Dedication

DEDICATION

For Leigh and Henry Bienen

Epigraph

EPIGRAPH

My first act of freedom will be to believe in freedom.

—WILLIAM JAMES

One

ONE

It was a night of patchy dreams, strangers’ voices, rain hammering on the tarpaper roof close overhead. Before Marya was awake she could see through her trembling eyelids her mother’s swaying figure in the doorway; she could hear a hoarse level murmuring—not words, not recognizable words, only sounds. Her mother’s angry breath catching in her throat. Half sobbing. Coughing. Earlier, through much of the long night, Marya had been hearing voices and footsteps outside the house, the noise of car motors, car doors slamming shut, the churning of tires in gravel. She waited for her father’s raised voice—he often shouted if somebody was backing out of their driveway crooked, headed for the deep ditch by the road—but she hadn’t heard him. She had heard her mother instead.

Several times during the past summer Marya had wakened frightened from sleep—there were often men in the house, her father’s friends, co-workers, union organizers—and she’d run out of the house to hide in the cab of a derelict pickup truck in the field next door. She was safe there in the truck: she could sleep on the seat until morning, nobody would know she was gone. Once, when she’d been particularly frightened at the loud drunken talk and laughter, she had taken her brother Davy with her—but he cried too much, he wet his pajamas like a baby, she hated him sucking his thumb the way he did and nudging his head up against her. She wasn’t sure if she cared what happened to him: him or the new baby either.

“You! You and you and you! I don’t give a shit about you, I wish you were all dead,” Marya’s mother once screamed at them, but right away afterward she said she was sorry. She hugged them, kissed them all over like crazy; “You know I didn’t mean it,” she said, and Marya believed her.

Once when Marya slept out in the truck her father had found her. It was freezing cold: her teeth chattered and her fingers and toes were turning blue. Her father hadn’t been angry, in fact he had laughed, poking his head and shoulders through the rust-rimmed window of the truck to peer at her upside down. “Hey, what’s this? What the hell kind of hiding place is this?” Marya was his favorite, he liked to run his fingers through her curly hair, playing a little rough, teasing: but he never meant to make her cry when he was teasing. Another time, though, Marya’s mother was the one to find her in the truck and she hadn’t thought it was funny at all. It was a new trick of Marya’s. Something Marya did to spite her, to shame her. Another thing that required punishment—a succession of hard quick slaps, a blow to the buttocks with her fist. “We’re not animals,” Marya’s mother said, her face flushed dark with blood, “we don’t sleep out in the fields like animals!”

In Shaheen Falls they stared, they talked, and Marya’s mother knew though she couldn’t always hear. Such people, they said, hill people, whispering, staring. Marya was lost in Woolworth’s, separated from her mother and Davy, so she ran up and down the aisles, wild, panting, half sobbing, bumping into people, pushing her way through a knot of women shoppers, using her fists, even butting with her head. “Isn’t she a little savage,” someone said in disgust, “just look at her, those eyes. . . .”

Marya clapped her hands over her eyes and disappeared: she couldn’t see anybody then and they couldn’t see her. She just disappeared—the way dreams do when a light is switched on.

“Wake up,” Marya’s mother was saying.

“Wake up,” she said, her voice rising impatiently, “we’re going out.”

Marya heard the rain still hammering on the roof, dripping from the eaves. At the corner of the house the rain barrel would be overflowing. The smells were of tarpaper, asbestos siding, kerosene, rain-rotted wood. . . .

Marya was watching her father back out of the driveway, one arm on the back of the seat, the other snaked around the steering wheel. He gunned the motor so hard that the Chevy’s chassis rocked and the rear bumper struck the gravel. She and Davy were playing in the rain, trying to jump over the longest puddle without getting their feet wet; but they were already wet. When the mud dried on Marya’s legs she picked it off like scabs, which was maybe why her mother was so angry. “Stop touching yourself, stop picking at yourself, you kids are driving me crazy—”

Marya’s mother was hunched over the bed, shaking her by the shoulders. The overhead light that Marya hated had been switched on, a single naked bulb that made her eyes ache.

