Upcountry

1

THE ETERNALS

From outside, the house looked run-down and not quite to Claire’s taste. It was a remodeled Greek Revival with blistered white clapboard walls and gray shutters missing several slats. A large bow-and-arrow weathervane tilted slightly askew on the peaked roof. Grass ran wild in the yard, patchy and thin in some parts, and overgrown in others. An old green flatbed pickup was parked in the driveway.

The buzzer was broken and she had to knock several times. When the door jerked open, she cried out, Oh! The woman before her looked so different from what she’d imagined. She had sharp hazel eyes and thin skin with faint vertical creases above her top lip. Smoke from the cigarette she held at her hip drifted up into Claire’s face.

April Ives? Claire Pedersen. She held out her hand and turned to cough. Thanks for letting me come by.

Sure, the woman said, giving the hand a single shake. Watch out, that board’s loose.

Claire stepped gingerly through the hallway and then more boldly into the living room. It was late summer and humid, with only warm air circulating from an ornate candelabra ceiling fan. There were boxes everywhere, a few still open in the center of the room. Wow, it looks more spacious than in the pictures.

I sold some furniture last week. You always buy things like houses just from pictures?

No! Claire laughed. But my uncle told me about this place, and it was such a good— She caught herself and said, Opportunity. We knew we had to act quickly.

My great-grandpa built this house, April said, her eyes wandering over the room. Been in my family three generations. It’ll be weird, having someone else live here. She gave Claire a sudden sharp look. I thought Karl wanted the place for himself. He knew my dad, so I thought, okay, at least it’s not going to a stranger. He only mentioned you after we signed the contract.

I don’t know why. We weren’t trying to be secretive. It just made sense, since he’s family and here. When we sell our place, we’ll do the transfer. Claire was annoyed with herself for feeling defensive. We’re not strangers to the area. Actually, you and I once knew each other.

April frowned. I don’t think so.

Yes, Claire insisted, when we were kids. I spent two summers at Karl’s farm in Westerville. We used to play in the creek here in Caliban … you, me, some other little kid named Eddie. You had a friend … Jenny? Janine?

Shit, April said finally. Yeah, Janine and I were tight up till middle school. That’s so weird. I don’t remember you at all.

Well, it was only a couple of summers. Then we moved to Florida. But my husband and I’ve lived in Hell’s Kitchen for the last fifteen years.

I thought he was coming today.

Sebastian’s just up the road. He got sidetracked at the nursery, but he’ll be here soon.

April’s mouth made a twitchy, anxious pucker. My kids’ll be home in a little while.

Claire had heard her kids were from different fathers. How old are they?

The girls are fifteen and twelve. And my boy’s eight. You got kids?

No. Claire turned abruptly to peer out the front windows, searching for signs of Sebastian.

Maybe you should start looking around? You need anything, I’ll be over there. April pointed and walked toward the open kitchen at the other end of the room.

Claire felt put off by her curt manner, bordering on rudeness. Of course, the situation was awkward. But if the house had to be sold, she should be glad to have a buyer. When Karl told Claire about the house, she’d jumped on it. She could live closer to him and her aunt, and get Sebastian away from the city, with all its reminders of his failures and misfortunes. The proliferation of galleries only blocks from their apartment was an especially cruel taunt.

We could have a real garden, she said in her pitch to convince him, and build you a huge studio. She always equated the country with the last joyful moments of her childhood—before divorce and shuttling between Tampa and Bridgeport, before her father’s new family and her mother’s depression and early, swift demise from ovarian cancer.

She remembered April as a pretty, towheaded child with a wild streak she found heroic. She was curious to see her again, had even thought they might reconnect. But the woman standing beyond the kitchen counter was bitter, unfriendly, markedly changed. Her face was worn, though her body in a tank top and cutoffs was still slim-hipped and youthful. How did she keep her figure like that after three kids? Claire wondered. Meanwhile, she couldn’t shake off the ten or so pounds she’d gained in as many years. Her body no longer fit her small head and short hair, which began to gray in her late twenties, with a pronounced streak near the temple. That streak with her side-parted, marcelled bob had a deliberately retro effect that, in her youth, was dramatic. At forty-three, she worried it actually aged her.

