Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

As she gets nearer, she glimpses something she has never noticed before: flashes of scarlet on the wall. Writing done with spray paint. Her first thought is that Lydia Dodd has returned to cause trouble. Then she realizes what the writing says.

In two-foot lettering are the words DIRTY MONEY .

They can’t be referring to what she fears. Lydia couldn’t know what’s in the statue. Maybe it’s a reference to Morgan Sugar. Maybe it’s just an obscure joke.

She starts back toward the house thinking she’ll grab a bucket of paint from the cellar. A few brushstrokes and the words will be gone. Then she won’t have to speculate with anybody about their meaning. She won’t have to imagine someone who knows about the money lurking on the farm at night, seeking to torment her with the knowledge.

Getting rid of it takes half an hour. When she’s finished, she finds Brid lying on the living room couch in her nightie, watching Captain Kangaroo .

“What happened to the other TV?” says Brid, pointing at the new set. It’s plain and boxy, with imitation walnut panels.

“I threw it out,” Maggie replies. “Thought I didn’t need it.” She’s distracted by the sight of Brid’s tangled hair and puffy face. Could Brid have been the one to do it, sneaking outside late at night to paint the words? Maggie can’t imagine why she would, but it seems a strange coincidence that the graffiti should appear the same night as her return. Brid doesn’t look in shape for such a venture, though. She doesn’t look much in shape for anything.

“I look bad, huh?” she says.

“No, same old you,” says Maggie. “But without the sunglasses.”

“Yeah, my eyes are better now that I’m off La Evil.”

The admission feels like an invitation to talk, but Maggie’s mind is still on the graffiti. She wants to check on the money and make sure it’s there. To do that, she needs to get Brid out of the house, and right now it doesn’t feel safe to send her someplace on her own.

When Maggie asks whether she’s hungry, Brid jumps from the couch and proclaims how thoughtless she has been. What would Maggie like? Some tea? A sandwich? It takes a moment for Maggie to accept that Brid isn’t being sarcastic.

“Really, you don’t have to,” she says, but Brid insists. Isn’t that why she came? To take care of her? Maggie agrees to tea, though she doesn’t want it, and Brid heads for the kitchen. A few minutes later she returns, looking troubled and without any tea in evidence.

“I don’t have money,” she says. “I can’t pay for my keep.” She seems genuinely anxious, as if she might be turned out for want of funds. Surely it can’t be that heartbreaking.

“Don’t worry, stay as long as you like,” Maggie says.

“I’m sorry I left,” says Brid, bursting into tears. “I’m so sorry.” Maggie takes her hand and squeezes it. “God, I’m a disaster. I cried when we crossed the border, did you notice?” Maggie says she didn’t. “I feel terrible about your father.” Brid sniffles and collapses onto the couch. “Poor Pauline. Poor little sweetie. You must think I’m rotten. I’ve left my daughter.”

Maggie sits down beside her. “You just needed a break. She’s being looked after, isn’t she?”

“Sure,” replies Brid without conviction. “God, she’ll never forgive me. I’ve fucked her up for life.”

“She’ll be fine,” says Maggie, thinking that once Pauline is reunited with her mother, she’ll probably forget about what happened. Maybe one day it will come flooding out again in front of some encounter group.

Brid seems to have followed her own unspoken train of thought, because her head is cocked in curiosity. “You’re on the pill now? I saw the package in the medicine cabinet before you emptied it out.” She says it without any clear intimation. Still, Maggie feels herself blush.

“It keeps my period steady.” She thinks of adding that it’s a different brand than before, and that so far this one hasn’t bothered her, but she never told Brid about her troubles with the pill in the first place. Then she thinks ahead to another night of George Ray sneaking down the hall or of her crossing the lawn to the barracks in the darkness. “Also,” she says, “George Ray and I have got involved.”

