones, and taking in those sad eyes. For that matter, what did George Ray think of it? During breakfast, she sits by the window watching the lawn. When she spots him, she hurries out to ask if he’ll be eating dinner in the house tonight, trying to make it sound like an everyday, ordinary question. He answers that he will be and he seems relaxed, but it doesn’t stop her worrying.

She calls the doctor’s office at nine, only to be told by the secretary that the results still aren’t in; there’s been a problem at the lab. Probably they won’t need a retest, but it could take another week. “So why are you telling people I’m pregnant?” Maggie wants to ask, but she can’t bring herself to do it. When she steps on the bathroom scales, they say she’s gained another pound.

She spends the morning in the garden among the pumpkins, less because they need tending than for the sake of a distraction. Her hands and knees grow slick with muck, while her feet bang around in her rubber boots until they blister and the blisters pop. For a long time she watches the bird feeder near the house, which has become an airport for chickadees, each one winging in and pecking for its seed before bursting away to eat in a private place. There’s a desire to record them that she regrets, because such wishes take her back to the box of Super 8 equipment sitting someplace in Boston.

No sign of George Ray. Perhaps last night was too much for him and he’s left for good—except he has no car and presumably no money, so until Morgan Sugar pays for his ticket home next month, he might as well be a captive here. And what of her? The camper van is Fletcher’s, and the money in the bank is mostly his. Next week October will arrive and he’ll return. He’ll help her harvest the pumpkins, which should bring them some cash, and he’ll be impressed by how little she has spent since he left. By that point she’ll have heard from her father, too.

She thinks she hears the phone ringing. As she runs toward the farmhouse, the popped blisters make her wince. Then the ringing stops.

Maybe Lenka’s right. Maybe she should have an abortion.

Yia Pao and Gordon lay huddled on the ground with Xang between them, besieged by rain. They have covered themselves with banana leaves, but all three are shivering. Yia Pao gives loud, hacking coughs, and every few seconds Xang whimpers.

“Can you sleep?” asks Gordon. Yia Pao says he can’t. “Neither can I. Let’s keep going.”

They continue on through knee-high mud. After a few miles Yia Pao takes off his boots to inspect his feet. They’re covered with bruises and pus-filled pockets of infection. Gordon raises his pant leg and finds half a dozen leeches fixed to his calf. When he tries to pull one off, the body elongates, then snaps, while the mouth remains dug into his flesh and blood streams from the wound. Yia Pao gestures for him to keep moving.

They hear the river before they see it. The water runs high and coffee brown through a narrow gorge, the banks rocky on both sides. At the edge, they fall on their knees to drink, Xang crying on the ground behind them. Then Yia Pao scoops water into his palms and brings it to his son’s mouth.

“If we can get to the other side, they’ll have a hard time tracking us,” says Yia Pao. But the river is too deep and quick to ford, so for a mile they follow it downstream until the track dead-ends. The water is calmer here, and someone has strung a thick rope from one bank to the other. Still, the current looks powerful.

Gordon offers to carry the baby across. He points out that he’s taller than Yia Pao and in better health, but Yia Pao insists that he’s the father and will take responsibility. Finally Gordon relents and starts for the other side. The rope is slimy, and he gasps that the water is freezing. A few feet out, it paralyzes him. Yia Pao has to urge him onward.

In the middle, he stumbles and loses his footing. His head submerges; the noise of the world is reduced to an underwater roar. When he comes up sputtering, Yia Pao shouts to him from the bank, and he calls back that he’s all right, clinging to the rope in the same way the leech stayed fastened to his skin.

After dragging himself onto the far shore, he looks back and sees Yia Pao is already more than halfway across, the water up to his chest, holding Xang with one arm while hooking the rope with the other. It seems he’ll manage it on his own, but as he draws near he gives a shout, and Gordon rushes back into the water. He tries to reach for the baby while still grasping the rope. Yia Pao tips forward and pushes Xang into Gordon’s chest. The force sends Gordon underwater once more. When he comes back up, he’s holding on to the rope and infant at once. But Yia Pao is gone.