The Wolf Border(59)

She waits for her brother to raise the subject of Emily, but he doesn’t. He is withdrawn, quiet, though not unfriendly, and he is still attentive.

You doing OK? he asks. Want to stop again? We can head down.

No. I’m determined to get up there.

We can stop again, though.

I’m fine. Just slow.

Slow, and vulnerable-feeling, though she will not give in to it.

You seem fine, he says. Still stubborn. But you seem different.

Different?

I don’t know. Less angular. Sorry, that sounds rude.

I can bite your head off for old time’s sake, if you like.

He does not laugh. Nor does he read the note of encouragement in her voice, the invitation she keeps subtly issuing, to confide in her. She steps carefully up the tiers of rock and over the turf gulleys on the path. Near the summit of the hill, webbed lungs of cloud begin to obscure the view. They glimpse fields and forest, but no sea, no Isle of Man. The breeze is fresh, suggestive of cold currents streaming in from the gulf. They sit and rest, eat more fruit. Rachel unlaces her boots, leaning forward awkwardly, pulling the tongues forward to relieve her swollen feet.

Don’t take those off, Lawrence warns. They won’t go back on.

I know. Good grief! I didn’t think this through! It’s bloody hard!

You’re doing really well.

Am I? I feel like a whale.

She turns to face her brother. It seems stupid to hedge.

How are you? You can talk to me, Lawrence.

He nods and stares straight ahead, pinning the horizon. The look of a man afraid to deviate from his course, she thinks. He has lost weight, around his face, his chest and stomach.

I don’t know what to say.

What happened?

He shakes his head. He has not shaved – there are dark red whiskers on his chin – the prerogative of a day off work, perhaps, or an indication of continuing domestic dishevelment.

You don’t want to know.

Listen, she says, I’m sure I still hold the trophy for biggest family f*ck-up.

Again, he does not laugh. The success she has had in the past with humour, entertaining her brother, breaking the ice and the tension, is not working. He seems flat, pervasively melancholy.

Is Emily OK?

We’re trying to work it out.

OK, she says. I’m glad to hear that.

Lawrence glances at her.

Really?

Really. You know she stayed with me that night. She’s not the absolute monster I thought she was.

Yeah. She said that about you, too.

There you go. Pretty soon we’ll all be sitting around the fire singing Kumbaya.

He does not seem cheered by the prospect of a new era of family harmony either. He points to her boots.

Come on. Do those back up.

OK.

She groans and leans forward, reaching round the mound of herself and fumbling with the laces. The last hook is impossible to find. Lawrence takes over the job – she watches him tying a double knot. He stands and offers an outstretched hand, and she lets him help her up.

I really do hope you work it out, she says.

It seems a wan thing to say. But her sincerity and concern must be apparent. Lawrence sighs. Penitence and frankness vie with each other in his face. After a moment, he speaks.

It was a stupid thing, he says. With this woman who worked with me. It wasn’t really a proper relationship. She doesn’t work there any more.

This is Sara?

He nods.

Is it finished?

Yes, I think so. Yes, it is.

Were you in love with her?

The question is in a way meaningless, she knows, but one must ask. Love in such situations is rarely real. Sex is the engine, exalting and ruining people, sex and frustration. Love is what people believe is worth the path of devastation.

No. I was just . . . off the rails. And she –

She what?

We were just into the same thing for a while. We were bad for each other.

Rachel doesn’t ask what this means, does not want the details. She can imagine, or sense, a seam of darkness, familiar to her, though she would not like to acknowledge it. Though he is finally being forthcoming, there is more to the situation than her brother is letting on. She wonders how Emily is coping. The world of women is split, she knows, between those who do and those who do not forgive. Even the willing sometimes can’t. Men, too, though adept female duplicity often saves their finding themselves in either category. As they begin down the slope, she thinks of the rancher with whom she had a one-night stand, confessing to his wife and then driving to the centre, knocking on her door. She wonders if Sara told Emily, in a moment of heat or spite, or whether Lawrence confessed.

I was an idiot, Lawrence says, his voice full of self-reproach. I’m not proud. Even your wolves do better. Didn’t you say they’re monogamous?

Rachel shrugs. Such analogies are not helpful, though she, too, has in the past made comparisons.

It’s a bit more complicated than that. There’s sexual rivalry, plural breeding – never mind. The point is, these things happen, Lawrence.

I can’t really use that as a defence.

I just mean, in the modern age, it’s not all about mutually raising offspring. It’s amazing people are as faithful as they are, given the opportunities, the appetites. As far as I know, you’ve been a good husband for years.

You’re just one of a thousand possible selves, she wants to tell him. Genetics, nurture, choice – he is nowhere near the worst version. Lawrence stops walking. He shakes his head and holds a hand up, as if defending himself from the compliment. He turns away. He does not want absolution.