them.
David didn’t say much. I didn’t let him. But he was sunburnt and helpful, and he had a crooked smile. And while the rake and hoe fell with dull strokes on the hard earth, he told me about machine-gun nests and barbed wire and trench rats. He let me give him water from our well, in a sweating pitcher. He let me sponge his aching back, sitting in a kitchen dapple of sunshine. He let me take him with me, to school, to work, to bed. He was my warmth, David Lawrence Godwin.
I borrowed his last name from the side of a van that clattered slowly through Precious Corners in the spring of that year, 1919 I guess it would have been, selling coffin wood that was to have been shipped off to France if The War hadn’t ended. Genuine Patriot Wood by Jack Godwin. I don’t think too many people bought the elm planks, even though they were cheaper than firewood. I stared at the van clattering by — an event, all right — and the next day in school when I thought about my hero, his name — David Lawrence, his friends in the platoon had always called him Dave, but he liked it that I called him David — became David Lawrence Godwin.
The smudged white pages of my exercise book filled up with our doings. We went riding; David’s prowess in the saddle was astonishing. We went fishing; David caught a salmon longer than my arm. And then we went into town. He was admired by all the other women for his looks and his bravery, but he never let go of my arm, the one the salmon was longer than, because deep down he was very shy. And everyone said how lucky I was.
I never thought about his family. At the back of my mind I knew that he had run away to be a soldier. His voice was soft and lilting.
Sometimes I would look up from my plate of stewed pork and greens, into Daddy’s empty face, or Mama’s anxious one. And feel the cold of the house, as if we were all in the frozen desert huddled around a long-dead fire.
I tried to love them. I tried and tried. But Daddy wouldn’t even look at me. His eyes were empty, unless he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, which he did from time to time. And Mama was worried all the time. Sometimes I thought she loved me. Sometimes I thought she would have loved me, but couldn’t.
Was I like that? With Harriet, was I like that? I remember her crying in her crib. Running to her, picking her up, and being unable to soothe her. I remember saying, I must love her now. Right now, when I want her to shut up. I must love her.
I tried so hard. Sometimes I think, Love shouldn’t be so hard. Love should be easy. But it’s not, is it? It’s hard. You know.
I wonder if she found it difficult to love me. It must be difficult now. I have difficulty loving me now.
What do You mean, shaking Your head. Why are You looking at me like that? You look like You’re about to slap my face the way those stooges do. Am I that stupid? Of course You’d be three stooges in one, wouldn’t you. I see the Holy Ghost as Curly. Whoo Whoo Whoo. Now You’re smiling.
I couldn’t love my parents. I tried, like a dog on a chain, flinging myself against the limit of self. Over and over. And they wouldn’t let me come near them. Caring was too dangerous. They might lose — I don’t know what they might lose. I wonder why I tried so hard. I wouldn’t have been imitating anyone I knew.
They didn’t hate me. That came later, from Parker and Lady Margaret. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t even know how Lady Margaret felt until that morning in her sitting room. I was so surprised, I stood with my head down, like a silly schoolgirl being bawled out for misconstruing. Which I practically was. A schoolgirl, I mean. I wasn’t construing anything at all, so I don’t see how I could have been misconstruing.
Parker broke the news with a smile peeking from under her arched eyebrows. Lady M. wanted to see me in the small library. I wonder why, I said. But Parky only waggled her eyebrows and saidI’d soon see. And
David didn’t say much. I didn’t let him. But he was sunburnt and helpful, and he had a crooked smile. And while the rake and hoe fell with dull strokes on the hard earth, he told me about machine-gun nests and barbed wire and trench rats. He let me give him water from our well, in a sweating pitcher. He let me sponge his aching back, sitting in a kitchen dapple of sunshine. He let me take him with me, to school, to work, to bed. He was my warmth, David Lawrence Godwin.
I borrowed his last name from the side of a van that clattered slowly through Precious Corners in the spring of that year, 1919 I guess it would have been, selling coffin wood that was to have been shipped off to France if The War hadn’t ended. Genuine Patriot Wood by Jack Godwin. I don’t think too many people bought the elm planks, even though they were cheaper than firewood. I stared at the van clattering by — an event, all right — and the next day in school when I thought about my hero, his name — David Lawrence, his friends in the platoon had always called him Dave, but he liked it that I called him David — became David Lawrence Godwin.
The smudged white pages of my exercise book filled up with our doings. We went riding; David’s prowess in the saddle was astonishing. We went fishing; David caught a salmon longer than my arm. And then we went into town. He was admired by all the other women for his looks and his bravery, but he never let go of my arm, the one the salmon was longer than, because deep down he was very shy. And everyone said how lucky I was.
I never thought about his family. At the back of my mind I knew that he had run away to be a soldier. His voice was soft and lilting.
Sometimes I would look up from my plate of stewed pork and greens, into Daddy’s empty face, or Mama’s anxious one. And feel the cold of the house, as if we were all in the frozen desert huddled around a long-dead fire.
I tried to love them. I tried and tried. But Daddy wouldn’t even look at me. His eyes were empty, unless he woke up in the middle of the night screaming, which he did from time to time. And Mama was worried all the time. Sometimes I thought she loved me. Sometimes I thought she would have loved me, but couldn’t.
Was I like that? With Harriet, was I like that? I remember her crying in her crib. Running to her, picking her up, and being unable to soothe her. I remember saying, I must love her now. Right now, when I want her to shut up. I must love her.
I tried so hard. Sometimes I think, Love shouldn’t be so hard. Love should be easy. But it’s not, is it? It’s hard. You know.
I wonder if she found it difficult to love me. It must be difficult now. I have difficulty loving me now.
What do You mean, shaking Your head. Why are You looking at me like that? You look like You’re about to slap my face the way those stooges do. Am I that stupid? Of course You’d be three stooges in one, wouldn’t you. I see the Holy Ghost as Curly. Whoo Whoo Whoo. Now You’re smiling.
I couldn’t love my parents. I tried, like a dog on a chain, flinging myself against the limit of self. Over and over. And they wouldn’t let me come near them. Caring was too dangerous. They might lose — I don’t know what they might lose. I wonder why I tried so hard. I wouldn’t have been imitating anyone I knew.
They didn’t hate me. That came later, from Parker and Lady Margaret. I didn’t know how to react. I didn’t even know how Lady Margaret felt until that morning in her sitting room. I was so surprised, I stood with my head down, like a silly schoolgirl being bawled out for misconstruing. Which I practically was. A schoolgirl, I mean. I wasn’t construing anything at all, so I don’t see how I could have been misconstruing.
Parker broke the news with a smile peeking from under her arched eyebrows. Lady M. wanted to see me in the small library. I wonder why, I said. But Parky only waggled her eyebrows and saidI’d soon see. And
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