The Creek

The lines of David’s face were strong. Masculine. He had a broad forehead and a

determined jaw. His lips were thin, but still attractive, and he seemed golden. Jeb’s

features contrasted sharply, with its dark tones and sallow skin, an inheritance from his

mother. Jeb did not carry the same edged Roman features that his older brother held. You

could tell they had different mothers. Even different hearts. The only thing that was the

same about them was their eyes. Hauntingly steel gray eyes that still smoldered, sixty

years after the shutter snapped.

I held the worn photograph in my hands, admiring how well it had held up over

the years. I wished that I could say the same for myself. The edges were tattered and

worn, browned by time, but the contrast was still strong in the emulsion. I remembered

the day the photo had been taken, the reason that one man’s eyes shimmered with hope

and happiness while the other’s burned with anger and frustration.

It was the Depression. The days were long and hard. Clothes were patched, re-

patched, and patched again. The Great War was over, and we had all settled back into our

everyday life. Except it was a borrowed sort of life. We did things differently now then

we had before. Papa had a tractor instead of a mule, and Joel was gone. He was just one

of the many sons that had faded away with the war.

David and Jeb worked patiently on their father’s farm, pounding a heartbeat out of

the dry, caked soil. For them, everyday was the same. Sun-up to sundown they toiled in

the fields, leaning against their hoes or swinging scythes in the fall time. Everyday,

except Sunday. On Sundays, they fed the chickens, pigs and cows and left the rest of their

chores for the afternoon. They brushed their old broodmare down until she shown,

hitched her up to the buckboard wagon that had seen better days, and headed to church.

They cleaned up good, the Montgomery boys did, always turning out their best

even in the roughest patches. Rachel, Jeb’s mother, was an expert seamstress, and could

make almost any patch fade into the seam-work. She was quiet and hard-working, but

loved both David and Jeb the same, faithfully and strongly.

We’d sit through church together, me and the boys, in the hard worn pews at the

back of the church. Quietly passing notes, we always made plans for some new

expedition or adventure in the afternoon. When we were older, sometimes Jeb would pass

me love notes, which I giggled at. I thought he was kidding.

My momma invited the Montgomerys over for dinner most Sundays, and when

she didn’t, they invited us. Times may have been rough, but our mothers could always lay

a spread out for Sunday dinner, even in the barest of times. I think it was a point of pride

for them, to be able to provide for their children and others when everything was so lean.

In this way, Jeb and David and I grew up together, close as kin until our teenage

years. Jeb was my age, David was about three years older. While our fathers would rest

in the rockers on the front porch delaying afternoon chores as long as possible, we’d ride

the horses down to the creek. Most often, I would ride alongside David on his old

broodmare, clinging tight to his waist. We were young and I loved him like my brother.

My own brother, Joel, had died in the Great War. Two months before the

ceasefire. Seven months after he’d shipped out. Momma denounced it as a shame. I was

five then. I remember the officers arriving, their brass shining in the autumn sun, carrying

that letter. They knocked on the door, their faces steeled. I remember the terse words,

“We’re very sorry Ma’am,” and my mother falling down in a heap of tears and wailing. I

had run to get Papa from the fields, unable to explain my Momma’s uncharacteristic

weakness. He’d unhitched the mule, clamored aboard, dragging me up behind, and

headed back as quick as those heavy hooves could fly.

She’d lay in bed for a week, and it’s the only time in my childhood that I ever

recalled my mother being motionless. Papa took her tea in the evenings, and my Aunt

Sissy had ridden the train in to stay with her, and take care of the house. Then, suddenly,

one day, she’d gotten up and went on with her life, as if she’d decided she’d grieved

enough.

The twins came about a year later, and she really didn’t have time to grieve

anyway. Isaac and Nathan, two beautiful boys who giggled and laughed and shone like

the sun. It was as if God had turned to Momma, realized what he’d done, and decided to

give her a double portion of the laughter she’d lost in Joel. The only way to describe the

two of them was joy. It was a good, happy time for our family.