Brid’s face drops, and Maggie rebukes herself. She hasn’t told anyone; she and George Ray made an agreement. Why start with Brid, the last person who should know? She’ll feel passed over; she’ll make a scene. Maggie tries to think of an amendment to undo her mistake. George Ray and I have got involved—with the Kiwanis Club . No, it’s too late. Brid nods as if the news confirms something long suspected.

“His wife doesn’t know,” Maggie adds. “He’s going home in ten days. You’ll keep it quiet?”

Before Brid can respond, Elliot slinks into the room and makes a beeline for her. When she spots him coming, she looks surprised.

“Isn’t that—” she begins, and Maggie nods.

“Yeah, John-John. We call him Elliot now.” Then she adds, “Don’t tell the Centaurs.”

Brid smiles conspiratorially. It’s the first time since the coffee shop in Syracuse that Maggie has seen her smile, but she seems less pleased when the cat begins to rub itself against her shins.

“I’m not a cat person,” she says.

“Too bad. He likes you.”

“Men,” says Brid. “This is always how it starts.”

As if aware that he’s the subject of their conversation, Elliot amuses them by exploring every cranny of the room, taking fright at a splotch of light on the floor, then attacking the armchair. Finally he perches on the sill above the radiator, sphinx-like, eyes closing by degrees. Maggie’s glad of his presence. Talk of cats is safe and harmless. It’s better than speaking of Brid’s troubles, of George Ray, of the words painted on the wrecking yard wall. It’s better than talking about pretty much anything in their lives.

All that morning, George Ray doesn’t appear in the house, as though he really does resent Brid’s arrival. If he does, Maggie can’t blame him for it. The week in Syracuse took her away from him with less than a month left together. Now the final days have been stolen from them too.

When he turns up for lunch, he smells of woodsmoke and seems congenial enough, even saying hello to Brid at the table like he’s missed her. More surprising still, Brid greets him with an equal warmth. Surely neither of them has forgotten the last night they saw each other. Nevertheless, as Maggie slices bread at the counter, they talk like old friends, Brid asking him about the orchard’s prospects, George Ray quizzing her on Nixon’s re-election. Gradually Maggie realizes they’re doing it for her benefit. They want to make things easier on her. But by the time they have finished the meal, her desire to check on the money is nearly overpowering.

“Why don’t you give Brid a tour of the orchard?” she tells George Ray. “I’ll handle the dishes. Show her what we’ve done since September.”

He gives her a baffled look. It’s true, there isn’t much to show.

“Fed up with me already?” says Brid. Maggie starts to protest, but Brid isn’t listening. “Come on, Georgie Porgie, let’s get out of here.” She starts for the mud room, and hesitantly he follows.

As soon as they’re out the door, Maggie hurries upstairs. At the end of the hall she unfolds a stepladder, climbs it, and pushes aside the trap door to the attic. Hoisting herself with a grunt, she wriggles forward on her belly.

The air is musty under the sloping roof, and there’s little light except what comes through a small window at the far end. Apart from the whistling of air through a crack, it’s still and quiet. No floor up here, just rafters with nothing between them but pink insulation and, beneath it, the plaster ceiling of the second-storey rooms. Standing, she curls her toes around the edge of the beam supporting her. The first time she came up here looking for somewhere to stow the statue, it was like that dream she has sometimes where she’s back in Syracuse and discovers whole new rooms in Gran’s house that she never realized were there. Now the rest of the farmhouse grows faint and distant as she takes in the things abandoned here over the years. A coat rack, a washtub, stacks of yellowed newspapers, jars full of an amber liquid that could be moonshine or maple syrup. There are fishing rods, broken hockey sticks and snow shovels, half-empty cans of motor oil. A tricycle has been propped against the wall with streamers on the handlebars and its front wheel missing. Affixed to a dartboard hanging from the roof is a photograph of Joe McCarthy, his face perforated many times over and barely recognizable. In the corner is one of Maggie’s few additions to the place, the bassinet purchased at the yard sale. It’s been there a month, yet already it has the same dusty, abject countenance as everything else.