Robert McGill - Once We Had a Country

By the time they get their shoes on to follow, she’s disappeared. Neither George Ray nor Maggie has thought to grab a flashlight, so once they enter the orchard, the way becomes treacherous. They’re crossing flat ground, yet it seems to rise like a mountain beneath them. The blinking lights of the radio towers on the horizon have the coldness of stars. Maggie keeps thinking they’ve found Brid and turns out to be wrong. The kneeling figure is just a propane tank; the person swinging from a rope is a rubber tire.

Before Brid comes into sight, they hear her cursing as she bumps into things. Once they reach her, Maggie hugs her with relief.

“He’s out here,” says Brid.

Maggie looks around and sees only the farmhouse lights along with a bright blue moon fending off clouds. When she asks who it is, Brid says she doesn’t know, and Maggie can’t help but feel doubtful. “Just one person? Are you sure—”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“Could have been a deer,” says George Ray.

“You think I don’t know the difference?”

He gazes into the night. “No good being out here without lights. Best call the police.”

Maggie agrees and suggests they go back to the house. Brid says she isn’t leaving when someone’s on the property.

“You’re not even wearing shoes—” Maggie begins.

“I’ll stay,” says George Ray. “You two go inside. If he’s here, I’ll find him.”

Maggie shouldn’t be angry. George Ray’s just trying to help. But his willingness to sacrifice his last night with her is hurtful. When he starts off through the trees, she has the feeling that this is the true leaving. Eighteen hours from now, the farm will be nothing more than a speck below his plane. He’ll be free of Canada and on the way back to his wife.

As soon as Maggie’s in the house, she wants to set out again and find him, but she dares not leave Brid alone, so they watch television and Maggie fidgets. After a few minutes Brid turns to her.

“Go,” she says.

Maggie’s unsure of what she means.

“Go out to him,” says Brid. “I’m sorry, I should have said it sooner. I’ll be fine.”

Maggie studies her face to see if it’s some kind of trick. Then she stands with a grateful smile, drapes an afghan over Brid’s shoulders, and heads back to the orchard, this time with a flashlight. She finds George Ray sitting on a stump near the wrecker’s wall, his hands shoved in his pockets and his collar turtled over his ears.

“Come inside,” she says. “What are you doing out here? It’s our last night.” Her tone is more imploring than she’d like.

“I’ve been praying,” he replies.

Praying. He has never talked about doing such a thing. Why would he pray now? They still haven’t spoken about Velma’s phone call yesterday.

“Pray later,” she says, tugging on his sleeve in a way she hopes is humorous. “You’ll always have God, you won’t always have me.”

He only draws his chin further down and mumbles into his collar. “You don’t want me in there. You want the place to yourself. I’ve seen the way you’re getting it ready—tidying up, making it how you like it.”

The words strike her like a slap. “That isn’t what I’m doing. I’m just trying to cope with you leaving.”

He doesn’t seem to register what she has said. “What happens if you find some other fellow this winter?” he complains. “What if your man Fletcher turns up? Probably he’ll tell you not to hire Jamaicans anymore.”

Is this what George Ray has been thinking? “I’m going to bring you back,” she insists.

“You say that now.”

“Why are you acting like this?” The pain of it is nearly physical. “We both understood how things were going to be. It’s what you wanted.”

“How do you know that? Never asked me. You make all the decisions yourself.” His words have a growing unreality. “You haven’t even farmed before. By the time I’m back here, you could bankrupt the place.”

Why is he talking about money? Could he know what’s in the statue? Maybe she should just give it to him. She’s had this thought before but figured he would never touch it if he knew its origins. That’s the kind of person she has understood him to be. Right now she isn’t so certain.

“I’m the one being left,” she says. “You’ll go home and have someone in your bed.”

“I know what will happen. In the spring you’ll pay the men too-high wages and think you’re doing them a favour. You’ll feel good about yourself for living off the land while they break their backs to grow your fruit. Then you’ll run out of money and have to send everyone home.”

She doesn’t know how to respond. The shock isn’t just in his saying it but in the possibility that it could be true. She hasn’t asked him for advice, assuming she needs to work out for herself how to manage until he returns. And he hasn’t breathed a word of criticism; he’s just let her go on indulging her fantasies while he’s built up this resentment.

“Canada, the land of plenty,” he mutters. “I got plenty of things from Canada, all right. Got tendinitis, got old, got a wife who sleeps with the neighbour.” He looks at Maggie grimly. “That’s why Velma telephoned last night. She didn’t want a scene at home.” Lowering his eyes, he adds, “Doesn’t want me coming back at all.”

Oh, thinks Maggie. So that’s what’s going on.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “I didn’t have the slightest idea.”

“Neither did I.”

“Are you still going back to Newcross?” she asks, and George Ray nods.

“What else can I do? Work permit’s finished. Government doesn’t care if Velma takes up with the fellow next door. Besides, I have children.” He looks at Maggie with cheerless eyes. “My daughter blames me, you know. On the phone she told me her mama needs a full-time man. How do you think it is to hear your own child tell you that?”

Maggie says again that she’s sorry and draws him against her. “You could emigrate. Bring the children with you—”

“Why would they want to come here? They already have a home.” He starts to pull away. “Let’s go back. We should get to sleep. I have an early flight, remember?”

“Wait, not quite yet. Stay out with me a little more, please? Just for a while?”

He lays his head against her shoulder, and they stand there holding each other, not speaking or moving, while Maggie hopes for some sign to show them a way forward.

In bed beside him just before dawn, waiting for the alarm clock to go off, she realizes why the sick feeling in her gut is so familiar. Seven months ago, she took her father to the airport and said goodbye to him as well. She had returned to Syracuse from Boston in the middle of the week so she could see him off to Laos, hoping that if she made the trip, he’d be more likely to forgive her for not going with him and for planning a move to Canada instead.

The evening before his departure, as they sat in the living room eating dinner from TV trays, it was almost like when she was a girl, except now he was the one who said grace. But the silence afterward was foreboding. When he finally spoke, she fixed her eyes on Bonanza and didn’t take them off.

“You remember that time I lost you at the Veterans Day parade?” There was the clink of his fork settling on his plate. “You were only six.”

“Five and a half,” she said, sensing what was ahead.

“You remember what you said when I found you again?” There was a foolish braveness in his voice, an anticipatory regret, a resentment of her for making him say what he was saying.

“I’d been scared out of my wits,” she said. “All those old men staring at me …”

“You said from then on we should each wear one of your mittens, the ones with the string holding them together.”