I can only really remember one thing about Joel, and that was his laugh. He was

always laughing. He even cracked himself up sometimes, falling to the floor and holding

his stomach until he cried. He’d been great friends with David who was eight years his

junior and David had probably taken the loss as hard as my mother had. He saw Joel as

his older brother. He would tell me stories about his and Joel’s exploits, when they would

swim the rapids at Bear Creek, or hunt deer in the late fall, or about when they built the

fort. I loved David most because he could remember, even when I couldn’t.

As much as I loved them, Sundays were a nice respite from the twins, because

they weren’t allowed to go down to the creek with us. Momma was overprotective over

them, afraid to lose another son, I guess. She had good reason. The spot where we played

was the deepest and widest part of the creek, and we’d rigged a rope swing from the

branches of an old oak so that we could swing and let our bodies surrender to the pull of

the summer air and dark water.

The creek was deep in the woods, just past the cornfield, and about two hundred

yards down the slope. We’d worn a path to it with our bare feet and our horses’ hooves.

At the end of that path there was a wooden fort that stood about seven feet high, pounded

together with scrap wood and nails Joel had gotten from Mr. Polsky’s for helping clear

his land one summer. He’d spent weeks planning it, drawing out rough sketches on old

newsprint in the kitchen after evening chores. Joel finished the fort before he left for war,

and he let David help him. They had built it strategically, with the creek running along

beside it, its waters edging up close. Joel said that this way, it was kind of like a moat that

couldn’t be crossed. I kind of remember playing there with him and David and Jeb, but I

was so young, and it was so far away; it was like a ghost of a memory.

After Joel was gone, and Jeb and I had gotten a little older, we went there about

every evening, as soon as supper was done and we could get away. The time I spent with

David and Jeb filled the hole that Joel’s death had left in me. Momma didn’t have the

heart to tell me I couldn’t play with the boys, or at the creek. So, she let me go, as long as

David was there to watch out for me.

The summer I turned fifteen, everything changed. I thought David was handsome,

and that I would marry him some day. Jeb knew it, and was jealous. He tried to pretend it

didn’t bother him, but he was bad at it. I felt sorry for him, but he just didn’t laugh

enough for me. The difference between them was night and day, and it went much deeper

than the way they looked. Jeb was quiet and introspective, always writing and sullen,

where David talked and laughed and told the best stories I’d ever heard.

I remember it was August. The men were haying in the fields, and all three of us

had snuck away from our chores to meet at the creek. It was a blessed escape from the

intense heat the month had brought with it. I knew Mama wouldn’t miss me for hours

since the twins were “helping” her can the summer vegetables. I was glad to be out of the

heat of the kitchen, where the big steel pots boiled and clamored and steamed. Here, the

water gurgled and sighed, and it was ten degrees cooler sitting by its edge.

I stuck my feet in, letting the water pool around them, and I wanted to wade in as

I’d always done. But, Momma had long since declared that I was too old now to go

swimming with the boys, so I contented myself with submersing my legs up to the rolled

cuffs of my jeans.

“Why don’t you just get in, Libby?” Jeb asked.

“Because I don’t want to.” I lied, not wanting to tell him the real reason.

“Oh, come on Libby. The water’s great. You love swimming.” He persisted,

swimming over and splashing me. “I don’t think you’ve been swimming with us yet this

summer.”

“Hey! Stop it. I don’t want to swim today.” I stood up, wiping the water off my

face with the back of my hand. “Go on, now.” I found that Jeb annoyed me.

David splashed at his younger brother, instigating a fight with him so he would

leave me alone. I walked away as they laughed and threw water at each other, David

pushing his wiry younger brother under the surface. I was wearing a pair of Joel’s old

jeans, since Momma couldn’t afford the cloth to sew me a new dress. The material hung

heavy against my skin where Jeb had splashed me, and my shirt clung to my stomach.

