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In the wheatfield

by Kristen Tsetsi

Hers was the first in a short string of boxcars in the middle of a long train. She sat on the floor, legs outstretched under her skirt and crossed at the ankles. The only person on the street when the train had passed through town was the bookseller setting up his racks of newspapers on the sidewalk. The train had been moving slowly, at a speed that would annoy anyone waiting for it to pass. But no one waited. No one, at that hour, was quite on the road to work yet. When she first saw the boxcars, empty and with doors wide open, she hadn’t been sure about whether or not to take the chance. Hadn’t been sure that was what she wanted, if that was how far she wanted to go, if she could really do it, really go. But then the bookseller had disappeared into his store, and there was no one in the world to see her.

She wanted to dangle her legs off the side of the train; sit in the open doorway and view the world as if she were levitating and let the wind tug at her until she was sure she would be pulled right off, straight out of the car and into the world where she would float underneath and within the trees, and could better hear the leaves, sometimes only feet from the tracks, blowing away from the train. But she didn’t dare sit closer to the door than she already was. The engineer might see her and stop the train and order her off. He might call the police, and she didn’t want to think of what Jared would think if she had to call him from the station. What he might tell their father and other brother, and the way they would all shake their heads when they heard. So she sat near the edge but with no parts dangling off, her back pressed uncomfortably against the rusted metal door.
She leaned forward to stretch and the wind caught her hair and blew it over her face. She brushed it off her forehead and held it behind her head, her thumb and index finger a circle around her hair. The train came to a clearing in the trees, one she recognized as the field she and her brother had found when they’d run away that weekend, years ago. She felt young now, but they had been kids then. Fourteen and fifteen. Fifteen years ago.

Her fiancé would try to find her when she missed their rehearsal. She could feel him at her house now, questioning her brothers and father, his voice low and serene as always, his lips tight with worry. His picture, pocketed between her breast and bra, stuck warm to her skin. She had never thought she would put anything in her bra except what belonged there. Women stuffed things in there all the time on television. Money, pens, pieces of paper. She never understood. She did it today only because her skirt didn’t have pockets. There was something about having the picture there, close to her. Close to her heart. A phrase, sappy and sentimental, one she had once promised herself never to use. But he was close, really. His likeness, anyway. She slid her hand under her shirt and fingered a corner of the photograph, his face so close to her, but she did not take it out to look at it; she didn’t know if she could look at it. So she didn’t. Instead, she looked out to the field beyond, where grass-hoppers popped out of the wheat and disappeared, like dolphins playing in the sea.

“Deirdre, where are you?” Jared’s voice called. She sat straight and still, listening for him over the chug-chuh-chuh of the train. His footsteps crunched the stiff wheat stalks and she knew if she moved he would find her. “Deirdre, we have to go home, now. We’ve been gone too long.” They’d just finished talking about where they would go, how far they could get on foot, how long it would take for their father to find them. If he ever did. Even in the field, miles from anyone, they’d whispered, conspirators. His hand guiding her, pulling her gently, tugging her across the opening in the trees and over random holes in the earth, keeping her from twisting her ankle again. Almost at the other side, he’d stopped and told her to wait. He had to use the trees. That was when she had run to hide from him.

She lowered her head behind the soft feathered wheat tips and her skin flushed and she wondered if he could hear the pounding, the hard heavy pounding she tried to quiet with an open palm placed over her late-in-coming, but welcome, breasts. She listened for him, waited for him to appear and hold out his hand and pull her to her feet. She waited and listened. An ant crawled up a stalk near her face, so quickly it crawled, and she watched it until it dangled from the top of the wheat stem, legs groping for something to hold, and then fell back to the ground, where it circled her foot before disappearing into its jungle. “Deirdre!” His voice was far away. When it reached her, it brushed the top of her head, moved on and sailed over the field. She stretched flat on the ground, dry growth pushing into her back, and waited, because any minute now his face would hover over hers, any minute now…but he did not come nearer and she could not hear him anymore. She picked herself up and called out to him. “Jared. Jared, I’m here!” Her voice echoed hollowly in the dark corners of the boxcar. The field was gone. The sun shone in the forest, raining down through branches in puddles that reminded her of shapes under a microscope in her middle school science class.