She pulled out her phone to call Sebastian. It had only one signal bar, so she sent a text: Where are you? Think she wants us in and out. Sometimes she wondered why he even owned a phone. She felt the old resentment chafing and pushed it down while she inspected the rest of the house. In the entrance hall, under the narrow stairwell leading to the second floor, she entered a tiny half bathroom with a tankless toilet and pedestal sink. Both worked, though were none too clean. The floral wallpaper on one wall was stained and buckling. On the dark linoleum floor were nail clippings and swirled clumps of blond hair. She heard April cleaned houses in the area and wondered how she could live like this in her own home.

Shuddering, she turned to leave but caught a strong whiff of something metallic, like rusted iron. She turned back and examined the faucets and toilet for leakage. There was nothing obvious. Weird, she said out loud, hoping they wouldn’t need a plumber. She was just starting to realize what an undertaking it was to buy an old house. She left the bathroom and walked farther down the hall. At the rear of the house was a large bedroom that could be converted into Sebastian’s studio. Clothes and shoes were strewn on the floor, and random boxes piled into corners.

Claire had been warned but was still unprepared for how decrepit everything was. The wood floors creaked and the walls and ceilings were dusty, with the plaster cracked in several places. Still, even with the liens on the house, they’d be getting it for less than $30,000. They’d bought a sturdy used station wagon for only $2,000. Karl figured it would take another $80K or so to get the house fixed right. The mortgage crisis the year before torpedoed the housing market, but if they could get $650K for their apartment, even after paying him back, they’d still be ahead almost $300,000.

Karl suggested a reasonably priced contractor who could, he said, deal with most personalities—tacit acknowledgment of her husband’s mercurial moods. Sebastian would oversee the renovation, living in the house full-time while she stayed in the city during the week, going to the midtown office where she worked as a civil attorney. She hoped it would be a temporary arrangement until she could find something closer to Caliban. Jobs were scarce, but she’d had two promising interviews with a firm in Albany. She’d likely take a salary cut, but the lower cost of living should compensate, and the firm mostly handled property law, which would be less stressful than the personal injury cases she dealt with now.

She returned to the living room, deciding to wait for Sebastian before going upstairs. April was sitting in the kitchen, wrapping up dishes in newspaper. She looked up and said, So, you having buyer’s remorse? Her voice was so flat, Claire couldn’t tell if she was joking.

Not at all. The house has good bones. Claire crossed the room and opened the door leading to the side deck. Oh, wow, look at that.

What? April scraped back her chair and walked toward her.

Claire looked out at a rectangular swimming pool, long drained of water and enclosed by a chain-link fence. The plaster walls were a bleached chalky blue. A blanket of dried leaves covered the shallow end, while the rotted wooden base of a diving board jutted over the deep end. Dandelions pushed through fissures along the pool’s seams and corners, with taller weeds around the edge. Beyond the fence, several yards back from the pool, stood a large maple tree with wide outstretched branches.

Years ago, she gave up photography when she realized she’d never be able to earn a living from it—but there were moments like this when she missed it. It’s kind of beautiful in its way, she murmured. So ruined.

April stared at her like she was crazy. It was beautiful thirty years ago, when we could swim in it. When we could afford the maintenance.

Claire reddened. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. She knew April had a brother in California who’d paid most of the taxes and utilities the last several years but was now going through a costly divorce.

April shrugged. I just don’t get your idea of beauty. Karl didn’t mention the pool?

He said it wasn’t—he didn’t take any pictures. To change the subject, Claire asked, Where will you be going?

Not far. I found a rental just a mile up in Pine Hollow, so the kids don’t have to change schools.

Well, it’s nice you’ll still be close. But in fact, the thought of April’s proximity disturbed her. She didn’t feel the house could be fully hers with the former owner hovering nearby.

They stood awkwardly, with nothing more to say. She could palpably feel April’s impatience. Then, to her relief, she got a text from Sebastian saying he was on his way.

