Andrea Barrett - The Forms of Water

His throat was dry and sore. Quietly, interrupting the flow of talk, he said, “Henry? Did you happen to get some coffee?”

Henry looked down at the paper sacks. “Of course. I’m sorry.” He dug out a steaming cup and offered it to Brendan. “You want something to eat? I didn’t have much money left, but I got us some fried-egg sandwiches and a couple of Danish.”

“Nothing for me,” Brendan said.

“Marcus?”

“I’d take one of those egg sandwiches. If you’ve got no use for it.”

Bongo sat up and drooled and whined as Marcus and Henry unwrapped their sandwiches. “Why, the poor thing’s hungry,” Marcus said. He plucked the egg from his roll and looked at Henry. “Do you mind?”

“I forgot,” Henry said, looking abashed. “We’ve been driving half the night. Go ahead.” Marcus tossed the egg to Bongo, who snapped it up and then wagged his tail so hard it thumped on the floor. Henry tossed him half a cheese Danish. “You lie down now,” he said. “That’s all you’re getting.” Bongo collapsed, licking his whiskers.

Marcus bit into his empty roll. “So, what are you two doing here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you.”

Brendan’s left hand rose into the air and hung there for a minute before he was conscious of it. He was too tired to talk anymore. Henry spoke for both of them; to Brendan’s surprise, he spoke clearly and well.

“Uncle Brendan never saw the reservoir,” he told Marcus. “He left before the dam was finished, even before they’d cleared most of the valley, and he wanted to see what it looks like now. And he wanted to show me the place where I was born. Da — my grandfather, you might have known him—”

“Sure, I knew him. He was a fine man.”

“Da had some land in East Pomeroy, outside the reservoir, that he gave to my father and Uncle Brendan — maybe you’ve seen it, if you visited my parents. We thought we’d go take a look at the part Uncle Brendan hung on to, if we can find it.”

Marcus nodded. “That’s nice land. That’s a nice bit of woods.”

Brendan raised his head. “You know it? Still? You know where it is?” It was meant, he thought. It was meant to be. He should have understood.

“Of course I do,” Marcus said. “It’s my job.”

“What job?” Henry said. “You have a job?”

“Sure. I was just telling your uncle. I have a part-time job at the new reservoir Visitors’ Center. Nice park — you ought to see it. Nice building, nice people. These kids fresh out of college put together exhibits about the valley’s history, and what things were like before the reservoir, and I’m who they ask about the old times. I am the old times. They’ve dug up all these pictures and things and they want to know who the people were, and where the houses used to be, and … you know.” Marcus laughed. “I have a desk there, nameplate and all. Not bad for an old coot.”

“But the land,” Brendan said. “My land?”

“It hasn’t gone anywhere.” Marcus turned to Henry. “Of course the cabin where your folks lived — that’s been gone for years, someone bought that piece and logged it. But the chunk east of where the cabin used to be is still sitting there, untouched and as pretty as you please. I used to walk up there, wishing your father weren’t gone and wondering what happened to the rest of your family — no one ever heard from your grandparents after they moved. Your grandfather was so furious at the way things had turned out that he turned his back on everything here. And then you kids just vanished after the accident … oh, it’s nice up there. You ought to see it.”

Henry’s face was radiant with enthusiasm and greed, and Brendan groaned to himself. The land was how he’d lured Henry here, and he did want Henry to see it; he wanted to see it himself. But that wasn’t all, or even most, of what he wanted. He wanted to see the water; he wanted, somehow, to see his lost home and his lost abbey. Henry said, “I know you’re busy — but is there any chance you could take us up there?”

Before Marcus could answer, Brendan said, “We can find it ourselves. I’ll recognize the roads.”

“But this would be so much easier,” Henry said.

“But—” Brendan said. It was wrong, all wrong — he didn’t want to impose on Marcus, and he’d wanted to see the reservoir alone. He’d had to have Henry because he needed a driver, but to add Marcus as well, as some sort of guide — he might as well go on a tour. He said, “And anyway, we want to see the reservoir, too. There are some places I particularly want to visit.”

“No problem,” Marcus said. “I’m supposed to go into work this morning and give a little talk to the Sunday tourists, but I’ll just call and cancel, tell them I met some old friends. Then we could drive up the east side. There’s a place near one of the gates, a little point where we can see the part of the reservoir that covers what used to be Pomeroy. It’s right near your family’s land — you can both see what you want.”

Henry turned to Brendan. ‘“Wouldn’t that be great? Who would have thought this would work out so well?”

He had no sense of curiosity at all, Brendan thought. No sense of wonder. For the first time since leaving St. Benedict’s, Brendan felt overwhelmed. He had bribed Henry without thinking of the consequences, borrowed the van without thinking who might be upset, directed their way here without thinking what they might do when he arrived. He hadn’t allowed for coincidences that might not be coincidental.

He closed his eyes and sighed and willed himself to accept whatever might come. This trip wasn’t in his hands anymore and perhaps it never had been. He imagined the van as a skin-covered curragh, the road as an ocean, Henry and Marcus as his guides, and Bongo as the long-legged hound who led the monks to food and water on the first island Brendan’s patron saint had found. He thought, I will see what they show me. I will go where they take me. He opened his eyes and said, “Wonderful. Lead on.”

THE WOMAN AT THE DESK INSIDE THE VISITORS’ CENTER WORE a light green blouse decorated with an embroidered patch. The patch reproduced the molded-plastic relief map mounted on the wall — green for the valleys, blue for the rivers, yellow for the hills — and as Wendy stood there, unable to think of what she wanted to say, her eyes wandered from the patch to the map and back. The woman seemed mildly pleasant, more or less patient. She touched the patch that had caught Wendy’s eye and said, “Pretty, isn’t it? It’s a reproduction of the valley topography before they built the reservoir.”

“Pretty,” Wendy echoed faintly. Who were “they”? The patch made her head spin, as did the huge bumpy map and the displays and photographs lining the walls. There were pictures of men dwarfed by a half-built dam, trees stacked like bundled chopsticks, buildings being wheeled away on trailers. She thought of her own home vanishing by a similar sleight of hand, the house jacked up and moved and the weary yard sinking below a sheet of water that would cover all her past mistakes. For the first time since her mother’s phone call, she had a glimpse of why Grunkie might want to visit this place. The reservoir, she thought, had sliced a clean cut through his old life and set him free to live another. She would have given anything for a similar close to her past.

“Is there something I can help you with?” the woman asked.

Wendy opened her mouth, still not sure what she wanted to say. Before she could speak, Roy elbowed past her and said, “We’re looking for this land.”

“What land would that be?”

“My friends’ great-uncle,” Roy began, but Wendy pushed him aside, furious at his interference.