Good Dirt

Soh

Soh

E bby is sleeping in her old room for the night and her presence fills the house. It makes Soh think of the before times, in their former house, when both their children slumbered down the hallway from her and Ed. Even back then, Soh and Ed would have their disagreements, but it was easier for them to find their way back to each other. This time, Ebby’s confession about the day Baz died, and Ed’s own talk about his feelings, have helped to soften everything around the edges. But Soh and Ed still have a lot to work out.

Ed turns to Soh, now, but she’s really not in the mood to talk. She’s had enough revelations for the day. She pulls the duvet up toward her chin, but Ed ignores the hint.

“You know,” he says. “Harris said something that I’ve been thinking about.”

Soh tips her head, listening despite herself.

“Do you remember our neighbor Tucker?”

“Tucker? The one who died on 9/11?”

“Right. Remember he brought a few buddies and their wives over to our place for that benefit event, the one for the science education fund? Well, they ended up doing right by us. Made some very respectable contributions. I was surprised because I thought he was the kind of man who was all talk. But there was more to the guy.”

“Mhmm.”

“Harris never could stand Tucker. Thought he was too self-satisfied.” Ed shakes his head. “Anyway, back then, Harris said word had gotten around that Tucker had a private gallery somewhere in his home, filled with art and artifacts, that no one ever got to see.”

“How did anyone know, if they didn’t get to see it?”

“Well, you know how these things go. Someone must have seen it, or Tucker maybe said something. Back then, we both laughed at the idea of Tucker as the clandestine art coveter. But it makes me wonder. Was he the kind of person who might have wanted the jar enough to commission a robbery?”

“Are you saying Tucker could have been involved?” Soh says. “But Tucker is dead.”

“Yeah, poor bastard. But remember, he died a full year after the shooting. He was still around when it happened. And he’d even said something to me, before that, about the jar and its value. He’d been reading up on it.”

Soh sighs. “Still. That’s difficult to believe.”

“Not any more than what happened to our family.”

Listening to Ed, Soh thinks back to that time when Tucker’s widow sold their Connecticut house and moved out west. Sixteen, maybe seventeen years, now. Said she was going to set up a new real estate practice out there. They never did hear from her again, but then, they hadn’t really been friends in that way.

“The point is,” Ed says to Soh, “Harris says he’s been thinking about that, too. Poor guy, he really feels bad about the whole mess with Henry. He keeps calling.”

Soh snorts. “I think Henry brought that whole mess upon himself.”

Ed chuckles.

“It’s not funny.”

“No, it’s not funny.”

They’re both laughing, now. Even in the worst of times, she and Ed have always seemed to find their way back to humor. The thought lightens her mood.

“But Harris also told me something else after Henry showed up.”

Soh raises her eyebrows at the softening of her husband’s voice.

“His exact words were, ‘Stop with the guilt trip already. You’re gonna give yourself a friggin’ heart attack.’?”

“Guilt trip?”

“I’m sorry, Soh.”

“What for?”

Ed takes a deep breath. “I did something I never told you about.”

Soh feels her mouth grow tight.

“After Baz died, I collected an insurance payout on the jar. I couldn’t tell you. I thought you might have said any money coming from that day wouldn’t be right. But I thought at the time that our family could use the money to do good. Maybe something to honor Baz. Then the years went by, and still, you didn’t know.”

“But Harris knew.”

Ed nods.

He turns to Soh, now, and touches her face, but she pulls away.

“What?” Ed says.

“So that’s it?” Soh says. “That’s why you’ve been acting strange all these months? Not talking to me about things? Taking off on trips without warning? All this, over an insurance payout?” Soh is irritated, though she doesn’t feel the same deep resentment that has threatened to derail their relationship of late. Probably, Ed was right not to tell her until now. She would have reacted exactly as he’s said. At least, he doesn’t seem to be having an affair. Or is he? She can see from Ed’s face that he’s holding something back.

“What else aren’t you telling me?” Soh is surprised at how quiet her voice sounds.

“It’s not only about the money,” Ed says.

“What do you mean?” Soh braces herself for a shock. Ed, instead, looks relieved. He sits up straight and jumps out of bed.

“Put on your robe,” he says. “I want to show you something. Something I’ve been wanting to talk to you and Ebby about.”

“At this hour?”

“Yes, it’s important. Look.” He reaches into the back of one of his dresser drawers and pulls out a hard case for eyeglasses. When he opens the case, Soh is certain she’s imagining things. Inside is a small, rough-hewn piece of wood, half the length of Ed’s hand, with a black X burned into it.

“That’s not…?” Soh says.

Ed nods.

It is the piece of wood they used to keep inside Old Mo. The one marked with an X that had been used as a secret signal by Ed’s ancestors, Aquinnah’s parents, as they fled toward Massachusetts. All this time, Soh thought it was gone, along with the jar. Along with her son. She pulls it out of Ed’s hand.

“You had it all this time and you didn’t tell me?” She feels the recent resentment toward Ed coming back, remembering her husband’s silences. His distance. She looks down at the piece of wood. Its chipped edges. The sight of it should break her heart, but instead, Soh feels something unexpected, a kind of lightening of a weight in her chest. She closes her hands around it then opens her palms again to look. It’s still there!

“Why didn’t you tell me?” she says.

“Would you have wanted to know?”

Soh looks around at the room where she and Ed have slept since their son’s death. No, she thinks. She would not have wanted to know. She would not have wanted to see anything from the room where her son was killed.

Ed puts a finger up to his lips.

“Come,” he whispers, and takes her hand. They walk down the hallway until they reach the room where Ebby is sleeping. Soh pauses outside the door. She can hear her daughter breathing. Short puffs that sound almost like snores. Soh smiles as she thinks of her daughter dreaming quietly. Often, her daughter has dreamed noisily, engaging in warfare with her thoughts.

Soh must fight the urge, now, to open the door, walk over to the bed, and lie down beside Ebby. Or, at least, to gaze at her daughter, just as she used to watch both her children while they slept. Her husband is tugging at the sleeve of her robe now. He is no longer distant. He is eager to talk.