I ambled down the short path that led from Joel’s fort to his grave, watching the

sunlight drift in and out of the branches high over head. My braids had come loose in the

heat, and tendrils poked out at odd angles. I pulled the twine loose from the end and

shook the honey wheat strands, letting them untangle themselves.

We had buried Joel under an old oak next to the creek. It seemed the only

appropriate place to put him, since he’d spent so much of his time there. I paced my way

over to his grave and sat there for awhile talking to him, until David came and found me.

“What are you doing here?”

I shrugged, “I don’t know… sometimes seems he’s the only one who listens.

Momma’s busy with Isaac and Nathan, and Papa’s out in the fields.”

He crouched down beside the old headstone and drew in the dirt with a twig. He

seemed shy. I’d never seen him this way. “I can listen to you if you want.”

“I don’t know. You’d probably think I was just a silly girl. Where’d Jeb go?”

“Aw, he got mad at me, something about beating up on him, and ran back to the

house to hang his clothes and get back to the fields. I just let him go, you know there’s no

use talking to him when he’s mad.”

I nodded my agreement, lying back on the grass and watching the sunlight filter

through the pines. It was cool and peaceful there. The grass tickled my skin, and I could

smell the honeysuckle that clung to the trunks of some of the older trees.

We started talking then, about what David intended to do when he finished school

next year, and how he didn’t mind hanging on at his dad’s farm. I was surprised by that. I

assumed that he would want to leave. Mrs. Collins, one of the teachers at school, had said

he had a real head for business, and would do well at the university. He shook his head,

“No, I want to stay here.” He asked me what I had been talking to Joel about. I told him

about Molly and Rachel making fun of me at school on Friday, and how they’d made me

cry.

“What did they say?” he kept drawing in the dirt the whole time we were talking.

I blushed, and mumbled a response.

He pressed me to know. “They said I looked like a boy, ‘cause I was wearing

Joel’s old jeans….and that I wasn’t pretty.”

He looked at me then, and that was the first time I really noticed how dark his

eyes were. How they caught the light that fell from the treetops and seemed to drink it all

in, as deep as a well. I knew then that I really could get lost in those eyes forever.

“I think you’re pretty. I’ve always thought so.” He had stopped drawing in the

dirt, and his hand touched mine, softly. It was different than it had ever been before. He

leaned closer, “I really like you Libby.” I blushed, and pulled away, but my heart burned.

“Thank you… um…. I have to go. Momma’s probably expecting me.” We both

knew it was a lie, but I made an exit in haste, unsure, and hurried back up the hill to our

house where steam still rolled from the kitchen and things still made sense. I didn’t tell

Momma about what David had said. Or, how he had looked at me.

David started showing up at our farm a lot more, for seemingly insignificant

things: bringing a basket of cookies Rachel had baked, coming to return a tool his father

had borrowed, offering to help Papa hay; things that he could’ve easily done on any

Sunday. Papa soon became skeptical of his frequent visits, and I saw Momma’s eyebrows

arch over her coffee when he showed up on Thursday to ask if we had any vanilla extract

Rachel could borrow.

When the door had closed, and Papa saw he was on his way back down the road,

vanilla extract in hand, he looked me over. I buried my eyes in my reading for class the

next day.

Papa cleared his throat. “Now, I wonder what Rachel was baking that could be so

all-fire important to send that boy down the road three-quarters of a mile to get vanilla

extract. In fact, isn’t that about the fourth time he’s been down here this week?” He

growled a little when he talked.

Momma just shook her head and chuckled quietly. “I have no idea, Harold. No

idea. Libby, dear, would you get me some more coffee?” I suspect she really knew all

along.

I knew David came by the house so much because I hadn’t been back to the

woods since he’d told me he liked me. He had crossed that very clear black and white

line of what childhood friends were into something completely different. This new

territory held so many shades of gray that I couldn’t begin to tell them apart.

