know me.
She watched me button the last button on my coat. Behind her, August stepped off the porch and stood in the yard with his back to us. “What if I tried to stop you?” she said.
“You can try,” I said. “But I am going.” In my mind, I was already gone. I was already running through the darkness holding August Bethke’s hand. I was already kissing him beneath some tree only he knew about.
“Do you know what will happen if you get caught?”
“I won’t get caught,” I said. Confident as death.
The house creaked like a ship coming undone from its moorings.
“At least tell me who he is,” Martha said.
“A boy,” I said. My boy , I thought. My August.
“I can see that,” she said in a cutting voice.
I smiled. “A carpenter.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is his name?”
“August,” I said.
“August who?”
“Bethke,” I said. I pronounced it the way August did so it sounded like Bait-ka.
“Bait-ka,” she said slowly. She stood in the doorway and turned the name over in her mouth, but this time said August Bethke and pronounced the last name the way Americans would say it, so it sounded like Beth-key. She repeated the last name again with a puzzled look on her face.
I reached for the doorknob but she suddenly took hold of me and tried to pull me back into the kitchen. “Stop,” she said, her voice urgent and fierce. “Please stop. Do not go with that boy.”
I pried her fingers from my arm. “Cut it out, Martha,” I said. “I am going.” I heard footsteps on the porch steps. August tapped on the glass again and said my name and I turned toward his voice.
“Please,” she said.
“You cannot stop me,” I said. “Do not even try.”
We walked out into the night. August took my hand and I felt the great shock of him jolt my bones. When I turned to look back, Martha stood on the porch and watched us, her thin frame tall and narrow against the dim clapboard of the house, deep shadow falling between us, my mother’s skirt blowing around her knees.
Down by the river, August led me over a gravelly beach to a small wooden boat. In the daytime these shores were bright with dry yellow reeds, and red-winged blackbirds trilled in the tall grass. At night under the moon the river shallows were gray and foamy and the marsh grasses crackled and settled and no birds flew. The river glinted silver. August pulled the boat into shore and once I stepped in, he waded into the river to lift the anchor. Then he hoisted himself over the side and dropped into the hull. He took up the oars. With even strokes he pulled us out to where the current caught us. His dark hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it back and he reached over and put his hand on my skirt. In one quick gesture, he ran his hand up my inner thigh. He let his hand rest there. I felt nothing but the thrill of that gesture and the weight of his palm. When he smiled and lifted his hand and leaned back and put his hand back on the oars, I could still feel the heaviness of his hand on me and the weight of its promise. The boat creaked beneath us.
He stroked downstream. We slid past the tall brick machine factory and the town park with its circle of benches and then past the biggest of the springs, where the springhouse was closed up tight for the night but where in the morning people would walk to take the waters for their health or have themselves driven there in wagons and in cars. August pulled the oars into the boat and dropped them into the hull and we floated in silence. He pulled a candle stub from his pocket and lit the wick. He poured some of the wax onto the seat beside him and stood the candle in the wax. The flame flickered and went out. He popped another match against his thumbnail and lit the candle again. I wondered what people along the shore must have thought when they saw us, a boat the same dark color as the night and so invisible and yet a single light moving gently along the surface of the water.
The
She watched me button the last button on my coat. Behind her, August stepped off the porch and stood in the yard with his back to us. “What if I tried to stop you?” she said.
“You can try,” I said. “But I am going.” In my mind, I was already gone. I was already running through the darkness holding August Bethke’s hand. I was already kissing him beneath some tree only he knew about.
“Do you know what will happen if you get caught?”
“I won’t get caught,” I said. Confident as death.
The house creaked like a ship coming undone from its moorings.
“At least tell me who he is,” Martha said.
“A boy,” I said. My boy , I thought. My August.
“I can see that,” she said in a cutting voice.
I smiled. “A carpenter.”
Her eyes narrowed. “What is his name?”
“August,” I said.
“August who?”
“Bethke,” I said. I pronounced it the way August did so it sounded like Bait-ka.
“Bait-ka,” she said slowly. She stood in the doorway and turned the name over in her mouth, but this time said August Bethke and pronounced the last name the way Americans would say it, so it sounded like Beth-key. She repeated the last name again with a puzzled look on her face.
I reached for the doorknob but she suddenly took hold of me and tried to pull me back into the kitchen. “Stop,” she said, her voice urgent and fierce. “Please stop. Do not go with that boy.”
I pried her fingers from my arm. “Cut it out, Martha,” I said. “I am going.” I heard footsteps on the porch steps. August tapped on the glass again and said my name and I turned toward his voice.
“Please,” she said.
“You cannot stop me,” I said. “Do not even try.”
We walked out into the night. August took my hand and I felt the great shock of him jolt my bones. When I turned to look back, Martha stood on the porch and watched us, her thin frame tall and narrow against the dim clapboard of the house, deep shadow falling between us, my mother’s skirt blowing around her knees.
Down by the river, August led me over a gravelly beach to a small wooden boat. In the daytime these shores were bright with dry yellow reeds, and red-winged blackbirds trilled in the tall grass. At night under the moon the river shallows were gray and foamy and the marsh grasses crackled and settled and no birds flew. The river glinted silver. August pulled the boat into shore and once I stepped in, he waded into the river to lift the anchor. Then he hoisted himself over the side and dropped into the hull. He took up the oars. With even strokes he pulled us out to where the current caught us. His dark hair fell into his eyes and he pushed it back and he reached over and put his hand on my skirt. In one quick gesture, he ran his hand up my inner thigh. He let his hand rest there. I felt nothing but the thrill of that gesture and the weight of his palm. When he smiled and lifted his hand and leaned back and put his hand back on the oars, I could still feel the heaviness of his hand on me and the weight of its promise. The boat creaked beneath us.
He stroked downstream. We slid past the tall brick machine factory and the town park with its circle of benches and then past the biggest of the springs, where the springhouse was closed up tight for the night but where in the morning people would walk to take the waters for their health or have themselves driven there in wagons and in cars. August pulled the oars into the boat and dropped them into the hull and we floated in silence. He pulled a candle stub from his pocket and lit the wick. He poured some of the wax onto the seat beside him and stood the candle in the wax. The flame flickered and went out. He popped another match against his thumbnail and lit the candle again. I wondered what people along the shore must have thought when they saw us, a boat the same dark color as the night and so invisible and yet a single light moving gently along the surface of the water.
The
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