The woman was young and hugely pregnant—so young her pregnancy seemed almost obscene—and yet so benign in her aspect, so graceful in her movements, he couldn’t imagine her any other way. On weekday mornings, Sebastian often went to the Horizon Café for a latte and muesli with yogurt; she was usually the one who waited on him. Her name was Anna, pronounced Ah-na, and she was a member of the Eternals, a religious group founded in the seventies that practiced an archaic form of Christianity rooted in Judaism. They believed that between the two categories of mankind—the unjust and the holy—only the latter, those willing to serve God, survived mortal death for a second unending life. They weren’t eager to engage new converts and were even known to oust unfaithful members. A quiet community of carpenters and farmers, they owned the café and had become a fixture in Caliban over the last twenty years, though some locals were still suspicious and considered them a cult.

They didn’t cut their hair and dressed in modest, unadorned clothing. The younger men, with their full beards and plaid shirts, could almost pass as visiting hipsters from Hudson—but the women, with their natural faces, long braids, and ankle-length dresses, seemed distinctly of another era. Anna stood out even more as the only Asian among them.

Sebastian could not understand his fascination with her. He didn’t find her ethnicity exotic per se; she wasn’t beautiful or even striking, the way Claire had been. Her skin was poreless, but her face round and plain, and she usually had a slight sheen of sweat around her hairline. Moreover, he’d always been somewhat repulsed by pregnant women. He found their lumbering ambulation bovine-like, inducing in him a feeling of claustrophobia. Nor was he particularly fond of children.

When Claire found out in her early thirties that she was prone to her mother’s type of cancer, she made the difficult decision to have her ovaries removed. Part of him was relieved. But it was wrenching to witness her anguish and subsequent breakdown. It got so bad at one point, he thought she might actually harm herself. He made her shower, eat, take walks, and help him garden. One day, watching him pot dahlias on their tiny terrace, she asked with a wry smile, Am I one of your difficult plants?

Yes, he said, exactly.

It was the beginning of her getting better. Afterward, she became militant about self-care. Any sign of gloom—and lately, specifically, his—spiked her anxiety and compulsive need to find a solution. Leave me alone! he wanted to scream. You had your depression, let me have mine.

Sebastian had constructed installations for the Guggenheim. Eight months ago, a stack of plywood fell off a ramp and onto his left side, breaking his collarbone and dislocating his shoulder. After a prolonged dispute, the museum finally decided to settle. It hardly felt like a victory. Despite surgery and months of physical therapy, his left shoulder now drooped lower than the other and moved with obvious stiffness. He was morose and in discomfort, popping Wellbutrin and Percocet, the latest combination of meds his doctor had prescribed. They killed his libido; he and Claire hadn’t had sex in five months. And his worker’s compensation would last only another year, through the end of 2010. He wasn’t sure this move would be the change they needed, but having some time alone was a relief.

Anna came and stood by his table, her small hands cupped lightly under her belly, which in the last two weeks had begun to protrude more prominently. She pointed to his half-eaten bowl of muesli. Would you like me to wrap that up?

Sebastian usually disliked takeaway leftovers, their sad, diminished appearance once reopened. But he didn’t want to seem wasteful. Thank you. And another latte when you can. How are you feeling today, Anna? It was the closest he could allude to her condition. The week before, he overheard a woman at the next table ask if she was expecting a boy or girl. Anna, clearly flustered, mumbled, Oh, I don’t know, before she hurried away. He embarrassed her too once by asking if she was Chinese or Korean. She said, My birth parents are Korean, but I’ve never met them. Then a look of panic crossed her face. Please don’t tell anyone I told you. I shouldn’t be talking about my past. It confused and pleased him that they shared a secret.

I’m very good, Sebastian, she said now. This morning has been quiet. And you?

She had a gentle, melodic voice, without a trace of an accent. It was one of the qualities that most deeply affected him; that, and the calm expression in her long dark eyes, suggesting wisdom beyond her years. Anna’s youth provoked in him a feeling of acute self-loathing. He’d never been one of those idiots who chased after young girls. He never even cheated on Claire in their seventeen years together. Once or twice he was tempted, but in the end, it didn’t seem worth the hassle. Claire was a possessive woman. Sebastian, while slight in height and build, was handsome, with a thick sweep of blond hair and piercing blue eyes. Before his accident, he never gave his appearance much thought. Now he felt self-conscious and, on bad days, even deformed.