Jeb had stopped talking to me altogether, and I wasn’t sure why. Truth is, I didn’t

pay much mind to it because I was too caught up in my own little world, and the newness

that had ebbed its way in.

On Sunday, the Montgomery’s came over, as usual. But, this time, Papa and Mr.

Montgomery asked David to sit with them on the porch. I asked Jeb to play checkers with

me, but he refused, mumbling something about how he preferred to go sit by the creek. I

didn’t try to join him, especially in his awkward sullenness. I crocheted instead,

practicing the new stitch Momma had been trying to teach me.

The men talked with David for nearly an hour, chuckling and laughing. I heard

Papa’s gruff undertones, but couldn’t make out what he was saying over the creaking

chairs as they rocked back and forth. I could hear the birds chirping outside, and the

occasional machine gun rattle of the acorns as they hit the roof our house in their descent.

After awhile, David came inside the house, knocking lightly on the doorjamb

before he entered. “Hey Libby, do you want to go for a walk?”

“Sure.” I said cautiously. I put my crocheting back in the basket, carefully looping

the yarn around the hook. I was frustrated with it anyhow. I could never get the darn

chain to come together for me.

We walked up the road a piece, letting the soft autumn chill rest on our shoulders.

We passed the Dresden’s farm before either of us spoke. David broke the silence. “Libby,

are you angry with me?”

I stopped, unsure of why he would ask that. “No, of course not. Why?”

“You haven’t come to the creek this week, or the last. And, you wouldn’t sit with

me at church.”

“Oh, um, well. I don’t know.” I pulled my shawl tighter around my shoulders.

“But, I’m not mad.”

“Okay. Well, then I wanted to ask you something. I just got done talking to my

dad, and yours. I was wondering if you might let me, maybe, court you.” His words came

out stilted, awkward, obviously rehearsed. I glanced at his eyes, and saw so much hope

and fear mixed in there, that I didn’t have to think twice. “Yes. I would like that.”

Back at the house, the twins chased each other around the yard, squealing. They

were two of the loudest boys I had ever met. We had walked slowly back, and it was dusk

by the time we had gotten home. David’s father, Rachel and Jeb had already headed back

to their farm. Papa asked David to join us for the evening meal, and Mama smiled

quietly.

We courted for several weeks, and David even took me to the dance at school.

Momma had managed to find some material she’d been saving up in the attic, and spun

out a pretty blue brocade dress with matching ribbon for my hair. I fell even more in love

with him, and the awkwardness wore off. Three months later, in December, he asked me

to marry him. Our families were ecstatic. Except for Jeb.

Jeb had taken to hiding himself into his room in the evenings, and not only would

he not talk to me, he wouldn’t talk to anyone. He did his chores methodically, woodenly.

But, he poured out his soul into a journal. He started getting into fights at school, and

there was a week or two that he brandished a black eye for his troubles. No one knew

what was wrong, but I don’t know how much anyone inquired after the first episode or

two, since he wouldn’t talk.

If I had not been so caught up in my own life, I might have noticed more of his

pain, might have given more thought to the way he stared at David and I when we sat

close on the swing, our thighs touching and our hands intertwined. I might have realized

that our relationship was strained and uneven, and that we never talked any more. But, I

didn’t.

Wedding preparations began in January. In the evenings, I did schoolwork and

helped Momma sew my wedding dress. Everything seemed wonderful in the world, and

we passed the long cold winter nights chatting happily about becoming a wife, and what

my new role would entail.

We celebrated the twins’ birthday in March. Papa had gotten a camera for

Christmas and was learning to develop the film. He took pictures of everyone that day:

the Montgomery’s, the twins blowing out their birthday candles, Momma dancing with

Mr. Montgomery while David played the fiddle.

David roughhoused with the boys, and then came to sit beside me, kissing me

lightly on the cheek. We were still shy about all the physical accoutrements of a

relationship, but perfectly comfortable with being together. We fit together, and we were

happy. His dad took over the fiddle, stomping out a fast melody. He squeezed my hand,

and asked me to dance.