She held tight to the frame of the doorway and swayed with the movement of the train, imagined her train swaying as she walked up the aisle, flowers – wild – in hand, a bunch her fiancé would have picked for her himself. Her father beside her, his aftershave light , hand hard and calloused, holding hers tight, her brothers up front with him, beside him. Jared and Gregory, young Gregory, home from school, his first year away. Gregory, a groomsman, and Jared, the best man.
She wandered the car. Her feet ground the dirt underneath from one cold corner to the next, each one dark and smelling of urine. She returned to the doorway where the sun came in and made a perfect square on the floor. She sat cross-legged in the beam and smelled the breeze from the line of trees that flew past her, whip, whip, whip. The fork in Gregory’s hand made quick dives into the bowl, whip, whip, whip, bringing up yolk over the prongs, prongs invisible in the yolk cocoon, the bits of bacon red specks in the yellow. They all liked bacon bits. Gregory whipped it fast and deftly, fifteen years old and an expert at eggs; fried, scrambled, poached, or cooking over low heat in a flat mass, the bacon bits and dried onions poking up out of the uncooked portion. Jared stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and the water running off his arms in long, slow drips while he twisted a sponge in a glass. Deirdre watched her brothers from the kitchen table, already set and ready for them. Watched Gregory slowly pour the eggs into the pan, heated over such a low flame that the butter didn’t even fizzle when the eggs covered it. Deirdre asked Jared why he didn’t just turn off the water, or fill one side with water before washing. He was wasting it by letting it run like that, not using it, not rinsing anything with it but the drain covers that clinked against the chrome drain lip. He ignored her. Started whistling. Gregory looked sideways at Jared, smiled, and wedged the spatula under the omelet to keep it from sticking to the pan. Deirdre got up from the table and reached around Jared to turn off the water. He threw the sponge in the sink, in a bowl filled with soapy water, and the water splashed up onto Deirdre. She screamed, turned on the faucet and slapped her hands at the stream, flicking it onto Jared. Gregory edged away from them, far enough away to not get wet, but close enough to reach the frying pan. Jared, strong, circled his arms hard around Deirdre and forced her over the sink. He held her with one arm and with the other grabbed the bowl of water and poured it over her head. She screamed again and flailed her arms, all the while laughing, trying to free herself from her brother. He laughed, too, and struggled to hold onto her and refill the bowl at the same time. Gregory watched from the stove. He flipped the omelet over and it landed perfectly in the center of the pan. Water dripped from Deirdre’s bangs and landed on the linoleum. Her shirt was wet around the collar and when Jared splashed the second bowl on her, her shirt clung to her chest and her arms were slick, slick enough to slide them out from under his. They breathed heavy, ready to lunge for the sink, both of them studying each other like cats. Jared’s eyes went down, down, and Deirdre’s wet eyelashes blinked shut and then opened and her chest heaved. Gregory, looking at them, slammed the frying pan on the burner. “Deirdre. Yours is done.” Jared snapped straight and looked away from her and set the bowl in the sink. “Go eat, Deirdre. Game’s over. I have to finish these.” Their father walked in and saw the mess, the water on the floor, Deirdre’s wet shirt. “What’s going on in here?” he asked. “Deirdre?” She pulled her shirt away from her skin. “We’re making eggs,” she said. “Gregory’s making eggs and Jared’s doing dishes.” She said to the wind, “Just doing dishes.” Her voice was carried away as soon as the words came out, mingling with the branches between the tracks and forest floor.

A leaf blew into the car and Deirdre crawled over to it and picked it up. She folded it in half at the vein, then tore the leaf away from the vein until all she held was a single stem that was thick at the bottom and narrow as a sewing needle at the tip. She ran it along her cheeks, her forehead, over her eyelids. She touched the vein to her tongue and let go, let it hang there, sucked on it. She moved it with her tongue until it rested underneath, where the doctor stuck the thermometer. She lay back and let the vein hang half in, half out of her mouth.

