This Is How I'd Love You Page 9

  One little girl no more than five has wrapped her arms around his leg, burying her face in his pants. Another old man is trying to relieve him of his helmet, buckled loosely beneath his chin. Charles holds tightly to his helmet with one hand while he works on the little girl’s hands with the other, trying to pry them off.

  Suddenly Rogerson lays on the horn. “Get back in line. Retournez à votre place. Maintenant.”

  Slowly and with disgust, the old people and the babies in their charge turn away and leave Charles alone again. The little girl wipes her snot against his pants one final time and then lets go. She stands on his boot with both feet, her weight barely registering, then follows the crowd.

  He walks around the King George and sits in the passenger seat without a word.

  “Merci,” Rogerson says to nobody as he starts the engine. The ride back is solemn. The mud splashes up and stains the opposite arm and side of each of their faces, making the dirtying complete.

  “I gave away all my smokes,” Charles says finally.

  “Of course you did,” Rogerson replies.

  • • •

  Rogerson is in the latrine with a stomach flu the next night when the front blows up. For weeks, there has been a pattern to the fighting, with the heaviest fire in the middle of the day, and the evenings usually spent on reconnaissance or resupply at the front and surgery and wound dressing for the CCS. But this night is different, a tremble beneath their feet after dinner, coupled with the shrill moan of far-off artillery. Charles gives up thoughts of sleep, not knowing how long it will be before things quiet enough to evacuate the wounded.

  He stands outside the latrine door and calls to Rogerson, “Is it all coming out right?”

  “Damn it, Reid. Shove off.” Charles hears him gag and the awful sluice of vomit hitting the hole.

  “At least you’re escaping a night run,” Charles says, leaning his back against the wall. “You’ll get to sleep once your stomach settles.”

  “Which may be never.” He hears him spit and moan slightly. “Tell me, was there a letter?”

  Charles lights a cigarette and puts his hand against the envelope in his chest pocket. “Yep.”

  “Mrs. Immortality. Keeping us alive all the way from the Wild West of America. God, I love her.”

  Charles smiles. A snag of jealousy pulls at his chest when Rogerson talks like that, as though she is a girl to be shared. As though she is theirs, together, a joint adoration. But he’s given up keeping Hensley to himself. He can’t. He lets Rogerson read each letter, watching his eyes as they move over her words, relieved, at least, that they are real. He has confirmation of her existence, her singularity, her appeal. But he writes on his own, at dawn, usually, if they are not already in the King George. Rogerson seems to accept this. It does not diminish his participation in the fantasy. And Charles can’t blame him. They both know that it matters to whom the letters are addressed. She is writing Charles’s name in the salutation, addressing his questions and passing the sound of his words through her mouth as she reads.

  While the soldiers at the front scream obscenities and whisper their hopeful prayers as they climb over the edge, Charles stands outside the latrine and reads Hensley’s words. In between Rogerson’s violent bouts of nausea and the crescendos of gunfire, Hensley consoles them both.

  Dear Mr. Reid,

  It’s been said that we are walking on gold here. Rumor has it, and you know how rumors fly, there is so much gold that it is literally beneath our feet, just waiting to be found. I fancy this image as I walk to the small stream running not far from our house and then bravely put my bare feet into the frigid water. I tell myself, Hensley, you are standing on a ribbon of gold, worth millions of dollars. You are the world’s richest girl and you can order bolts of silk and French linen, sprinkle gold flecks on your morning oatmeal, and sail a yacht to Greece. Of course, the old cottonwood trees that bend their branches graciously over the stream, giving it shadow and romance, have been twisting their roots through all that gold, pushing their way through its hard ore, for hundreds of years and they are not dressed in silk, nor have they commissioned fancy boats or golden cereal. Given their stature and the lush green leaves that joyfully host owls (!), sparrows, squirrels, and even bats, I’m told, I wonder if my aspirations are misplaced. I wonder if I would do better to emulate the cottonwood for its dreams: a strong, hidden heart that is unmoved by a dry summer or a dreary winter, but that can appreciate a powerful gust of springtime wind for the glance of past and future that it offers as it litters the sky with the tree’s own tender, fuzzy seeds.