“Marya, God damn it,” her mother said, panting, “get up, I know you been awake all along and I know you been listening, get up and get Davy dressed.”

Marya’s mother was wearing the black cotton slacks that were too tight at the waist, and one of Marya’s father’s flannel shirts, only half buttoned. Marya could see her heavy breasts swinging loose inside the shirt. Her hair was matted and wild, her eyes looked wild too, you could see that most of her lipstick had been worn off, or caked in queer little cracks on her lower lip.

Davy was already awake, whimpering, frightened. When Marya tried to haul him out of bed he kicked at her: so she pummeled him and said, “God damn it, don’t you try none of those tricks on me.” Her mother had already gone back into the kitchen.

Davy was three years old, small for his age, always whining, crying, wiping his nose on his sleeve. When he groped at Marya, blinking like a kitten only a few days old, saying, “Mamma, Mamma,” she slapped his hands away. “Damn baby,” Marya whispered, “you hadn’t better of wet the bed.”

“WHERE ARE WE going?” Marya asked, trying not to cry. The kitchen smelled of kerosene, wood smoke, spilled scorched food from the night before. “Are we going to town?”

“Never mind,” her mother said. She wasn’t looking at Marya: she was stooped over the baby in his high chair, spooning cold baby food into his mouth.

“Where’s Daddy?” Marya asked. She knew the driveway was empty but she looked out the window anyway. “Where’s the car?”

“Make sure Davy eats something,” her mother said. Her voice was low, flat, quick. It was a voice Marya hadn’t heard very often. “And don’t you spit that stuff out when I’m not looking—that’s all the breakfast you’re going to get.”

Marya was supposed to be feeding Davy while her mother fed the baby in his wobbly high chair. But it was too early to eat. The clock on the windowsill had stopped at three twenty-five. The sun wasn’t up, the rain still pounded hard on the roof and against the windows, Marya could hear a drip, a rapid dripping, in one of the corners; her eyelids closed and when she opened them she became confused and couldn’t think what to do. The yellow plastic cereal bowls, the spoons, the box of Wheat Chex with the monkey on the side, the milk she’d brought from the refrigerator that had gone slightly sour. . . . Davy gagged, or pretended to; and Marya didn’t want any cereal herself, her stomach was too excited. . . .

Marya’s mother must have scrubbed her face hard with a washrag, her skin shone like dull metal; like the spoons. Her eyes were threaded with blood and moved about the kitchen without coming to rest on anything, like fish darting.

“Is Daddy in town?” Marya asked. Her voice always came out louder than she meant. She was afraid her mother would suddenly turn to her and see something she was doing wrong, but at the same time she wanted her mother to look: she hated it when adults didn’t take notice of her: when they looked right through her.

But her mother was wiping the baby’s messy face with a paper napkin and didn’t seem to hear.

Marya didn’t think she was in any danger of falling asleep at the table if she was aware of herself sitting there, the bowl of cereal in front of her. But people were talking nearby—people she didn’t know. In another room. Inside the rain. Men’s voices, a woman’s raised voice, the slamming of car doors, car motors running.

She woke and her heart fluttered because her mother hadn’t seen her: because now there was a stink in the kitchen and her mother had to change the baby’s diaper.

There was sugar on Davy’s cereal but he wanted more, so Marya let him have more, then she poked her finger in the sugar bowl herself and sucked it. She had on two sweaters but she couldn’t stop shivering. It was too early, it was still night, where was her father, why wasn’t the car in the driveway if they were going out . . . ? They would have to get a ride with old Kurelik, or maybe his son. Marya’s father got very angry when her mother asked the Kureliks for a ride, or if she could use their telephone. . . . “I don’t want anybody knowing my business,” Marya’s father said, and Marya’s mother said, fast and mocking, “Nobody gives a damn about knowing your business, don’t flatter yourself.”

But it wasn’t true. Even Marya knew that people talked.

“DON'T YOU START crying,” Marya’s mother warned her. “Once you get started you won’t be able to stop.”

