“and developing so beautifully.”
The phrase surprises me—something so weirdly awful in it—like Pygmalion and Galatea. I feel a quick wave of anger toward him and toward Elizabeth for stirring this up in the first place.
I look down at the book open on my lap.
Trees and How to Know Them.
My eyes drop to the page.
The bark of all birches is marked with long horizontal…
“And there is the money concern,” I hear him say now. “Things can barely continue as they are.”
“Things work out,” Elizabeth says. “Have some faith in that.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore today,” Stieglitz says.
“I’ll bring it up again tomorrow, then,” she answers.
He ignores her and speaks across the porch to me. “Do you want to go for a row later, Georgia?”
I glance up and hold his eyes coolly for a moment just so he knows I am not pleased. “We can do that.”
—
H E HOLDS MY arm as we walk the path down to the lake.
“Don’t ever do that,” I say.
“What?”
“Have a conversation about something that matters deeply to me with someone else in that staged way.”
“She brought it up.”
“Don’t do that again.”
I feel him shrink, but he nods.
“I want a child, Stieglitz—you’ve promised me from the start, and if now is not quite the right time, I’m perfectly capable of talking that through. Alone with you. But not like that again.”
—
I HELP HIM flip the dinghy. Together we drag it to the shallows. We row in silence. Halfway around the island, the wind shifts—a sudden squall moving in over the hills.
“Head back,” I say.
He turns the boat around, so the wind is with us. A gust flays the surface, driving spray against the hull. Small waves have begun to form. The little boat pitches over them, and he rows with long strong pulls, driving the bow through the chop.
Rain has begun to fall—just a drizzle at first, then drenching. Halfway to shore, a streak of lightning rips the sky across the lake. I see the canoe—just east of the island, two small figures in it. Boys.
“Stieglitz, go back! Go back!” I go to stand. He pulls me down.
“You’ll tip us!”
“But look! Out there, those boys!”
As his eyes follow my hand pointing, the canoe rolls, two dark shapes disappear into black water. I see one head surface, his arm pale in another burst of lightning. He clings to the overturned canoe.
“Turn around! Go back!” I shout. “Go back!”
He keeps rowing toward shore.
“You can’t leave them!”
“I’ll return myself. But four in this boat—we can’t do it!”
“There won’t be time!”
“I’m bringing you in.”
“You can’t, not now!”
“You need to go for help. I’ll go back for them.”
“No! Go back now!”
But he rows on. I grip the gunwale, straining to see the two heads out in the middle of the lake by the canoe, but seeing only one.
“Go back, please. Turn around.” The words shred like prayer. “Please.”
We strike the dock. I jump out and push him off again. He starts to row into the storm, leaning into the oars, long strong pulls through the rough water.
“Go, Georgia,” he shouts back. “Go!” I run up the hill.
My heart is in my throat as I reach the farmhouse, panicked, shouting, my soaked clothes pouring puddles on the floor.
Elizabeth brings me blankets as Agnes phones for help and the men flood down the hill toward shore.
I watch from the porch, gripping the rail. Stieglitz has reached the capsized canoe. He grabs hold of the boy still clinging there—that pale arm I’d seen—the little rowboat tips and sways, but he braces himself and hauls that boy with one pull into the boat.
“They’re going to be fine,” Elizabeth says, coming to stand beside me. She presses a cup of hot tea into my hands. “Others are headed out now.”
“There was another boy,” I say.
“They’ll find him.” Elizabeth brings her arm around me. Stieglitz is rowing again, circling the canoe, looking.
They
The phrase surprises me—something so weirdly awful in it—like Pygmalion and Galatea. I feel a quick wave of anger toward him and toward Elizabeth for stirring this up in the first place.
I look down at the book open on my lap.
Trees and How to Know Them.
My eyes drop to the page.
The bark of all birches is marked with long horizontal…
“And there is the money concern,” I hear him say now. “Things can barely continue as they are.”
“Things work out,” Elizabeth says. “Have some faith in that.”
“I don’t want to talk about this anymore today,” Stieglitz says.
“I’ll bring it up again tomorrow, then,” she answers.
He ignores her and speaks across the porch to me. “Do you want to go for a row later, Georgia?”
I glance up and hold his eyes coolly for a moment just so he knows I am not pleased. “We can do that.”
—
H E HOLDS MY arm as we walk the path down to the lake.
“Don’t ever do that,” I say.
“What?”
“Have a conversation about something that matters deeply to me with someone else in that staged way.”
“She brought it up.”
“Don’t do that again.”
I feel him shrink, but he nods.
“I want a child, Stieglitz—you’ve promised me from the start, and if now is not quite the right time, I’m perfectly capable of talking that through. Alone with you. But not like that again.”
—
I HELP HIM flip the dinghy. Together we drag it to the shallows. We row in silence. Halfway around the island, the wind shifts—a sudden squall moving in over the hills.
“Head back,” I say.
He turns the boat around, so the wind is with us. A gust flays the surface, driving spray against the hull. Small waves have begun to form. The little boat pitches over them, and he rows with long strong pulls, driving the bow through the chop.
Rain has begun to fall—just a drizzle at first, then drenching. Halfway to shore, a streak of lightning rips the sky across the lake. I see the canoe—just east of the island, two small figures in it. Boys.
“Stieglitz, go back! Go back!” I go to stand. He pulls me down.
“You’ll tip us!”
“But look! Out there, those boys!”
As his eyes follow my hand pointing, the canoe rolls, two dark shapes disappear into black water. I see one head surface, his arm pale in another burst of lightning. He clings to the overturned canoe.
“Turn around! Go back!” I shout. “Go back!”
He keeps rowing toward shore.
“You can’t leave them!”
“I’ll return myself. But four in this boat—we can’t do it!”
“There won’t be time!”
“I’m bringing you in.”
“You can’t, not now!”
“You need to go for help. I’ll go back for them.”
“No! Go back now!”
But he rows on. I grip the gunwale, straining to see the two heads out in the middle of the lake by the canoe, but seeing only one.
“Go back, please. Turn around.” The words shred like prayer. “Please.”
We strike the dock. I jump out and push him off again. He starts to row into the storm, leaning into the oars, long strong pulls through the rough water.
“Go, Georgia,” he shouts back. “Go!” I run up the hill.
My heart is in my throat as I reach the farmhouse, panicked, shouting, my soaked clothes pouring puddles on the floor.
Elizabeth brings me blankets as Agnes phones for help and the men flood down the hill toward shore.
I watch from the porch, gripping the rail. Stieglitz has reached the capsized canoe. He grabs hold of the boy still clinging there—that pale arm I’d seen—the little rowboat tips and sways, but he braces himself and hauls that boy with one pull into the boat.
“They’re going to be fine,” Elizabeth says, coming to stand beside me. She presses a cup of hot tea into my hands. “Others are headed out now.”
“There was another boy,” I say.
“They’ll find him.” Elizabeth brings her arm around me. Stieglitz is rowing again, circling the canoe, looking.
They
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