  Charles pauses as Rogerson heaves again. When he’s finished, he pokes his ashen face out the door and moans, “She’s breaking my heart in here, chap.”

  “The next part is about a cabbage dish from the local Chinese place. Wanna skip it?”

  Rogerson shakes his head. “Nope. I hate cabbage anyway. Lemme hear it.” He closes the door again just as a particularly large shell explodes and the force knocks over a couple of empty gas cans.

  “It’s gonna be a rough night,” Charles says, looking at the sky just over the front, bright white and pink with the excess of battle. He begins reading again.

  My father and I have discovered a little place to eat here run by a Chinaman named Lin. Usually we have a quiet dinner at home. Nothing fancy, but I have been cooking since I was thirteen and I know what tastes good. In order to be a part of this place, however, my father thought it would be fun to try a night out at Lin’s Chinese Cooking. It is a small wooden shack, if you can imagine . . .

  “I can,” Rogerson moans from inside, “I can.” Charles continues:

  ... with maybe eight tables. There are no linens or silverware. Only a pair of red chopsticks marks the place in front of each chair. He makes two or three dishes nightly and we chose the one called, plainly, cabbage and eggs. I’m the richest girl in the world here, remember? Walking on gold and eating . . . cabbage!

  But truly, it was the most delicious meal we’d ever eaten. It began with a thin, salty soup. Just broth, really, with limp, flavorful scallions and cubes of stale bread making it ever thicker as we ate. Or sipped, I should say, because there were no spoons. As we brought the red bowls to our mouths, the steam made our skin damp. Then, there were blue plates covered in hunks of sweet, tangy pork and mint leaves that he plucked straight from one of the many tin cans growing little green plants on the windowsills. The pork almost melted in our mouths and the mint made our tongues tingle with its freshness. When Mr. Lin stood by our table and asked, “You like?” my father grinned at our good fortune.

  Now for the cabbage. It came, slightly browned and oily, piled over a mound of white, sticky rice. It looked like nothing. Like something you might feed to animals in a barnyard. But we were the happiest of creatures the moment we tasted it. The cabbage had taken on a kind of deep, earthy flavor, aided by garlic and onion and a spicy red paste. Nestled in among the thick cuts of cabbage were small pieces of fluffy, scrambled eggs, slightly salty and peppery and wholly wedded to the flavor of the cabbage. Does this sound crazy? I know it must. I wish I could send you a sliver of the meal to place on your tongue. In solidarity, I’m sure, you would marvel at Mr. Lin’s abilities. Needless to say, my father and I have not had a happier night since we arrived.

  Charles notices the quiet when he’s finished reading. “You okay? I’m gonna make a run. Get some sleep if you can.”

  “She made me want that cabbage, Reid. Unbelievable. God, but I really want her.”

  Charles folds the letter. He nods but does not speak. Standing up straight, he crushes his cigarette, long spent. “I know,” he says finally, fiddling with the key in his pocket. “I know.”

  The black kilometers that stretch between the hospital and the front are absolutely indecipherable. The sound of the engine keeps him company and he hopes the moody radiator does not quit this time
. Charles drives by memory alone, hoping that there is not a new mortar hole or pile of debris since his last run. Even more than the slight curves and bumps of this road, Charles knows that Rogerson’s words are his own. He wants her, too. He wants desperately for this blackened road to bend itself toward her and the obscure town in New Mexico where he might stand barefoot in a stream beneath those old trees with her and eat in a dirty wooden shack with her, letting her show him how to use chopsticks and how to be alive in the world.

  Her father has returned from the mine and the two of them sit in front of the empty fireplace. He is silent except for an occasional sigh as he surveys the chessboard on the small table pulled close to his chair. He props his head between his two index fingers. It’s been three weeks since her father has made a move. He is distracted, whether by the situation at the mine, or her own condition, she doesn’t know. Perhaps he has been in touch with Lowell. Would he tell her?