“Feeling fine,” she whispered. “I’m fine.” He told her she didn’t look fine. That her father and brother, Gregory, said she’d been acting funny. Sick. She plucked the thermometer from her mouth and twirled it around her fingers; index, middle, ring, pinkie, ring… The doctor, watching, said, “You really should just let me take your temperature.” Deirdre put her feet in the stirrups and laughed and said, “Go ahead.” He moved to the window and looked out. “Is that your boyfriend outside?” he asked. She turned and stared at the painting on the wall. Winter at night. A deep snow cover and lights – gold – shining from the inside out, onto the white lawn, and car headlights turning into the driveway, driving out from the wall and into this winterland with the gold windows. “Yes,” she said. That’s Peter.” The doctor came near, but not near her legs. He stood by her head. “They said he’s worried about you, too,” he said, his voice higher than one she wanted in a doctor. She said, “I know he is.” She looked at the doctor. “I love Peter. We’re getting married.” The doctor helped her sit up and took the thermometer from her hand and stuck it in her mouth, under her tongue. “Hold it there for sixty seconds.—Married, you say? Well, that’s enough to make anyone sick with nerves.” She shook her head. They stayed quiet until the minute was up, he looking at his watch, she turning to look at Peter outside, sitting on a post of the crude wood fence separating the parking lot from the hospital yard. He took the thermometer out of her mouth. She said, “There’s nothing wrong.” He looked at her and said, “You’re awfully pale.” She took a breath. “I’ve been busy. I’m tired.” The doctor rolled his chair out from under his desk and folded his hands on his lap. “Your father said you’ve been sleeping in your room a lot. He thinks you’re coming down with something.” Deirdre shifted and the paper sheet underneath her crinkled, not like the soft cotton sheets of her bed, where she could lie all day if she wanted to without being bothered, where she could rest near an open window and listen to the outdoor sounds and not have to face Peter. Not have to face either of them. “I’m fine. I told you. I told them. Wasn’t my temperature normal?” The doctor told her it was perfect. “You see? I’m going, now. This is my father’s bill?” The doctor nodded. She left. Outside, Peter held her. He asked her if she felt better and she twisted away and shut herself in the car. He stood outside, in front of the hood, and looked in at her. She did not know why he had to look at her. She rolled down the window. “What?” Was he looking because he wanted her to get out? Did he want her to tell him everything was fine? She’d told him a million times. She was fine. She was fine. She was fine! She told them all, all the time, every time, that she was fine. But they asked and asked her, everyone but Jared, they all asked her if she was okay, if the wedding was too much work, if she needed help, if she needed sleep, if there was anything she wanted to talk about. If when she went away, disappeared without telling anyone, left for hours at a time, if she was going somewhere safe. Did she know what she was doing? Was she meeting anyone? Peter wanted to know. A friend? She was “always so flighty,” they all reminded each other, even when she was in the room. Always doing something off the wall. Was it Peter? And Peter asked, is it me? She loved him, or didn’t he know that? Didn’t she tell him all the time that she loved him? Didn’t she say yes when he asked her to marry him? Didn’t she fuck him any time he wanted her to, any way he wanted? And didn’t she show that she liked it? Didn’t she scream loud enough, pant in his ear, and say the things he wanted her to say? What did he, what did they, want from her? “WHAT DO YOU WANT? What do you want, what do you want, what do you want?” Her voice matched the squeal of the train straining to round a corner, and she felt her body being pushed, pushed or pulled, toward the door, felt it slide on the grit of the floor, rolling over pebbles like a watermelon on a bed of marbles, rolling toward the door.

She knew she should let herself go. Slide right off, out into the wind, down the slope and into the trees with the animals. But she was not an animal, but still she wanted to go, to get off the ride, to get off this ride. She sat up and shook her head, shook her hair around her face and felt it whip and stick to her wet cheeks. “You’re crying,” he said. She moved closer to the door. “Go away,” she whispered. The wind shifted and blew into the car. She held her arms out wide, leaned her head back and wondered what time it was, wondered if she was supposed to be at the church with Peter now, practicing their lines. “You’re crying,” Jared said. She thought of Peter, warm Peter, nearly her husband. Peter getting into the car and telling her he was sorry, that he believed she was fine, that he would never bring her to the doctor again unless she needed him to. That he loved her, no matter what, that he wanted to be her husband, and that they could move away, go away from her family, from anything she needed to get away from. “You’re crying, Deir.” She stood in the door, half in the hallway. Peter would be there tomorrow. Their rehearsal was tomorrow. The hallway behind her urged her to follow it to her own room. “Come on in.” Jared waved her into his room, his old room, the room where they would stay up late, talking quietly so they wouldn’t wake Gregory. The room she and Jared and Gregory would sit in when they, Deirdre and Jared, visited home. They’d always gone to Jared’s room. He had the good stereo. He had the posters and the pictures and the books. “Come here,” he said. He patted the bed. She went to him and lay on her back beside him, her head resting on his arm. He stroked her forehead, moved the hair away from her face with his fingers.

The next morning she woke to Gregory standing in the doorway, in Jared’s doorway. His frame filled the door’s. His mouth was set, his hands loose at his sides, his shoulders straight and back. Deirdre looked at him and he looked at them, and she pressed her head into the pillow. Gregory turned and said, “Peter’s downstairs,” and left. “I’ll be right there,” she said lightly, too lightly. Light as the air, light as the leaves that surfed it and that came startlingly close to the train, the tips of branches brushing the side of the boxcar and springing back in the open doorway. She moved closer to the edge, close enough for her toes to catch the wind, close enough to lean over and see the rocks scattered along the tracks, which were not separate rocks but a smear of brown and gray. She felt drawn to them, into them, into the damp smell that lived underneath them and cooled their undersides. Into the dark that lived underneath, the private, hidden darkness where she could live like a bear for months before coming out, when they might have forgotten. When she might have forgotten. But they wouldn’t forget, and they couldn’t, and when she felt herself falling, falling over, she knew she could summersault over the rocks and into the dark grass at the edge of the woods like a leap from a trampoline, like flying in a dream.