I’m all right. And Luke—I hope he’s well? He’d met her husband once, outside the Eternals’ large communal farmhouse a few doors down from the café. Luke worked on their dairy farm nearby. Anna was sitting with him on the front porch swing, and when Sebastian walked by and waved, she stood up to make introductions. Then Luke stood too. He had to be at least six feet five inches, with a pink face, pale eyes, and white-blond hair, though unlike the other Eternal men, he had no beard. Next to Anna’s graceful repose, he seemed like an ungainly, overgrown man-child. For Sebastian, their mismatch went beyond their disparate height and coloring. They didn’t touch each other affectionately or even casually. He could not imagine them fucking.

Luke is very well, thank you. I’ll pass on your greeting to him, she said with a smile, before walking away. The usual careful, formal exchange. He could never tell if her diffidence was her true nature or if she felt unsettled by his company. He was aware some people found him intimidating and tried hard not to have that effect on her. Despite their almost daily interaction the past month, he knew only that she and Luke came from some town in Massachusetts to help grow the Caliban branch. Some Eternals, he read, were born into the community and never knew another way of life. She was likely adopted at an early age. He imagined her as a small child growing up in this peculiar cult, insulated from the real world like some kind of earth-born alien. This otherworldly quality was disrupted by her pronounced belly with its jarring, unwanted eroticism.

For months, he’d lost all sexual feeling, only for it to come back in the form of this ridiculous fetish. Either he was on the verge of a mental crisis or he needed to start a new project. But he was unable to paint and had barely set up his studio, which would be temporary anyway, like everything in the house, until the renovation was complete. For now, he slept in the living room, on the new mattress they purchased, while Claire searched for the perfect antique bed of her country fantasy. When she came up on weekends, going to flea markets and yard sales seemed to be her main occupation. She was also trying her damnedest to ingratiate herself with the locals, which irked and embarrassed him.

He had built a vegetable bed and planted lettuce, beets, kohlrabi, and garlic. By next winter he hoped to have a greenhouse. He also had the contractor pull out the chain-link fence around the pool, a task he normally could have done himself in a few hours. They’d have to deal with the pool later, but the fence was an eyesore he couldn’t live with. Claire’s pet peeve was the weathervane, which their roofer straightened the week they moved in. They compromised on the candelabra ceiling fan. She wanted to get rid of it, but he declared, No. It’s an amazing monstrosity. Every house needs an odd showpiece.

He’d always yearned for the time and space to make his art. Now he had it, and all he could do was waste that time drooling over some knocked-up child-bride Jesus disciple. Young and Asian, of all midlife clichés. Did he want to paint her? He painted dense, psychedelic landscapes on small canvases. A decade earlier, he was on the cusp of real recognition, with solo shows in local galleries and group exhibitions in Chicago, Los Angeles, Miami—even Art Basel. Then the momentum shifted to other, younger artists, leaving him stuck in a mid-career trough.

Briefly, he indulged in the vision of a rejuvenated buzz around his lush new canvases of Anna’s body, the sphere of her clothed belly and breasts abstracted in sections, her long, thick braid floating along a perimeter. Then he snorted in disgust. Even his daydreams were banal. No, he didn’t want to paint her. What he wanted to do was more simple and base.

He bolted his latte, paid the check, and left the café. Really, he was losing his mind. Next, he’d be lusting after llamas and burros. At least out here he’d find one.

Walking back home on the narrow highway, he passed the usual storefronts and small businesses, all open at random hours: the secondhand store run by Brooklyn transplants, the post office, and the historical brick B&B. Spotting some old MCCAIN/PALIN signs still stuck on people’s lawns, he thought of Claire with all her sucking up, now having to squelch her liberal views. The audacity of indifference was his motto when it came to politics; it was all the same bullshit, regardless of party.

Up the road he saw his neighbor Duncan through the open gate of his yard, sitting in his underwear on his back porch, a large brace over his right knee. He was the town drunk, the rumored black sheep of the McAuleys, a wealthy family who subsidized but shunned him. Grizzled and skinny except for his potbelly, he had long dirty-blond hair beginning to thin at the top. In his youth, he had been a promising hockey player, reportedly good-looking. Then he got busted selling pot to minors, lost his sponsors, started drinking, and never stopped.

