Broken Country (Reese’s Book Club)

10. 1968

1968

Leo is in his tree house, peering out at whoever it is coming up the drive, and when he sees it’s me, he waves and clambers down his rope ladder. It’s electrifying looking at him, the shape of him, the size of him, a reminder of the boy we lost; part of me wishes Frank were here to see it too. Since Bobby died, we’ve spent very little time in the company of children, and never one the same age. That was our choice and I know why we made it, but I hadn’t realized how lonely it would feel living a life that had no children in it.

Leo shrieks when I bring the puppy out from the car. “Is he yours?”

“He doesn’t really belong to anyone yet. He’s in between homes, let’s say. Would you like to hold him?”

Leo makes a cradle of his arms and the dog settles instantly.

“Look how relaxed he is with you.”

“Let’s show Dad. He’s in his study.”

I’m curious to catch Gabriel at work. There have been countless features over the years, Gabriel looking thoughtful in a black polo-neck. “Pretending he’s Hemingway again,” Helen said once, flashing a copy of Vogue she’d stolen from the hairdresser’s in which Gabriel appeared at his typewriter, tumbler of whisky beside him. I read his books in secret, looking for traces of familiarity, for the boy I once knew. I always found them. Sharp-tongued women with a fondness for drink, and lurid, provocative sex scenes which forged his reputation as a brave writer, and sometimes made me weep.

Into the house with its head rush of memories. The hall smells the same, wax polish and old wood, so much of it, everywhere. Oak panels on the walls, parquet on the floor, the worn circular staircase I always loved, slippery to a socked foot.

And here is the writer in a room off the kitchen where once we came to hunt for his father’s cigarettes. Gabriel has his back to us, typing at great speed with two fingers, the famed glass of whisky in situ at a chaotic desk covered with books and papers. I spy the spines of W. H. Auden, Graham Greene, and Henry James.

“Dad, look,” Leo says.

Gabriel spins around, taking in me and the puppy at the same time. His hair is a little wild, as if he’s been running his fingers through it, and there’s a streak of blue ink on his cheek.

“Beth,” he says. “And who is this? My God, he’s cute.”

He comes over to stroke the pup.

It’s disturbing, our proximity. Seeing him again feels new and exciting in a way it definitely shouldn’t. In my head, I’ve mastered the readjustment, telling myself our past doesn’t matter, we are adults now, we can try, or at least pretend, to be friends. It’s my body that betrays me.

“What’s he called?”

“I haven’t named him yet.”

“But you’re keeping him?” Leo asks.

“If no one else wants him, then yes. I’m helping out my friend Helen.”

Leo looks at Gabriel. They smile in exactly the same way. A grin that spreads slowly until, in the last seconds, it can no longer contain itself and becomes a suppressed laugh.

“What type of dog is he?” Gabriel asks.

“Half spaniel and we’re not one hundred percent on the rest. There’s some Labrador in there. Fully weaned and house-trained, apparently.”

“So, we could have him, if we wanted to?”

“Yes.”

“Can we, Dad? Please?”

“Why not? So long as you promise to look after him.”

Leo puts the puppy down. Instantly he starts to pee on the floor.

“Charming,” Gabriel says, looking at me and Leo. “Good thing he’s house-trained.”

It feels good, our sudden, shared laughter.

“If you’re going to keep him, just make sure you teach him to behave around livestock. This is farming country, cattle everywhere.”

“Could it happen again?” asks Leo, anxious.

“Not if he’s properly trained. If you like, I’ll help you.” I’ve said it without thinking through the consequences.

Before I can change my mind, Leo throws both arms around my waist, presses his face to my chest. For a second or two, it throws me. I close my eyes, willing myself not to think of Bobby, and when I open them, I see Gabriel watching, a gentle, sad sort of smile on his face.

“Hey,” Frank says, when he comes in from the farm at suppertime. “Where’s our pup? Weren’t you picking him up this afternoon?”

“I gave him to Gabriel’s boy. Thought it would help.”

Frank says nothing.

“I’m going to help Leo train him. Don’t want the same thing happening again.”

“I see.”

Conversations between Frank and me are always easy. We talk about the farm mostly, our shared labor and passion. Since his father, David, died last year from a heart attack—out in the fields, exactly the way he always said he wanted to go—Frank, Jimmy, and I have run the farm together. But this is new territory.

His face is stern, a seriousness I don’t often see. What he wants to say is, Don’t get involved with this child, Beth. He’s not our boy. We’ll never get him back.

Instead he says: “Should I be worried about you spending time with Wolfe and his son?”

And I want to tell him, You risked his life. You did this, not me.

But I say: “I don’t think so. Are you worried?”

“Not if you tell me there’s no need.”

I reach for his hand and smile at him until it triggers his own reluctant grin.

“There is no need, I promise.”

Back then, at the beginning, I believe this to be true.