Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
“Sorry about that, darling,” Grace says.
I’m sitting at the dining room table, picking at the tofu on my plate. There’s a salad, but no carbohydrates to be seen. I wonder if this is how they both stay so impossibly trim.
“It was research. You understand. I can’t very well write about firing a gun if I’ve never done it, can I?”
It seems to me that she ‘very well’ could. She’s presumably never murdered anyone, either, but that doesn’t stop her from writing about it.
“She thought someone was trying to kill her,” Bradley complains. He’s right. I did think some backwoods militia was coming to take us out. That, or Neil was coming to take me home.
“I think I’m a natural.” She waves her fork at Bradley. “Got you right in the forehead. Kill shot.”
“What did you say?” I say, unable to conceal my shock.
“She’s printed out pictures of my head to use as target practice,” Bradley explains. “She considers it amusing.”
“Come on! It is amusing. That’s the problem with academics.
You’re so serious.” Grace turns her attention back to me.
“You understand how it is, as an orphan. Death doesn’t have to be this big thing.
It’s just a fact of life, like sex. Sex, death, birth.
You can’t distance yourself from any of it. It’s unhealthy.”
I don’t know how to respond, so I nod slightly and slice through another carcass of tofu.
“What did you do with your inheritance, by the way? This is a big issue of contention between the assistant professor and me.”
“There was no money,” I say. “Mom never had much, and she quit work when she got diagnosed with cancer. I was seventeen, but supported us both for six years, waitressing and looking after her. We just had the house, but with the cost of the treatment, the hospitals…”
“They took it all, didn’t they? Bastards,” Grace says, cutting me off.
She’s talking to me, but looking directly at Bradley.
“I’m a bit different. I come from a very wealthy family.
My grandfather worked in the oil business, and so did my father.
My generation all have trust funds. I’m the only one who refuses to profit from the destruction of the planet. ”
“The oil’s been used,” Bradley says. “You’re not stopping any emissions by not touching the money.”
“It's the principle.”
“Principles don’t pay the bills.”
“Only you would think of principles in terms of economics, Bradley,” she snaps.
“Don’t start.”
I should leave the table, but with no food at the cottage, I need to eat while I have the chance. I take another bite, then force a smile at Grace. “This is great.”
She frowns at me, then resumes waving her fork like a conductor.
“I couldn’t bring a child into this world. You’re a scientist. You get it.”
Was I a scientist? I only had an undergraduate degree, and I’d never actually done original research. At any rate, I’m not sure the correct scientific conclusion is to stay childless. “I’m not sure.”
“You will be. When you grow up.”
“Don’t be rude,” Bradley says, his voice raised. “She’s nearly thirty.”
“That’s the point, darling. The point and the problem.” Before I can figure out what she means, she turns back to me. “What are your dreams?”
Every sentence feels like a provocation, every question a test. I’m wilting under the heat of her gaze, but Bradley’s right. I’m not a child. I don’t need to let her bully me.
“Conservation. I want to bring a species back from the brink of extinction.”
“That doesn’t count. I’m talking about your grubby, selfish dreams. Your ambitions.”
“Don’t lecture the woman about her dreams,” Bradley complains. I note with relief that he doesn’t call me a ‘girl’, though that’s clearly what Grace thinks I am.
“Fine, let’s say that’s actually her dream.” She leans towards me. “You should follow your selfish dream. That’s what I did. Give everything to force it into existence.”
“I have loans,” I say.
“Well, when you’re on your deathbed, you can always be proud of paying off your loans.”
She doesn’t get it. If I get a graduate degree, my loans will cross six figures, and then where will I be? Thirty, in crippling debt, without a job. I’m not one of the brilliant ones. And if you’re not brilliant, there are no jobs for conservation-minded bird scientists.
Only the rich have the time to follow their dreams in gorgeous homesteads, surrounded by forests and rivers. The rest of us have to grind just to stay afloat. It’s exhausting.
“Roll the dice,” she says. “That’s what life is for.”
“And what if it doesn’t work out?” Bradley interrupts. “What if she doesn’t roll the right number?”
“At least she tried.”
“It’s her life, darling.” Bradley turns to me. “Don’t listen to Grace. Everything worked out for her.”
“Clearly,” Grace says, rolling her eyes.
It looks pretty clear to me, but I just smile and stab the last piece of tofu from my plate.
“Some people grow up with silver spoons in their mouths,” Bradley continues. “It’s different for the rest of us. We can actually see how far there is to fall.”
“I walk that tightrope every day, my dear.”
“Please, you’ve never held a real job in your life.
You have two MFAs, for Christ’s sake. No one with any sense of the real world would do that.
I mean, look at Don.” He glances at me. “Don is our neighbor, through the forest to the east. We probably have one conversation a year, and I’m not sure who else he talks to. His place is falling down around him.”
“A hermit,” I say.
“Quite literally. And a prepper. He has a bunker and enough guns to see off an army.”
“Hermit is a slur,” Grace says. “And Don has made his own decisions. He’s taken risks and lived with the consequences. We should admire him.”