She wasn’t drunk because she didn’t smell of drinking but she swayed and lurched on her feet, and when she zipped up her jacket a strand of hair caught in the zipper and she didn’t notice—just left the zipper partway up. When she lifted the baby she grunted and staggered backward, as if his weight surprised her, and Marya thought, She’s going to drop him and I will be blamed.

They left the house without locking anything up and hiked over to the Kureliks’ farm through the rain, Marya and Davy running ahead, pushing at each other, squealing, as if nothing were wrong. Even out here the air seemed to smell of kerosene and rotting tarpaper. The sky was lightening minute by minute from all sides, a cold glowering look to it, not exactly morning. Marya couldn’t remember what time it was. She splashed through a mud puddle, flailing her arms: but she was thinking of the secret tunnel she sometimes made in her bed, in the bedclothes, burrowing down to the foot of the bed like a mole and lying there without moving. She could hide there forever, she thought, not even breathing.

They followed the old sawmill lane, which was partly grown over with scrub willow and cottonwood. The roof of the mill had nearly rotted through, there were open spaces in the shingles, and patches of green moss: bright green patches that leaped at the eye. Marya thought it was funny that trees—small trees, baby willows a few feet high—had begun to grow in the drainpipes. How tall could they get, she wondered, before their weight broke everything down? Then the building would collapse.

Marya’s father had worked in the mill until the mill shut down, and then he started work with the Shaheen Mining Company until there was trouble there—but Marya didn’t know what kind of trouble except he was “dropped from the payroll,” that was how he phrased it, but he was expecting to go back, he was waiting to go back any day. Marya didn’t even know where the Shaheen mine was except somewhere in the foothills north of where they lived, six or seven miles away.

Marya’s father told them not to play around the sawmill because it could fall in at any time and kill them. And not to run barefoot in the grass because of nails—there were rusty nails and spikes dumped everywhere, and pieces of broken glass. His youngest brother had died of blood poisoning, he said, from a rusty nail that went halfway through his foot when he was nine years old; he didn’t want his kids ending up like that. Marya pretended to listen because her father would have been angry if she hadn’t, but really she was thinking her own thoughts: she wasn’t going to die of anything so silly.

(Then it happened, not long afterward, Marya, running around barefoot in the weedy grass behind their house, stepped down hard on something sharp and cut her foot; but she hadn’t told anybody about it. And though her foot bled for five or ten minutes, and throbbed with pain, she didn’t cry—just sat hunched in the drainage ditch, where no one could find her, waiting for the bleeding to stop.)

Marya’s mother, carrying the baby on her hip, managed to catch up with Marya and give her a cuff, a light blow on the shoulder. “Come on,” she said, “get going, the two of you—I don’t have any time for smart-assing around.” So Marya and Davy followed along behind her, where the path was wide enough for only one person, a fisherman’s path along the creek. Marya’s head felt strange, her eyes too—she kept blinking to get her vision clear. Her throat tightened up—the muscles of her face tightened too—as if she were about to cry: but there was no reason for crying.

“Once you get started,” Marya’s mother always said, “you can’t stop. So you kids don’t start—hear me?”

SOMETIMES, WHEN MARYA’S father was away for a few days, her mother would lie in bed all morning, even into the afternoon, not bothering to dress. Maybe she’d have Marya bring her a sweater. She wasn’t drunk, she said—just didn’t feel like getting up—she had a touch of the flu, maybe—her head ached like hell—she had to take medicine straight out of the bottle—had to get back her strength. If the baby cried and cried it was up to Marya to take care of him, she just wasn’t strong enough to climb out of bed. “Get out of here and let me alone,” she told Marya and Davy, and they obeyed.

Other times, sprawled lazy and smiling in the bedclothes, propped up on pillows twisted any which way, she wanted Marya to nap with her, just the two of them; she hugged Marya close and held her tight as if she thought someone might snatch her away; her breath was hot and smelly in Marya’s ear—“You know what’s going on, you’re just the same as me, you and me, we know it ahead of time, don’t we?” Marya had to hold herself very still or her mother would get angry, and hug her harder, or push her away with a slap. “Don’t you love me? Why don’t you love me?” her mother would ask, staring her direct in the eye, shaking her. “You do love me—you’re just the same as me—I know you!”