Out of breath, we found our seats back on the porch stoop. David saw Jeb sitting

by himself, and walked over to him. “Hey Jeb, come ‘ere and let Mr. Davies take a

picture of us.” Jeb scowled, but agreed. They walked over to the porch, and stood

together. David smiled with his eyes, and Jeb half-heartedly scowled as the bulb flashed.

“Oh, come now, Jeb. You have to at least try and pretend like you’re having a

good time. Do it for the twins.” Rachel encouraged from the picnic table. He assented and

smiled a tight lipped smile while Papa snapped the shutter again.

Thunder growled from the west, and we saw a storm moving in quickly. We

gathered all the plates and linens and hurried inside. They waited out the storm at our

house that night, and travelled home the next morning, when the rain had pulled up to a

slow, intermittent drizzle.

It rained hard for the next week, raking down the roof and flooding the yard. Papa

paced, worried about how the rain would affect his crops. David didn’t come over. Mama

sewed and tried not to let the twins drive her crazy as they scrambled around the house.

She thanked God when Monday came and she could send them outside.

I didn’t know what Jeb was thinking that day. God, I wish that I had known so I

could have stopped him. The rain had subsided, and farm life was getting back to normal.

David had come over to sit with me on the porch swing and talk, and the boys were

tearing around the backyard. It was like they’d never seen a sunny day before.

Jeb had come across the property line, and I saw him scowling at us out of the

corner of my eye before he stole away into the woods. I didn’t pay much mind to it,

though, because David’s smiled held all my attention.

The next time I saw Jeb, he came running from the woods, holding Isaac’s limp

body across his arms. They were dripping wet. I gasped, standing, and David saw what I

saw. He ran to meet his brother, his feet sloshing across the swampy back yard.

“What happened?” he demanded, snatching my brother away from Jeb. I ran to

get Momma. She raced from the kitchen, and gathered Isaac close to her chest, crying.

We sent for the doctor, but he could not come, the roads were washed out between his

house and ours. Isaac ran a fever for three days, moaning. Nathan stayed close by him,

but often complained that he, too, did not feel well. Then, Thursday morning, my mother

woke to see that her sweet child had quietly taken his last breath.

In that moment, my mother’s laughter died again. The house was silent for weeks.

My mother did not get out of bed, and Aunt Sissy made the long trip back on the train.

Rachel practically camped at our door, ready to help with anything that needed helping

with.

As the days progressed, we put together the pieces of what had happened. Jeb,

still angry that I had chosen David over him, had had enough, and had gone down to the

river to end it all. But, Isaac had followed, out of concern, had witnessed Jeb’s walk into

the swollen waters, and tried to help. He had cried out, reached out to grab Jeb, who

ignored him. Instead, he had fallen in, and helpless against the current, had sunk under

himself. Jeb, through sobs and a hacking cough, relayed it all back to us, begging for

forgiveness. His “I’m sorry’s” did not reach my ears. I slapped him. He knew he deserved

it and would never have my love.

We buried Isaac next to Joel, and Momma sobbed the whole way through. Soon

after, Jeb buried his hunting knife inside his chest, and he, too, filled a pine box along

that shore. Our families were torn, and Rachel no longer came to console my wearied

mother. For the first time since the Depression started, we felt it, deep in our bones. No

longer did we try to make the best of things. Instead, everything unraveled like the chains

on my crochet.

David asked me if I could still love him. Looking in his eyes, at the smoldering

steel, I could see Jeb and Nathan, and the creek that ran so strong. I told him I didn’t

know.

The photograph spoke of love and regret and anger and faith, all held between the

emulsion and the paper, present after all those years. I examined the eyes once more

before placing it back in my keepsake box, with the photos of my children, and

grandchildren. When I looked up, he was there on the edge of our bed, watching me, with

the same question on his lips. “Do you still love me?”