Page 115 of The River We Remember

“Brody?” Her mouth was so dry that, for a moment, she couldn’t speak. “Would it be all right if we skipped the movie? I’d like to go somewhere and just talk.”

“Well, sure. That’s fine by me. We could talk here.”

“No, not here. How about…” She thought a moment. “What if we went down by the river and sat for a while?”

“If that’s what you want,” he said.

He drove the cruiser to a small wayside north of town. There were a few picnic tables and grills and the broad run of the Alabaster. The only other car was a green station wagon that had disgorged a family who stood gathered around a fire they’d built in a grill and were roasting marshmallows. Angie didn’t recognize them, and Brody paid them no heed. She left the car and walked to a table near the river. The sun was low in the sky, caught in the branches of the trees on the far bank. Broken sunlight dappled the surface of the water. Angie sat down on the bench of the picnic table.

“I’ve always wondered,” she said as Brody sat quiet and patient beside her, “why this river is called the Alabaster. Alabaster is white.”

“Under a full moon, in the right light, it looks pure as snow.”

“Doesn’t everything… in the right light?”

“Something on your mind, Angie? Something you want to say?”

“People can fool you, can’t they, Brody?”

“Probably. But only for a while. Their true nature usually slips out. At least, that’s been my experience.”

“You’re such a good person.”

“I wouldn’t say that.”

“That’s all I’ve ever seen. And if what you say is true, if you were something different, I’d know it by now.”

Brody didn’t reply.

She felt as if she were standing on the edge of a great cliff, trying to gather the courage to leap. She could barely breathe.

“There’s something I have to tell you, Brody.”

AT FORT BELOIT, the boys had rolled out the sleeping bag and the bedroll and had lain awhile watching the sun descend. Del told Scott about the book he was reading yet again, The Naked and the Dead, and said he thought maybe he’d go into the army as soon as he graduated from high school, make a career of it, like his dad. He punched Scott playfully in the arm and said, “You should have brought your guitar. We could sing ‘Kumbaya’ and those other songs you Girl Scouts sing around the campfire.” He laughed but Scott knew it wasn’t malicious.

Then Del looked around carefully and said, “Dig this, Madman.” He reached under his shirt and drew out the .22 pistol they’d used in target practice the day before.

“What’s that for?” The presence of the gun made Scott nervous, especially there in the campground, with other people so near.

“I thought maybe tomorrow we’d see if we could flush out some rabbits and try our luck.”

Target practice was one thing; shooting an animal was something else. Scott didn’t push it, but he figured that in the morning he’d find an excuse not to join in the hunt.

When the sun had set and the sky had begun to slide toward a dark, moody blue, Del stood up and said, “Time to go, Madman.”

THE WHOLE OF the time she spilled her history, Angie refrained from looking at Brody. She watched the sun drop lower and lower, the light reflecting off the Alabaster in shatters of gold. She heard the doors of the station wagon slap closed and the family drive away, leaving her alone with Brody and the truth of who she was. Brody said nothing. Because she couldn’t bring herself to look at him, she had no idea if patience was the reason or horror. She didn’t cry. She didn’t want to offer Brody anything but the naked truth, because she knew Garnet Dern had been right. He deserved to know, to make his own judgment and decision, and she didn’t want to influence him with her tears.

When it was done, she sat and waited. Finally she risked a glance at him.

Now it seemed that Brody was the one who couldn’t look. She thought it was over then, anything they might have shared, the life with him she’d briefly let herself imagine. She tried to hold back the tears, but they would not be denied.

“I’m sorry, Brody,” she said.

He turned to her, his face a wonder of compassion. “Sorry? Oh, Angie, you’ve got nothing to apologize for. We do what we have to, all of us. We survive. Do you think I care about all that in the past? That’s not who you are now. That’s not who you’ve ever been. Not to me. Not before, not now.” He took her hands in his. “To me, you’re the Alabaster in moonlight. That’s how I’ll always see you.”

“Oh, God, Brody.” She laid her head against his chest, and now her tears were from gratitude and relief and joy.

He held her for a long time that way, then she could feel a change in his body, a stiffening. She drew away.