MARYA WAS EMBARRASSED that her mother refused to come inside the Kureliks’ house when Mrs. Kurelik invited her. Wouldn’t they like to dry off a little, wouldn’t they like to get warm? Mrs. Kurelik asked nervously, staring all the while at Marya’s mother, who never seemed to exactly hear what was being said and wouldn’t look her in the face—just stood at the edge of the veranda with her shoulders hunched in the soiled wool jacket, the baby sleeping and twitching in the crook of her arm, her gaze sullen and hooded, looking over toward one of the barns where Mrs. Kurelik’s son was loading up. Mrs. Kurelik was saying that she’d made sweet rolls the day before, maybe the children would like some, but Marya’s mother didn’t reply and Marya and Davy knew better than to answer on their own. Away from home, when people talked to Marya’s mother or asked her questions, she never replied right away, always a minute or two later, when you thought she wasn’t going to reply at all.

Suddenly she said in a flat hard angry voice, “They already had their breakfast. They do their eating at home.”

Marya remembered, a long time ago, her and her mother walking along the road toward town. There’d been a quarrel at home and Marya’s mother dragged her out, she hadn’t brought Davy, the baby wasn’t born yet, just the two of them, Marya and her mother, walking toward town. Marya’s mother was saying things but not for Marya to hear. She had broken a willow branch off a tree and was slashing at weeds alongside the road, at the Queen Anne’s lace in particular because it was growing all over and it had a tiny black dot at the center, she told Marya never to look because it was nasty, the tiny black dot at the center, you’d think it was an insect or something, a surprise, not a nice surprise—this pretty flower that looks all white but has a tiny black thing in it, hidden unless you got close. She told Marya not to look but of course Marya did, when her mother wasn’t around.

They’d been walking perhaps half an hour when a car braked to a stop, raising dust. A man asked out the window would they like a ride, were they going to town?—a man Marya hadn’t ever seen before, not one of her father’s friends who came by the house. But Marya’s mother kept on walking as if she didn’t hear, as if she hadn’t noticed the car. She was still switching the willow branch about; her long black hair was all windblown and snarled down her back. Marya wouldn’t look at the man but she knew he was staring at them both.

“I asked you, you two want a ride?—you going to town?”

Marya’s mother ignored him and kept walking, and he drove on alongside them for a while, watching out the window, saying things Marya knew she wasn’t supposed to hear, saying them over and over again in a mocking, low voice, certain words, certain combinations of words, Marya knew she wasn’t supposed to hear but sometimes repeated to herself when no one was around. Only when he asked Marya’s mother if she had Indian blood, was she part Mohawk maybe, did she turn to him and say, “I’m Joe Knauer’s wife and he’ll kill you, he lays hands on you, you bastard fucker, you better get out of here.”

THE DRIVE TO Shaheen Falls took about twenty minutes; once they turned off the highway Jerry Kurelik drove fifty, fifty-five, sixty miles an hour, as fast as his father’s old truck could go. In the rear the tall milk cans rattled and vibrated against one another, a noise that lulled Marya into sleep, then startled her awake again. It was confusing—the raw glaring sky, all massive clouds that looked like outcroppings of rock, had something to do with the fragment of a dream, or with the sore insides of her eyelids: but when she blinked hard and stared, it drew away again and was nothing that could touch her.

Even in the cab of the truck, where they were jammed together—the baby on Marya’s lap, Davy on her mother’s, Kurelik big and fleshy behind the wheel—Marya could see her breath steam. She hated the smells: exhaust and gasoline and Kurelik’s manure-splattered overalls and the sweetish mixture of milk and urine that shook loose from the baby’s blanket; and the strong rank smell of Marya’s mother’s hair, which hadn’t been washed for a while. Marya told herself she wouldn’t have to breathe until it was safe, but she always gave in and sucked at the air like a fish.

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