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  “Damned if I know. Look, there are wild roses. And chicory, that blue stuff. Kind of a corny color combination, isn’t it?”

  “God has taken no art lessons,” Erika reminded him. “There’s a whole field of pink stuff. Smells wonderful.”

  “Clover.” The warm breeze was heavy with sweetness. Frances said, “Look, there’s a wild canary on the fence.”

  “Goldfinch.”

  “They’re wild canaries where I come from.”

  “About the birds I am no expert,” Erika said, “but that’s definitely a cow looking over the fence at us. I have a feeling she doesn’t like us.”

  “Oh, look, a cemetery!”

  “Want to stop and look at it?”

  Frances shook her head, but Vince brought the car to a stop anyway. “I’m nuts about these old country graveyards,” Vince said. “They make me feel like all life’s tied up together somehow. It keeps going on. That’s not such a bad feeling.”

  Erika said, bending her head, “In mitten des Lebens sind wir im Tode. I heard that at a funeral.”

  “Sure, but we’re alive now.” Vince reached across Frances to give her a pat. “Come on, let’s walk around and look at the tombstones. These guys have been dead too long to feel sad for.”

  It was a very old cemetery, for the middle west.

  Eroded slabs of limestone stood at odd angels over graves sunken to ground level; in some cases it was impossible to tell whether they marked the head or foot. Frances said, “And where I come from they call this a burying ground. It’s a much nicer way of putting it.” She got out of the car and walked through an open place in the low iron fence. Two narrow tracks still marked the place where cars or perhaps buggies had gone in and out, long ago. “I wonder who took the gate away? Look, some of the graves have been mowed.”

  “Probably the grandchildren or great-grandchildren of the original settlers still live close by. You know, the Scotch and English came here first—then the Norwegians and Germans, starting around 1850. Some of the Germans fled with Carl Schurz after the revolution of 1848. I read a book about it,” Vince said, sounding apologetic.

  Frances bent to read the carving on a stone. “Senath Adams, wife of Jacob, born January 10, 1810, died June 22, 1891. She had a good long life, anyhow.”

  Erika said softly, “It is so peaceful here.”

  It was peaceful, Frances thought, stepping further into the grassy acre. Fine dust rose under her shoes; she could see the sole prints on the narrow path. Long feathery grass stirred in the hot summer air. A patch of wild roses edged one of the plots; their flat petals were spread wide to the sun, the centers pure gold. Birds chirped from a row of trees at the back of the cemetery, and a tractor hummed in the distance. The sound seemed right. Frances knew without seeing him what the driver looked like, shirtsleeves rolled up over bunchy arm muscles, one of those little striped caps pulled down over his eyes, riding high and easy over land his grandfather had stepped off behind a plow.

  Vince went from plot to plot, trying not to step on the graves. “It doesn’t seem respectful. I know they don’t care, it’s the idea behind it. Go ahead, laugh.”

  But no one laughed. Erika looked at him tenderly.

  “Look, here’s one of my ancestors.”

  “How come?”

  “He has my name, anyway.” Frances dropped to her knees for a better look. “It’s poetry, too.” The letters were worn almost even with the pitted stone. “‘John Orrin Kirby, born in Somerset, England, 1834. Died in Will County, Illinois, of the fever in the twentieth year of his life. O cruel Death that would no longer spare a loving one to mother, father, brothers, sisters dear. He was a stranger and we took him in.’”

  “Poor boy.”

  “He could have been my—what? Great-grandfather?”

  Vince said, “He was only twenty, he probably wasn’t anybody’s great-grandfather.”

  “Relative, anyway. I sort of see what you mean. It’s like Zen.”

  “Sure, all life is one.”

  Erika had said nothing. She bent and began to pick the wild roses, handling them carefully because the tough little stems were thickly set with thorns. When she had seven or eight she tied them together with a long piece of grass, pulling the ends into a stiff bow. She laid the nosegay on the boy’s grave.

  Vince asked, “What’s all this?”

  “He was so far away from home.”

