The Probable Future
Page 59
A bee buzzed around him, and Matt waved it away, mindful of his brother’s allergy. “Well, keep waiting,” he’d responded. “I’m not running.”
The air was green, filled with pollen. It was the first warm day of the season, and the mayflies had already begun to hatch. Matt swore he could smell a dead horse, not that he was about to change his mind. The stink might be nothing more than skunk cabbage in the ditches.
Matt usually deferred to Will, and his sudden defiance made Will laugh. “Okay, little bro. We’ll see who wins.”
Well, who always won? Who walked away with everything? All the same, looking back, Matt was fairly certain Will had been terrified by their night at the lake. He’d never admit it, Will would lie till there wasn’t a breath left in his body, but Matt had seen the haunted look in his eyes; he’d seen Will huddled beneath his sleeping bag, peeking out like a rat from a burrow in the field.
Matt knew only too well that courage was an elusive companion. All he had to do was look at his own life to see what could happen to a man who didn’t step up to the plate. He’d been so afraid of coming in second-best, so sure he’d be repelled and rejected, that he’d never even tried. Not at anything, not really. He just drifted through, until here he was, a grown man, with nothing of his own. Driving along Main Street, his files and books in a jumble behind his seat, he wondered if he’d have half the courage of some of the old-timers whose journals he spent his afternoons looking through, those men who walked into uncharted territory, those women who suffered a hundred losses.
He had read in Simon Hathaway’s journal that the figure on the horse of the Civil War memorial was indeed modeled after Simon’s own son, Anton. But it was only through reading Morris Hapgood’s diary that he knew the truth beyond the facts and was aware that Anton’s mother, Emily, visited the monument each and every day until she died. Snow or sleet never stopped her. Why, she didn’t even look up; she didn’t once see the sky again after her son died. All that had mattered to Emily in this world had been buried in the ground, and there were people, Morris Hapgood’s wife, Elise, among them, who believed that the lily of the valley that grew at the base of the monument arose from her tears.
Although Matt’s thesis centered on the Sparrow women, he had yet to find a single word written by any of them, other than a few slips of Elisabeth’s recipes. Everything he knew he’d learned from the journals and diaries and letters of the men of Unity, a stew of fact and possibility, salted with gossip. As for the women, they left behind journals filled with shopping lists and newspaper articles, birth announcements and obituaries, specific details anyone would have guessed would have been lost to time. But when it came to Rebecca Sparrow, most of the facts of her life were still unknown. Some history wasn’t just hidden, it was buried, locked away not only to protect the innocent but also to obscure the guilty, and thereby relieve the descendants of both from the burdens of the past.
Matt always slowed down when he passed the town green, as a mark of respect to those citizens who’d come before him. He’d done so even back when he was a boy riding his bike, delivering newspapers. But now he stopped altogether. He put on the brakes and switched on the wipers to clear off the windshield. He had pretty good vision, so he assumed he was seeing straight. He could feel a chill settle on his skin as he rolled down his window.
“Jenny?” he called.
She was standing near the Commemoration to the Men Who Fell in the Revolution, Matt’s favorite monument. Though forbidden by law, Matt had come down here one evening with several large sheets of white paper and black chalk. One of the chalk rubbings he made was now framed, hanging over his bed, an angel to keep watch while he slept.
Matt left his truck idling and got out. It was definitely her.
“Jenny Sparrow?”
Jenny turned when she heard her name called. At that moment, her head was filled with peach pie and dirty dishes and tallies in which the numbers didn’t add up. Minutiae, true enough, but a big relief from obsessing about Will, or her mother, or Stella. She narrowed her eyes as a man walked toward her, waving his hands as though he knew her. It was that tall, good-looking man that Matt Avery had grown up to be. It was the person she’d forced out of her mind.
“Hey, there,” Jenny called back uncertainly. “Matt?”
Matt grinned and hugged Jenny before he could stop himself. Then he took hold of his own stupidity and backed away.
