Michelle Hoover - Bottomland

The girl stopped. “But I’m her daughter.”

“That’s right.”

“What did you say your name was again?”

“Norma.” My voice grew hoarse. “Norma Byrne.”

“I’ve never heard Mother talk about you.”

“No, you wouldn’t have. She might not want to remember me now.”

The girl shrugged. The buckets must have been heavy. Her fingers reddened where the handles cut. “You sound like her, you know,” she called back. The cows lowed in the barn, and she hurried to answer them, the door behind her swinging shut. Like Nan? I thought. I imagined myself following the girl, asking her to explain — but I didn’t dare step away from the car for fear it might disappear altogether. Besides, what more could I say?

I drove. Out along the river, where the water ran full and loud. On the banks were violets, sweet williams, bluebells, and bleeding hearts. The Elliot house was gone, nothing but planks in a dry bit of grass. When I passed the Clarks’, three women stood on the porch in matching dresses. They had grown as large as their mother, the Clark sisters, and unmarried by the look of it, but maybe they were happier with that — they had their sisters, after all. When I raised a hand to them, they turned their heads to watch me as I drove on.

If I tried to imagine it again, I might take more time before I left. I might be sure to drop a stone at the door of Lee’s shop. That stone, it would be clean and white. Large enough he would pick it up before he stepped inside. With Lee, I always wanted to tell him no matter what he did, he did right.

But it all must be a dream. The kind I have in the dark when I can’t sleep, and there’s only Charlotte to tell me whether it’s true or not. Because a river only runs in one direction, no matter what.

I walk to the lake. The boardinghouse is behind me, my arms snug to my ribs. There’s a chill, worse than usual for this time of year, but I won’t stop yet. The sun sits far in the west. I turn my back to it. Blocks away, the old Chicago Theatre is long closed, but there’s talk of opening it again. Overhead, the sky has grown dark. When I raise my eyes to look, it blurs. I wonder if it’s a summer cold I have coming on or something more.

“Hello, Mrs. Byrne. How’s that girl of yours?” It’s Josey. He owns the flower shop. Short and squat without a hair on his head, his smile turns his cheeks to baby fat. The shopkeepers like to talk to a person whether they’ve had a bad day or not and they always talk to me — I’m not in a rush.

“She’s not so much a girl anymore, but she does all right.”

He smiles. “I saw it in the paper, her show in London. A director now! I always took a liking to her singing voice, myself.”

“Now she can do both.”

“Sorry her own father can’t see her. I know if she were my daughter, I’d be there in an instant. But you’ve done her straight.”

“I’m afraid I haven’t had much to do with it.”

A widow. That’s what they know me as, thanks to Mrs. Keyes. With her rosary, she prayed the lie would take — and for her, I never said otherwise.

“I’m sure her father misses her now,” Josey says.

“I’m sure he would.” In truth, I have no idea what has become of Tom Elliot, alive or not. Esther’s letters never said, and I’m not sure I care anymore.

Josey hands me yesterday’s newspaper and a single tulip, without its leaves. The newspaper has its coupons cut out, but I’m grateful for it.

“They’ve got a story about the Chicago in there.”

“The river?”

“‘A triumph of engineering,’ they call it. Can you imagine, reversing the current like that?”

I shake my head, the light suddenly bright.

“You okay, Mrs. Byrne?”

“Yes, Josey. It’s just the heat.”

“Good day to you, then.” He takes off his hat.

Mother, it’s such a rush , Greta said last night into the phone. The line ticked, an ocean between us. I never imagined a girl could go so far. I’ll be home in three months , she said. Four tops.

You’ll be home when you’re home , I said.

London is wild. I wish you could see it.

I stood in the hall with the cord bent around the doorframe. Outside, the windows showed little but a brick wall, even the bricks crumbling now. From the kitchen two floors down, Charlotte scolded one of the cats, “I bet you did, you nasty little thing.”

Oh, no , I told my daughter. I’ve seen quite enough .

Today the lake seems more than ten blocks. The streets are nearly empty. At night, the young ones go downtown. Not here, where the workers’ houses used to be. Here, which I’d always thought the heart of the city. When the shopkeepers pull the cages over their storefronts, there’s a roaring in the street, but soon it’s quiet. There’s a man sleeping under his newspapers and I hurry by.

You have to be careful, Mother , Greta says.

But what can they do to an old lady, after everything that’s already been done? Let the young be nervous for their own sake.

The lake swells with little but stones and grass between me and it. The water has flooded its banks. My bench needs a coat of paint, but then everything worth using does. I scratch at the flakes with a fingernail, feel them cut into my thumb. It’s the time of year when the lake is warm as a bath. An old man passes, younger by at least twenty years. He keeps his hands in his pockets and nods at me as if nodding meant something. I shake my newspaper out.

RUDOLF HESS DEAD IN BERLIN

LAST OF HITLER INNER CIRCLE

My word. A suicide, no less. What was it Mrs. Keyes had said? With a name like that, it’s no wonder the man’s a murderer . But that was back in ’47, when they hanged a man by the name of Hoess. A different Rudolph. Hess, Hoess , I could hear Mrs. Keyes saying. What’s the difference? Auschwitz , Charlotte would have said to that. Greta was only twenty-six in ’47 and already in New York. The girl never did bother much with names. In every school production she changed what she called herself, as if trying on a new coat. But in New York, they might have second-guessed if Greta had gone by Hess instead of Byrne .

The men are dead. I don’t believe Greta ever knew we had such an ugly name. I had never thought it ugly myself.

Margrit Hess , Father had insisted for the top of Mother’s stone. We children hoped to have the word Mother listed first. Still we were far too young to get a say in something like that. We buried Mother in the northernmost field, close enough for her to hear the river — if hearing she wanted. It took Ray and Father a full day of digging, and not even Lee to help. Lee, who traveled two weeks on a boat and three days on a train once the telegram was sent. If he hadn’t gone to war, it would have been Lee who built the box, Lee who did most of the digging. As it was, the grave wasn’t very deep. Lee was sorry about that when he got back. We laid our flowers on the mound. At her head, a block of slate. Mother , it read, though second to her name. When Charlotte and I buried Mrs. Keyes, we inscribed Mother on it as well. I took it hard losing her, but Charlotte took it worse. The word Friend didn’t seem enough for either of us.

A tap on my shoulder. “Norma?” The name isn’t anything but a fly at my ear. “Norma?” again. And then the name I know better, the sound that fills me with something else altogether: “Myrle?” I turn my head. Charlotte stands behind me with a coat thrown over her nightdress and slippers on her feet. With her hair drained of color, she looks a ghost. The sun has set. The waves in the lake are quiet. There’s a moon as yellow as a stone. It’s the only way I can see her at all.