  “They were all far away from home. They all came over to make a new life. We do the same thing—it only looks different.”

  “They were lucky,” Erika said. “My people are in limepits and trenches and—I don’t know, maybe someone alive, I don’t know if they are dead or alive. My mother and father and my little brother, Kurt. The Red Cross tried, everybody tried.” She gave him a cold look. “This boy was like me, he was alone. The others had families.”

  “None of us have anybody,” Vince said seriously, “until we find someone to love. That’s what everybody is looking for, someone to belong to.”

  Frances felt uneasy. She said, “I’m hungry. The beer’s going to get warm and the pizza’s going to get cold if we don’t eat pretty soon.”

  “All right.” Erika dusted her hands on the already dingy seat of her shorts. “Let’s go outside the fence, though. It makes my appetite go away to be in such a sad place.”

  “In China they used to put food on the graves instead of flowers,” Vince reminded her.

  “That was for the spirits, though.”

  “Yes, but beggars ate it.”

  Vince waited until the girls were outside the fence, then followed them. “David even has a blanket in this car. I don’t know what he uses it for. I hope I remembered to get a can opener, too.”

  Frances laughed. It was a relief to be back in the sunshine, out of the cemetery shade. “You’ll make a fine wife for some nice boy,” she told him, taking the can of beer he handed her. “What’s holding up the pizza?”

  13 “I’VE PUT ON TEN POUNDS SINCE THIS MORNING,” Frances looked with desire at the last slice of pizza, covered with golden cheese and dark crumbles of sausage, and decided she couldn’t eat it. “Not another bite. Now I know why farmers’ wives get fat. It’s the fresh country air.”

  “It’s the fresh country eggs and cream and stuff,” Vince said. “Farmers don’t eat pizza.”

  “I don’t think any of us know anything about it,” Frances said. She drained the last few drops from her beer can and added it to the little pile of debris which Erika said they must bury before they left. “I’d like to take a nap. I can’t even move.”

  “Go right ahead, honey. Nobody’s going to bother you, they only use this road on Decoration Day. I’m going for a walk. A nice long walk,” Vince said meaningfully, looking at Erika. “I won’t be back for a couple of hours.”

  Erika scowled at him. He smiled innocently. “I love to commune with nature,” he assured her, and sauntered off, swinging his arms and looking chipper in spite of grass stains and dust.

  Frances stretched out on the blanket, pillowing her head on her arm so she could look at Erika. “It’s funny how the fresh air relaxes you,” she said idly. “They ought to bottle it for tension cases. It’s better than tranquilizers.”

  Erika’s face was grave. “I don’t like it. It frightens me. Whenever you start feeling safe, something always happens. Suddenly and when you’re not looking.”

  “If it’s going to happen, it’ll happen anyway. I know what you mean,” Frances admitted, remembering premonitions of her own, “but expecting the worst is no help. The things you think about hardly ever happen anyhow. It’s always something you never gave any thought to.”

  “I don’t mean separate happenings.” Erika couldn’t explain what she did mean, or perhaps she felt it would be useless to argue. She sat on the very edge of the blanket, as far from Frances as she could get, arms wrapped around her bare knees. “Take a nap if you want to. I won’t talk.”

  “How about you, aren’t you sleep
y?”

  “Maybe a little.”

  “Then lie down and take a nap, stupid.”

  “A car might come along.”

  “Well, they’re not going to run over us. We’re way off the road. And we haven’t got anything worth stealing, nobody would even look twice at the car. Are you afraid some farmer’s going to pick it up and carry it home on his tractor?”

  “One almost could.” Erika smiled. “I like these little ones, they’re so nice and plan. Not big ones with fancy trimmings, ugh.”

  “They’re not so expensive, either.” Frances wondered how it would feel to have a car of her own, come and go as she pleased. Until now it hadn’t mattered—there was no place she wanted to go. Now she thought, if I had a secretarial job I could make payments on one of these and go places, vacations and all. She felt that she wouldn’t mind counting pennies, eating leftovers and budgeting for the rent. Never had enough money to get used to spending it. She had been too concerned with other things to care about the stuff women buy to make themselves believe they are safe and happy. A woman goes shopping to fill empty time—no other reason. If she were with someone she cared about, she wouldn’t mind making every pound of hamburger do the work of three pounds of steak. Frances sighed.