“You look exactly the same,” he told her.
“No one looks the same after all this time, Matt.”
The air was green, filled with pollen. It was the first warm day of the season, and the mayflies had already begun to hatch. Matt swore he could smell a dead horse, not that he was about to change his mind. The stink might be nothing more than skunk cabbage in the ditches.
Matt usually deferred to Will, and his sudden defiance made Will laugh. “Okay, little bro. We’ll see who wins.”
Well, who always won? Who walked away with everything? All the same, looking back, Matt was fairly certain Will had been terrified by their night at the lake. He’d never admit it, Will would lie till there wasn’t a breath left in his body, but Matt had seen the haunted look in his eyes; he’d seen Will huddled beneath his sleeping bag, peeking out like a rat from a burrow in the field.
Matt knew only too well that courage was an elusive companion. All he had to do was look at his own life to see what could happen to a man who didn’t step up to the plate. He’d been so afraid of coming in second-best, so sure he’d be repelled and rejected, that he’d never even tried. Not at anything, not really. He just drifted through, until here he was, a grown man, with nothing of his own. Driving along Main Street, his files and books in a jumble behind his seat, he wondered if he’d have half the courage of some of the old-timers whose journals he spent his afternoons looking through, those men who walked into uncharted territory, those women who suffered a hundred losses.
He had read in Simon Hathaway’s journal that the figure on the horse of the Civil War memorial was indeed modeled after Simon’s own son, Anton. But it was only through reading Morris Hapgood’s diary that he knew the truth beyond the facts and was aware that Anton’s mother, Emily, visited the monument each and every day until she died. Snow or sleet never stopped her. Why, she didn’t even look up; she didn’t once see the sky again after her son died. All that had mattered to Emily in this world had been buried in the ground, and there were people, Morris Hapgood’s wife, Elise, among them, who believed that the lily of the valley that grew at the base of the monument arose from her tears.
Although Matt’s thesis centered on the Sparrow women, he had yet to find a single word written by any of them, other than a few slips of Elisabeth’s recipes. Everything he knew he’d learned from the journals and diaries and letters of the men of Unity, a stew of fact and possibility, salted with gossip. As for the women, they left behind journals filled with shopping lists and newspaper articles, birth announcements and obituaries, specific details anyone would have guessed would have been lost to time. But when it came to Rebecca Sparrow, most of the facts of her life were still unknown. Some history wasn’t just hidden, it was buried, locked away not only to protect the innocent but also to obscure the guilty, and thereby relieve the descendants of both from the burdens of the past.
Matt always slowed down when he passed the town green, as a mark of respect to those citizens who’d come before him. He’d done so even back when he was a boy riding his bike, delivering newspapers. But now he stopped altogether. He put on the brakes and switched on the wipers to clear off the windshield. He had pretty good vision, so he assumed he was seeing straight. He could feel a chill settle on his skin as he rolled down his window.
“Jenny?” he called.
She was standing near the Commemoration to the Men Who Fell in the Revolution, Matt’s favorite monument. Though forbidden by law, Matt had come down here one evening with several large sheets of white paper and black chalk. One of the chalk rubbings he made was now framed, hanging over his bed, an angel to keep watch while he slept.
Matt left his truck idling and got out. It was definitely her.
“Jenny Sparrow?”
Jenny turned when she heard her name called. At that moment, her head was filled with peach pie and dirty dishes and tallies in which the numbers didn’t add up. Minutiae, true enough, but a big relief from obsessing about Will, or her mother, or Stella. She narrowed her eyes as a man walked toward her, waving his hands as though he knew her. It was that tall, good-looking man that Matt Avery had grown up to be. It was the person she’d forced out of her mind.
“Hey, there,” Jenny called back uncertainly. “Matt?”
Matt grinned and hugged Jenny before he could stop himself. Then he took hold of his own stupidity and backed away.
“You look exactly the same,” he told her.
“No one looks the same after all this time, Matt.”