  Finally, Hensley speaks. “Isn’t there a time limit on your thinking?”

  He smiles, barely. “What is your allegiance to Mr. Reid, my dear?”

  She shrugs, looking at her hands. Her father doesn’t know she has begun her own correspondence. “There is some urgency for the poor man. He is near the front lines, after all.”

  It is now that they both furrow their brows. From beyond the front door there is a banging, as though they themselves are suddenly under attack. Soon the banging is accompanied by whistles and tambourines and joyful shrieks. They rush to their feet, knocking a pawn to the floor.

  Her father opens the door, while Hensley stands behind him, her hand on his shoulder, her eyes searching the dusk.

  The scene on the street in front of their house is like a dream. There are white-faced clowns juggling glass spheres lit from within by some delightful, unknown source; girls ride by on bikes wearing short bloomers and tuxedo jackets, the tails flapping behind them with alacrity; a bearded man stands atop a carriage with bars that entrap a sleeping bear curled up in the corner and three barking hound dogs; beside him sit two small monkeys shaking maracas and hooting; men in white tights stand inside black hoops that are being rolled by a woman in a bright orange evening dress; there are several small men shaking tambourines; and at the front is an adolescent boy dressed in red stripes banging a huge snare drum.

  Hensley’s father turns and looks at her, both of them startled by this brand-new world that’s materialized as if by magic. He smiles and takes her hand from his shoulder, giving it a squeeze. “My rather astute powers of deduction tell me that the circus has come to town.”

  They walk arm in arm out into the street following behind two black-and-white clowns on tricycles. Other residents fall in with them, everyone smiling. The sky still holds on to the memory of the day’s sun, casting a pink glow across the entire circus parade. Hensley kicks up dust as she walks, imagining that she, too, is beating the drum.

  At the far edge of town, near the cutoff to the mine road, the performers begin to assemble tents. From a large sack, they produce what looks like bright orange parachute material. Soon enough, however, it is supported by long wooden posts and has become a voluminous tent, lit by lanterns and small torches. Canvas partitions are erected at the outside perimeter of the tent, allowing the performers a “backstage.”

  As the crowd draws around, the man atop the carriage begins hawking the amazement and surprises that await them: fire-breathers, bearded women, juggling monkeys, a strong man, acrobats, a dancing bear, mathematical dogs, music, belly laughs.

  The timing is impeccable. For an entire half hour, Hensley forgets about her own life. She allows herself to delight in the wonder and amazement at the antics of these unorthodox, untethered people.

  Hensley stands obediently beside her father as he greets townspeople and miners—some of whom she’s met before and some she has not, a smile still spread across her face. But now she marvels at her father as he recalls each of their names. His sense of duty is never far from him. She watches his face, still burdened by what he’s learned of her, and she realizes that he, too, must long for New York. This strange, dusty, lonely place cannot feel like home to him either.

  She glances at the tent behind them, wishing there were a magic carpet, or some kind of secret portal straight to Broadway. She and her father could be back in Manhattan, having dinner at Polly’s, and afterward Hensley might meet a school friend, one who knows all about undoing what’s happening to her body. A friend who could take her to the Lower East Side, or to Brooklyn, where the gruff nurses could scold her for being careless, or corrupt, or cowardly. Their capable hands, however, would hold her tight, absorb her shrieks, wipe her tears, then send her home with warnings and pamphlets and a bloodied towel.

  “Care to take a look at the strong man, Hensley?” She gasps, startled by the interruption. Berto shrugs his shoulders. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

  Hensley smiles. She shakes her head. “It wasn’t you. I was daydreaming. Under the influence of the circus, I guess.”

  He nods. “So? How about it? Do you want to see the strong man?”

  “Oh, of course. Yes. Daddy?” she says, turning back to her father.

  He leans his head in to hers so she can speak into his ear. “I’m going to see the strong man with Berto.”