  Erika asked, “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing really. Why don’t you take a nap? Nothing terrible is going to happen if you shut your eyes for half an hour.”

  “But that’s exactly the way I feel,” Erika said, sounding surprised. “How did you know? At night I can’t sleep, and in the daytime I feel, well, I don’t know how to tell you, I’m walking in my sleep. I have to get over it before school starts.” She turned away so that her back was to Frances. “I went to a doctor and she gave me some pills, but they made me feel terrible.”

  “Sleep last night?”

  “Yes.” There was resentment in Erika’s voice. “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “It doesn’t have anything to do with me. You get over things by yourself, after a while.” That sounded smug, and she wasn’t sure it was true. “Look, you have another fifty years to live. You might as well make something of it.”

  “O cruel death that would no longer spare,” Erika said softly. “The dead are lucky, their troubles are over.”

  “Is that why you put the flowers on the boy’s grave? I thought you were feeling sorry for him.”

  It was a low blow. Dislike showed in Erika’s face. “I was, I was sorry for him because of the way he died,” she said in such a small voice Frances could hardly make out the words. “Maybe I’ll go to sleep too.”

  “Sure, why don’t you?” Frances lay unmoving, careful not to startle her, while she stretched out on the far edge of the blanket. Without turning her head she knew exactly how Erika looked, how her face looked with the eyes shut and the small freckles spattered across her cheeks. She knew what Erika would look like stripped of the blue shorts and cotton shirt, her body flat and white against the blanket.

  “Frances?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you want from me?”

  “I don’t think I want anything, yet, except to love you.”

  “I don’t want anyone to love me.”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t help it. People don’t do these things on purpose.”

  She had to admit that Erika might be right. Life would certainly be easier, if not happier, without emotions. That was why so many people tried to stay up on the surface, finding their greatest anxiety in overdue bills and their greatest pleasure in buying things. The trouble was, once you had a taste of something better you knew the difference. No one got along without feelings. If you eliminated love, the space would be taken up by resentment or despair or something much worse.

  I’ve been living a totally false life, she thought. It can’t go on. I’ll tell him tomorrow.

  Erika said suddenly, “You know about Kate, don’t you? Maybe I asked you that before.”

  “Vince told me.”

  “We were going to be together as long as we lived. Through all our middle age, and everything.”

  “I’m sorry. But you made her happy.”

  “I can’t start all over again, and lose everything. It’s too difficult. I can’t take the risk.”

  Life is insecure for everyone, Frances thought, but she kept her tone light. “Going to live in a vacuum for the next fifty years?”

  “It scares me to think about you.”

  “Then don’t.” Patches of sunshine filtered through the branches and lay in leaf-shaped patters of warmth on her arms and legs. The heat felt good. High above, the leaves made a soft summery rustling. Frances closed her eyes.

  “I can’t help it. I think about you all the time. Why did you stay that night? Why did you do what you did? I don’t like to feel so close to anyone.”

  “I’m not pushing you. I won’t do anything you don’t want me to.”

  Erika sat up. Frances glinted a look at her; she looked very stiff and straight. “That’s the trouble, I wanted you to. I want you right now, at this moment. I am ashamed.”

  “Well,” Frances said slowly, “if I thought you were really ashamed I’d go away. It wouldn’t do you any good though. Sooner or later you’re going to need someone. It might as well be me.”

  Erika sighed. “I should have been the one who died.” Her face was set in misery. “Kate was unhappy all her life until I found her,” she said slowly. “You don’t know what it was like for her. She had such a short time for being happy.”

  “Do you think she’d have been happy with you gone? Do you think she’d have wanted you to feel like this?”

  “I can’t help it.”