“Please. He’s a solitary drunk who burned every bridge back to a normal life.”
Bradley stands up and takes my plate, while Grace stares at him with a faint smile. I wait for her to fire back, but she’s holding her tongue. I wonder what will happen after I leave. Will they start screaming at each other? Or rip off each other’s clothes? It seems like either could happen.
She clearly loves him, but it looks like a violent, combustible love.
I’ve never had passion like that for anyone.
I’ve never screamed at someone, then had sex, then screamed again.
It looks exhausting and exhilarating, vital and destructive.
A candle burning at both ends. Who doesn’t want to live like that, just once?
Who doesn’t want to feel what life feels like, at its most raw and intense?
I help clear the table, desperate not to be left alone with Grace, but Bradley touches my shoulder. “Please. You’re a guest.”
Grace chuckles, but when Bradley leaves the room, her smile fades. She looks at me with intense fascination, and I don’t know whether to be flattered or scared.
“Tell me about the boy.”
“What boy?”
“Come. I know there’s a boy.”
How does she know? “I just broke up with someone, actually.”
“Yes. You just graduated from college, and now the boyfriend gets the chop.” She runs her finger across her throat. I picture blood dripping onto the table like sauce. “Who cheated?”
“No one.”
“You were bored, I suppose. He wanted to settle down. You didn’t.”
That's not what happened, and I’m annoyed by how she thinks she can sum up the last six months of my life in a few words.
“Why do you say that?”
“I’m guessing he’s a breeder. He wants to put a baby in you.
Lights out, missionary. Typical nice college boy.
” She’s still looking at me. I’m flattered by the attention, but her tone is not entirely friendly.
It’s as if she’s mocking how transparent and obvious my life is.
How basic I am. “You’re right to run. You’ll wake up in your forties with three kids and a mortgage and want to put a gun to your head. ”
She waits for my response. I feel like a boxer who’s been knocked to the canvas, and the crowd is chanting Get up, get up.
“I’m not sure about that.”
“Well, get sure, girlie. Bradley’s not like that, you know.
He’s a wanderer. He craves new experiences.
My only concern is that he’ll go tomcatting around.
Hence the gun.” I wait for her to smile, but she remains serious.
“If any woman touched Bradley, I’d shoot her.
Shoot him, too. Then myself. Wonder how many books they’d write about it.
The Murders of Pine Ridge. Maybe I should survive so I can write it myself. ”
“What on Earth are you talking about?” Bradley appears at the door to the kitchen, a jute shopping bag in his right hand. “Brie, there are some supplies here. Grace packed them for you.”
“Thanks.” I push my chair away from the table, and Grace winces at the squeal on the hardwood floors.
“Lift! Otherwise, we’ll have marks everywhere.”
I mumble an apology, feeling immediately like a child again. Even though this woman is, what? Five years older than me? Ten?
I pick up my glass to take to the kitchen, but Bradley touches my arm. “Leave it.”
“Thanks for dinner,” I say to Grace. She stares at me for a moment, then gives a slight nod. It takes me a second to realize that she isn’t going to say goodbye.
When we reach the front door, Bradley puts down the bag and pulls me into another hug. Again, I feel the definition of muscle in his back. After a month here without another man, I’m going to enjoy these hugs more than I should.
“I’m so glad you’re here. I’m sorry about what happened before. Grace can be temperamental when she’s in her creative process. Half of her brain is preoccupied with thoughts of murder. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for pleasantries.”
“It’s fine,” I say, looking out at the woods. The sun is setting, and I’m not looking forward to being in that dark cottage on my own.
“Thank you.” He looks genuinely relieved. “I wouldn’t blame you for running away. But we need you here. This place is beautiful, but it takes a lot of work.”
“I can’t wait to get started,” I say. An awkward silence follows, and it becomes clear that Bradley isn’t planning on walking me back. “Well, see you.”
I carry the bag down the stairs, and when I turn, he’s still watching me. As I reach the fork in the path, the fog in my mind begins to lift, and I feel pissed. Why couldn’t he walk me back to the cottage? And why did she have to be such an asshole?
As I half-jog down the dark path, I feel like I’m nine again, sprinting up the basement stairs in terror.
I’m soon at the cottage. I can see a smudge of pink in the sky—the last of the sunset.
While I still have some light, I empty the bag onto the card table.
There are some fruit and vegetables, a small plastic torch, a bag of nuts, cleaning products, and toilet paper.
At the bottom of the bag, I find a scrap of paper. It’s a poem torn from a book.
I read it through twice, and the closer I read, the more confused I become. It’s a poem by Robert Browning about a woman who makes poison.
“He is with her, and they know that I know where they are, what they do.”
At first, I think it’s from Bradley. He did give me that book of poems I’m never going to read, after all. But when I reread it, I realize that it’s from Grace. And it’s not intended to make me feel truth or beauty or whatever Bradley intended.
“Not that I bid you spare her the pain! Let death be felt and the proof remain.”
It’s a warning.
Stay away from Bradley. Or else.