The weight of water - Anita Shreve [45]
“It seems so long ago.”
“And how you saved me at Hakon’s Inlet?”
“You would have saved yourself.”
“No, I’d have drowned. I’m sure of it.”
“It wasn’t a very safe place to play,” he said. “If I saw children there now, I’d chase them off.”
“We never thought about safety.”
“No, we didn’t.”
“Those were such good times,” I said.
Evan was silent for a moment. I assumed that he was, like myself, contenting himself with the fond memories of our childhood, when suddenly a great sigh erupted from him, and he turned himself away from me.
“Evan, what is it?” I asked.
He didn’t answer me. I was about to ask him again what the matter was, but I was silenced by the sight of tears that had, at that moment, sprung to his eyes. He shook his head violently, so that his hair swung about. Indeed, he was shaking his head in the rough manner of men who wish literally to throw out of their heads the thoughts that lodge there. I was so frightened and appalled by this sudden show of emotion and of intense hatred toward himself that I fear I cried out in the most desperate way and flung myself to my knees, for I have never been able to bear signs of grief or of sorrow on the face of my brother — and indeed, these signs triggered in me memories of the night our mother perished, a night on which Evan, and thus myself, had nearly lost our senses.
When next I was aware of my brother, he was tugging on my sleeve and trying to get me to stand up.
“Don’t be so dramatic, Maren,” he said curtly. “You’ll freeze to death.” He brushed tiny pebbles from my cloak.
And then, without any further words between us, Evan began to walk along the coast path south in the direction of the cottage. It was apparent, from his gait, that he did not intend I should follow him.
I had never been abandoned by Evan in so horrid a manner, and although I did soon recover myself and think how distraught my brother must have been to have wept in front of me and how truly sorry I was for his troubled nature, I felt bereft there on the cliffs and also, I must say, quite angry.
I walked home with a furious step and, at a critical juncture in the road, I took a turn that I have forever regretted. At the Jorgine Road, I walked east, toward John Hontvedt’s cottage.
My legs and hands were trembling as I climbed the porch steps of Hontvedt’s house, from the earlier disturbances on the cliffs or simply the inappropriateness of my visit I cannot say, but as you may imagine, John Hontvedt was exceedingly surprised to see me. After his initial shock, however, he could not hide his pleasure.
I allowed John Hontvedt to make me a cup of tea and to serve this to me in his front parlor, along with biscuits that he had purchased in town. He had not fully dressed, and had no collar on, and in his haste to prepare the tea, did not put one on. Perhaps it was only the absence of the collar and the sight of his braces, but I felt as though the entire encounter were an improper one. Indeed, I could not easily have explained my presence in John Hontvedt’s house to anyone were someone to come upon us. What was I doing unchaperoned in a single man’s living quarters on a Sunday afternoon? Possibly it was in an effort to answer that query, even to myself, that I spoke to John.
“Do you remember that on our walk of several weeks ago you were speaking of some matters?” I asked.
He put down his mug of tea. “Yes, I do.” I believe I had surprised Hontvedt in the act of trimming his beard, as it had an odd, misshapen appearance.
“And I insisted that you stop speaking of them?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I have thought about the matters which you brought up, and it seems to me that these are subjects we might at some later date continue to discuss. That is, we may explore them further.”
“Oh, Maren —”
“This is not to say at all that I find the idea acceptable at the moment. I am merely stating that I will allow further discussion.”
“You cannot imagine —”
“You understand, of course, that it is really too soon for me to think of leaving my father’s house… .”
To my horror, John Hontvedt left his