And occasionally that first week or so, the rest of them acted strangely around her because they didn’t know how she would feel about his being there, this man, the writer, given what he’d done to her.
So the Brinks being who they are and he being who he was, I think she waited. He was such a presence, always was. And he was big. He was a man. Even when he was an old man, he was a man.
The way I’d like to see it, the first few times she dropped by—her place was maybe two hundred feet or so from his, not far—the first few times she probably hid behind those big stones just south of his because she simply wanted to see him, those long legs, that great white shock of hair, a shard of big blue stem jutting from his mouth, something he’d pulled from the fence line. He didn’t smoke. Sometimes he’d stare down the hill toward the town, the grain elevator and the bridge and the river. And she saw it too, what others had said about his being almost oblivious; but how he smiled, as if he’d made the right choice when he picked out this spot, as if there was something out there that was special to him, something she thought she understood better than the others.
Not everyone up the hill is as happy as he was. Sometimes it takes a year, maybe more, before the angry ones get settled down and neighborly. Then again, some never do. They just stay in the ground or disappear altogether.
She was sure he would have chosen to live if he’d had the choice, even though he was as old as he was, as old as most of the people in the neighborhood, many of whom were actually happy to get here finally, comforted, their agony behind them, some of them claiming, somewhat jokingly, that they’d already been to hell. When she hears such things, sometimes—not all the time, but sometimes—she’s less grieved about having found herself here as young as she was at the time, just 21, and leaving her baby, her first, behind. That’s another story. Thats her story.
I’d like to think that sometime that first month after he’d come, one of her friends might have asked her—it would have had to be a friend—whether or not she’d struck up a conversation yet.
“Has anyone?” she likely asked, somewhat perturbed.
Shrugged shoulders. “We’re wondering about you—that’s all.”
She looked away as the Brinks often do.
It likely took some time before she came out from behind the Stravers’ family stone just south of his, and by then it was cold—November, and she had to pull her coat around her, the old blue one, double-breasted, the one her mother had given her so many years ago for a wedding present.
And if I know him, I’m sure that when he spotted her he smiled because she was the kind of tall, willowy young woman that pleased him and always had. She was his dream, as so many of his women were, the ones in his novels.
When she came to him from the darkness, the collar of that thick blue coat pulled up around her face, I’m guessing he didn’t recognize her. So maybe the first time they saw each other nothing happened at all. He glanced up maybe, then fell back into that pleased stare he wore as he looked over the long snow fields.
She probably went back to her place to redesign what she imagined she would say because it had not dawned on her—his knowing as much about her as he did, so very much—that he wouldn’t know her, wouldn’t even recognize her. But then, he hadn’t been around town for so long. As if that should matter; she had to laugh when she thought of it because, of course, neither had she.
So the Brinks being who they are and he being who he was, I think she waited. He was such a presence, always was. And he was big. He was a man. Even when he was an old man, he was a man.
The way I’d like to see it, the first few times she dropped by—her place was maybe two hundred feet or so from his, not far—the first few times she probably hid behind those big stones just south of his because she simply wanted to see him, those long legs, that great white shock of hair, a shard of big blue stem jutting from his mouth, something he’d pulled from the fence line. He didn’t smoke. Sometimes he’d stare down the hill toward the town, the grain elevator and the bridge and the river. And she saw it too, what others had said about his being almost oblivious; but how he smiled, as if he’d made the right choice when he picked out this spot, as if there was something out there that was special to him, something she thought she understood better than the others.
Not everyone up the hill is as happy as he was. Sometimes it takes a year, maybe more, before the angry ones get settled down and neighborly. Then again, some never do. They just stay in the ground or disappear altogether.
She was sure he would have chosen to live if he’d had the choice, even though he was as old as he was, as old as most of the people in the neighborhood, many of whom were actually happy to get here finally, comforted, their agony behind them, some of them claiming, somewhat jokingly, that they’d already been to hell. When she hears such things, sometimes—not all the time, but sometimes—she’s less grieved about having found herself here as young as she was at the time, just 21, and leaving her baby, her first, behind. That’s another story. Thats her story.
“Has anyone?” she likely asked, somewhat perturbed.
Shrugged shoulders. “We’re wondering about you—that’s all.”
She looked away as the Brinks often do.
It likely took some time before she came out from behind the Stravers’ family stone just south of his, and by then it was cold—November, and she had to pull her coat around her, the old blue one, double-breasted, the one her mother had given her so many years ago for a wedding present.
And if I know him, I’m sure that when he spotted her he smiled because she was the kind of tall, willowy young woman that pleased him and always had. She was his dream, as so many of his women were, the ones in his novels.
When she came to him from the darkness, the collar of that thick blue coat pulled up around her face, I’m guessing he didn’t recognize her. So maybe the first time they saw each other nothing happened at all. He glanced up maybe, then fell back into that pleased stare he wore as he looked over the long snow fields.
She probably went back to her place to redesign what she imagined she would say because it had not dawned on her—his knowing as much about her as he did, so very much—that he wouldn’t know her, wouldn’t even recognize her. But then, he hadn’t been around town for so long. As if that should matter; she had to laugh when she thought of it because, of course, neither had she.
________________________
Up the hill, she and the writer--the two of them--begin to talk.
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