many years—trying not to notice the clamminess of her crotch. Middle age! When one is not surprised by one’s age, one is surprised by one’s youth. This sudden alacrity of her body, for example, as unexpected as it is undignified. She’d have sworn herself past this, but there go her nipples, bobbing up from the soft of her breasts like corks. My life’s companion Lee used to call her body, back when it was failing her; now Hattie squinches her own life’s companion into the thick neoprene skin. She feels like an armored sausage as she hunts for the neoprene cap that goes with the suit. Neoprene aficionado that she’s become, she even has insulated booties.
The complete walrus look , Lee would say.
“Sorry to be slow.” Hattie finally reemerges.
But look: No Carter. No book bag.
Is it not just as well? She traipses over to the side yard and squints out past the Chhungs’, toward the lake—sensing, through the dry chafe of the neoprene, the even pat of the sun. The life-giving sun, with which she began her fall, back when she taught. Her house has what’s called a distant water view, and it is distant indeed—too far to make out a swimmer even if she had on her distance glasses, which she does not. She does not think of going in for them, though, or for her binoculars, either—having her pride, after all. Or, all right, call it an emergent characteristic . Still.
Hattie a tad less batty . She admires some willow trees across the way—their yellow-green flaring against the gray-brown of the other trees. And look at how the birches have woken up, too! Their white trunks spawning a bright mauve haze of new twigs and buds. How empty the house when she goes back in, though, without the dogs—how strangely big, as if it would echo if she were to say anything. Of course, it wouldn’t, really; it’s a small house. And what would she say anyway? Behold my insulation—? How much more likely that she’d start hearing other people’s voices—Joe’s, for example: You always were well insulated, Hat. Probably you had to be .
She works off her cap, then goes back out and calls the dogs.
Come back!
She unzips her suit.
C hhung is putting in a garden. It’s back behind the trailer, so you can barely see it from the road, and from the house, Hattie can only make out the north end of the work. But there he is, sure enough, digging away with his son. On weekends in the beginning, but more recently on weekdays, too—a surprise. Shouldn’t the boy be in school? And what a big garden they must be putting in—big enough to feed the family and more, if it works. She can’t help but wonder if it will, though, given the light level down there; it’s pretty dark. If they were anyone else, discouragement would be coming in by the cubic yard. But instead there they are, on their own. People hesitating a little to step forward, maybe—or so Hattie guesses, extrapolating from her own hesitation. Not that she’s not sympathetic. She’s sympathetic, of course. But she knows, too, from her teaching days how the troubles this family has seen are unlikely to have ended in America. Why would they have moved to Riverlake if they were thriving? And who knows, maybe the Chhungs know something the locals don’t, anyway. What can be grown in a spot like that. Maybe they know.
Possessed as they may be of some ancient Cambodian wisdom?
The shovel is so much more substantial than Chhung, it looks to be wielding him. The boy is more equal to his spade. Not that he’s so tall—Hattie puts him at maybe five foot six or seven. Still, taller and stockier than Chhung—and stronger, too—he digs easily. With a signature style, even, a certain exaggeration, as if he’s not only working, but making a show of his work. Imagining, as workers will —Imagine! Joe would say—that he might not appear to be working hard enough. His whole body lifts; his elbow knifes high; his shovel bites hard. Chhung is wearing assorted sports clothes,
The complete walrus look , Lee would say.
“Sorry to be slow.” Hattie finally reemerges.
But look: No Carter. No book bag.
Is it not just as well? She traipses over to the side yard and squints out past the Chhungs’, toward the lake—sensing, through the dry chafe of the neoprene, the even pat of the sun. The life-giving sun, with which she began her fall, back when she taught. Her house has what’s called a distant water view, and it is distant indeed—too far to make out a swimmer even if she had on her distance glasses, which she does not. She does not think of going in for them, though, or for her binoculars, either—having her pride, after all. Or, all right, call it an emergent characteristic . Still.
Hattie a tad less batty . She admires some willow trees across the way—their yellow-green flaring against the gray-brown of the other trees. And look at how the birches have woken up, too! Their white trunks spawning a bright mauve haze of new twigs and buds. How empty the house when she goes back in, though, without the dogs—how strangely big, as if it would echo if she were to say anything. Of course, it wouldn’t, really; it’s a small house. And what would she say anyway? Behold my insulation—? How much more likely that she’d start hearing other people’s voices—Joe’s, for example: You always were well insulated, Hat. Probably you had to be .
She works off her cap, then goes back out and calls the dogs.
Come back!
She unzips her suit.
C hhung is putting in a garden. It’s back behind the trailer, so you can barely see it from the road, and from the house, Hattie can only make out the north end of the work. But there he is, sure enough, digging away with his son. On weekends in the beginning, but more recently on weekdays, too—a surprise. Shouldn’t the boy be in school? And what a big garden they must be putting in—big enough to feed the family and more, if it works. She can’t help but wonder if it will, though, given the light level down there; it’s pretty dark. If they were anyone else, discouragement would be coming in by the cubic yard. But instead there they are, on their own. People hesitating a little to step forward, maybe—or so Hattie guesses, extrapolating from her own hesitation. Not that she’s not sympathetic. She’s sympathetic, of course. But she knows, too, from her teaching days how the troubles this family has seen are unlikely to have ended in America. Why would they have moved to Riverlake if they were thriving? And who knows, maybe the Chhungs know something the locals don’t, anyway. What can be grown in a spot like that. Maybe they know.
Possessed as they may be of some ancient Cambodian wisdom?
The shovel is so much more substantial than Chhung, it looks to be wielding him. The boy is more equal to his spade. Not that he’s so tall—Hattie puts him at maybe five foot six or seven. Still, taller and stockier than Chhung—and stronger, too—he digs easily. With a signature style, even, a certain exaggeration, as if he’s not only working, but making a show of his work. Imagining, as workers will —Imagine! Joe would say—that he might not appear to be working hard enough. His whole body lifts; his elbow knifes high; his shovel bites hard. Chhung is wearing assorted sports clothes,
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