Hey, man! Duncan yelled, lifting a bottle of scotch. Want a shot?

No thanks, Sebastian said curtly. He made the mistake once of taking him up on his offer and barely extricated himself after an hour. He heard Duncan tripped over his bathmat later that day and passed out, waking up with a fractured kneecap. The next time he saw Sebastian, he tapped his bad shoulder and said, See, buddy, you jinxed me. Now we’re both busted up. Sebastian tried to avoid him since.

Walking up the hill to his house, he saw a large green pickup just by the curb, its flatbed facing him. The truck looked familiar. It took him a moment before he realized why, and then April’s eyes flashed on his through the rearview mirror before she peeled away.

Anna collected the bills Sebastian left, along with his check, and took them over to Zebiah, who was working the cash register at the front of the café. The older woman glanced at the check and money, then said dryly, Does he think the tip all goes to you?

Anna, sensing judgment in the woman’s tone, kept hers neutral. Maybe he’s just generous.

Zebiah snorted softly. Too appreciative, I’d say. We depend on the patronage of outsiders, Anna, but there’s no need to be overly friendly.

I’m not, Anna said, feeling her face grow warm. I treat him the same as all the customers.

"Well, he seems to be extra attentive to you … It might behoove you to be less amiable."

Anna couldn’t see how or why she should modulate her behavior, but she only nodded and said, Yes, I’ll make note. In the five months since her arrival in Caliban, she realized that Zebiah considered questions to be challenges, which provoked her disapproval. Zebiah was her assigned counsel and, as the wife of their community’s first elder, Hiram, also the first matron, so it was important to have her sanction. She’d never before felt so unsure of her place. Before relocating, she had assumed all Eternals, regardless of where they lived, would act the same, but this was not the case.

Imagine spending so much money eating out every week, the woman went on, though since his wife is hardly here, I suppose he has no choice. What an arrangement, having her work while he does nothing.

Anna was about to say he was actually an artist but caught herself; it would reveal she knew too much about him. To appease Zebiah, she said instead, Their ways are strange indeed, before walking away to clear Sebastian’s table. Reaching for his utensils, she paused. He’d left another sketch on a napkin. This one was of his fork, drawn with a black pen. The lines were bold and confident; she liked the diagonal way they cut across the paper. The week before, he’d drawn a spoon, and she marveled at how he captured its shine and contours.

She’d always liked looking at drawings but seldom had the opportunity, except for the occasional illustrations she came across in books about gardening, cooking, or farming. Aside from Scripture, those were the only texts she knew. The Eternals didn’t necessarily boycott art, but only holy images were revered. These secular sketches were simple things, but it felt wrong to just throw them away, so as she did with the first, she folded this one carefully and put it in her pocket. She wondered if he left them for her, then felt ashamed at the idea, as it would confirm Zebiah’s suspicions.

He did seem especially kind to her, always making pleasant conversation, whereas with others she noticed he was reserved. But he was also respectful and considerate. Unlike other outsiders, he never stared rudely or made sneering comments about her faith or appearance. In Milton, where she’d lived most of her life, she rarely encountered outsiders, as the Eternal community there was even more rural and isolated. They sold apothecary items, goat milk, and produce at nearby farmers markets, but only the matrons were permitted to interact with the locals. Here in Caliban, she was shocked to see how integrated the Eternals were with their surrounding community. Their farmhouse, goat pasture, and café were right along the main highway, with the latter business catering mostly to locals and tourists.

One weekend, a group of young Asians came into the café for brunch, and though Anna didn’t wait on them, she could sense them watching her whenever she walked by. She was curious too, having never seen so many of her kind, and her age, all together. When she snuck glances at them, she’d sometimes catch their eyes, before quickly averting her own. Then she overheard one of the girls whispering, pointing at her, "What do you think happened?" As if something about her was wrong.

In Milton, the only Asians she knew besides her adoptive father were the Yuans, a Chinese couple. Over time, they all blended in with the community and became so familiar