  “Fine, fine,” he says, all the while nodding attentively to the postman’s opinion that the town should begin collecting a fund for flood emergencies.

  Hensley and Berto cross to the far side of the tent where a man is just about to tear an apple in half with his bare hands. He has a delightfully long and curling mustache and he is wearing denim overalls without an undershirt. He is no taller than either of them, but his arms are thick and solid like the branches of a tree. The apple is red and shiny and Hensley wonders if it is fake. But he offers another woman in the crowd a bite to test its authenticity. She demurely takes a small taste and gives her hands a clap, vouching for its flavor.

  Then the strong man puts both hands on the apple and quickly tears it into two jagged pieces, a few seeds spilling at his feet. Everyone claps. He takes a big juicy bite from one half and Hensley laughs. Berto leans closer to her, his laughter a silent, intoxicating force. Hensley laughs even harder.

  Next, the strong man asks for a volunteer. Hensley is still giggling, so she is an obvious choice. He takes her hand and guides her to a stack of haphazardly stacked chairs and stools. Beside it is a little stepladder. He urges her up the steps and onto the top stool, where she sits gingerly. Berto is just smiling, watching. Hensley puts her face in her hands, embarrassed by her sudden starring role under the tent.

  The strong man leans down and says, “Hold on tight, darlin’. You’re going for a little ride.”

  Hensley grips the seat of the stool and puts her feet on a rung at the bottom, the heels of her shoes hooked around it. In a single, fluid motion, he hoists her high above the crowd. A scream of fear rises within her, but no sound escapes. Instead, the entire world goes silent. Everything slows down, even the people below, who all seem to be frozen. She cannot see the strong man, but there is a slight trembling of effort that throbs through the stack of chairs, and she can feel his presence coursing through her. For only a moment, Hensley wonders what would happen if he dropped her—if his arms buckled and the chairs careened to the ground. She imagines her head cocked at a strange angle, her legs splayed, her life, and the one growing within her, over. But this gruesome vision is soon replaced by a feeling of pure delight as she surveys the tent below her. There are bicycles—circling unmanned as though steered by a phantom, with acrobats standing on their seats; there are fat orange fruits being tossed high and then caught, without fail, in buckets and baskets strapped to the hands and feet of a white-faced clown; women in evening dresses dance with one another, dipping and twirling to the beat of the snare drum until suddenly the color and cut of their dresses changes entirely, at which point they switch p
artners. The entire landscape below is a beautiful, outrageous dream.

  The heat that has collected in the apex of the tent wraps around Hensley and gives her the impression that her head is also being held by a pair of strong, warm hands. As though someone has placed their hands upon the back of her skull and is pushing, slightly, gently, against her. Cradling her. It is in this moment—in a small but remarkable circus tent in southern New Mexico—that Hensley remembers her mother’s hands. Not just the way they looked—pale and perfect, like long, elegant gloves perched right on the ends of her slender wrists—but how they felt: the weight of them on Hensley’s forehead when she was feverish; the smooth, gentle protection her mother’s hand provided as they walked together on the city streets; the affection that was conveyed to Hensley each time her mother wiped a tear or stroked her back or smoothed her hair into its plaits. And even as her mother lay in her own sickbed—her eyes swollen and tired—she reached for Hensley’s hand and held it, reassuring her of something bigger than the illness, something more durable than flesh. And in this moment, Hensley understands.

  I come from those hands, she thinks. That love is still in me. It is forever mine. And I can use it. I can claim it and embellish it and let it become something more. Something more than even me; an unimaginable future. Just as this man below has hoisted me with his hands to see this unimaginable circus.

  As the man lowers her down to the ground, Hensley’s grip tightens and she is smiling. Berto looks surprised to see her so calm, so unfazed.

  Hensley takes the strong man’s hand and curtsies as he bows to her his thanks. “You’re a natural, darlin’.”

  “Thank you so much,” Hensley says into his ear. The crowd cheers as Hensley becomes one of them again.