  Frances rolled over on her back and lay with her eyes open, watching the leaves that now moved almost imperceptibly; the light shimmered and changed. She felt at once wide awake and calm. The coarse weave of the green blanket, the rippled texture on the bark of the tree beyond Erika, the pebbly gravel of the country road all stood out in sharp relief. Erika lay with her knees pulled up, her arms thrown out at different angles, her bosom hardly lifting the soft cotton shirt. There was a touching immaturity about the slight curves of her breasts and the small tight buds; she no longer seemed like a boy, but like a very young girl just beginning to develop out of childhood. Frances wanted to put protective hands over her bosom. She said, without moving, “Shut your eyes and try to sleep.”

  “I wish I could stay here all night.”

  “I do too. That room of yours is nobody’s dream castle.”

  “You know what I wish?” Erika asked dreamily. “I’m ashamed. I wish you could go back with me and stay by my bed till I go to sleep. That’s silly. Oh God, I don’t know what I wish.” She sat up and pushed back her short hair in distraction, scowling at Frances, “I’m all mixed up.”

  Blow hot and blow cold, Frances thought; but she’d done too much of that herself to blame anyone else. She said, “I’ll go back with you if you want me to, and I’ll do anything you want me to and nothing you don’t. Because I love you. Now shut up and lie down.”

  “You’re good to me.”

  “Sure, I’m great.” And how is she going to feel when she finds out about Bill? Frances wondered.

  She reached out a hand. Erika put her thin fingers into it, like a child. They were cold in spite of the day, but they warmed gradually, and Frances could feel the little pulse in the wrist beating in unison with her own. It was the first time Erika had made a move toward her of her own accord. In bed she had been frightened, then resigned, then responsive and passionate—but this reaching out meant more than all that had happened during that evening.

  Erika said in a whisper, “I want to be close to you.”

  Frances moved over and gathered her in. Holding Erika tightly, she could feel the slight trembling of that small body, as if Erika were lying in a cool wind. Now there was no hesitation. She smoothed the delicate shoulders with her hand, murmuring words that made no sense. Erika lay pas
sive. But when the caresses deepened in intensity and the hand reached farther, she lay back on the wool blanket, ready and welcoming Frances’s aggressiveness. The leaf shadows sifted down, dark and light in a fantastic pattern against the white skin, the reddish-blonde hair, and on Frances’s darker hands moving rhythmically. Her face was serious with only one intention: to bring fulfillment to the one she loved.

  In the distance the humming of the tractor was like a gigantic insect song.

  “You make me feel so safe,” Erika said when the spasm of feeling was over and she lay relaxed again in the circle of Frances’s arms. She closed her eyes, then opened them again. “Here—button me up,” she suggested smiling.

  In no time at all she was asleep.

  Frances lay unmoving, holding her as though she might break. An ant climbed over the edge of the blanket and began making its way, slowly and with determination, over the cloth of Erika’s sneaker. Frances lay watching, hypnotized by its precision and tiny energy, until her own eyes began to close heavily.

  14 “I DON’T KNOW WHY I EVER MOVED INTO THIS terrible place,” Erika said. She stood beside the little car with her hand on the door, looking with distaste at the crumbling old house. “It’s depressing.”

  Vince said, “You wanted to be depressed, remember?” With the grass stains on the seat of his pants, dust-coated moccasins and purple spots on his shirt (you have to be Greek to drink from a bottle without dribbling, he said, or Spanish), he remained an elegant and fastidious-looking young man, Frances smiled at him. Let him say it, let him antagonize Erika by scolding her. She couldn’t. She had too much to lose. She would have to be patient and understanding, even though patience was never natural to her.

  The house was certainly depressing. So was the landlady, whom they met on the way up—a small woman with a tight girdle, a small bitter face and purple black hair with a metallic glint like a beetle’s back. A hard little woman who gave them a suspicious insect-like look from pouchy eyes and shut her lips tightly in answer to Vince’s “Howdy.” Frances had never seen the other tenants, but she could imagine. She said, “What worries me about this place, it’s a firetrap. One fool smoking in bed could burn it down in ten minutes.”