The Loon's Cry

Madeleine sat in the sun room, her hands resting on a piece of embroidery, her feet on her warm woolen pillow. Summer was over, and evenings were growing colder. She stared at the pinkish hue of dusk on the bare shale of the coastline, then noticed that the first foam was building up on the waves of the restless lake. She stretched her legs, rubbed her shins, but the pain would not go away. The relentless gnawing feeling that announced bad weather from the North.

Thomas watched her from inside the sitting room, as usual. She had no idea what he was thinking. Even before he died his thoughts and moods had been hard to fathom. Sixteen years later he still was a constant presence. She dusted his portrait meticulously, every week.

Madeleine got up from her chair to make lunch, and brace herself for what was coming. Usually the storm lasted about a day and a night. After all those years on the lake shore she had developed a steady stubbornness in facing it. She would sit on the old couch, away from the window, but close enough to see what the water was doing. She would prepare sandwiches, tea and milk and make sure she had blankets and pillows on the couch to allow for some dozing during quieter moments.

In about an hour, Dave would call her on the telephone and ask her if she didn't want to sit the storm out in his house in the village. Of course he knew she never would. But he still called every time.

She put the tea cosy, the thermos with warm water and her book on the coffee table beside the couch. This would be her home for the coming evening, night, and day. Then she heard footsteps on the gravel path, the turning of a key, the opening and closing of the door.

"Mom, are you there?"

"I am in the living room, Dave. How are you?"

He kissed her on the cheek.

"Well, you know how it is when a storm's coming. The kids are screaming, Carlene is in bed with her migraine, people are calling all the time about their roof or their porch. I just wanted to check on you."

"I'm fine, I'm fine. I've told you not to worry about me."

"I know, mom, that's what you always say."

Dave followed her to the kitchen and watched his mother. A bent elderly lady who was putting a dented kettle on an old stove.

"They say this one is going to be bad," he said.

"I've heard it before. I've seen many. You know what your father would have said."

"Mom, he's dead 16 years now. And that was on the farm, not here in the cottage."

"I'll stay here. We've always stayed, and I will now."

Madeleine poured the coffee and looked at her son. The wrinkles in his forehead betrayed his concerns for her. His dirty work clothes on his overweight body told her he was very busy. His blue pants were secured by a belt that was strapped tight around his belly. She smiled. The more tense he felt, the tighter he wore his belt. It had been like that since he was a child. He stared at the lake through the kitchen window.

"Shouldn't I take the boat in for you? It's banging against the landing."

"Dave, drink your coffee and stop worrying about me. You should be getting home. Carlene will be furious again with her headaches. Your kids need you there."

"But they say this one is going to be really bad, mom. I would be much happier if you got into the truck and came with me. I promise I'll take you back as soon as it is over. Before I start the repair work anywhere. It's just for this one, mom."

She sighed. They went through this with every upcoming storm. He meant well, but there were reasons she just couldn't talk about. It had to do with the dignity of making your own choices and with things you don't tell your kids.

Dave put down his mug.

"Well, OK then. But I won't be able to come get you once it gets really bad."

"That's fine, Dave. You just take care of yourself and your family. You should be on your way."

"I'll come and check when it's over. Take care now, mom."

"I will. Don't worry. I'll see you the day after tomorrow."

"You checked the windows, did you?"

At the doorstep he hesitated. But she nodded and signaled him to go. He held his cap down on his head with both hands as he walked to the truck, his jacket flapping in the wind. He looked at the door one last time, then he got into the car, started the engine and drove down the narrow lane that led to the main road.

Madeleine saw the taillights disappear. She put the kettle back on the stove to make tea. Then she walked up to the glass doors of the sun room and looked out. It was pitch dark now. White foam caps on the waves reflected the dim light from the lamp post on the dock. Sometimes flocks of foam were torn loose from the water, flew through the air only to be smacked back and become part of the wild lake again.

She switched on some lamps, installed herself on the couch, wrapped a blanket around her and picked up her book. The ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece was usually the only sound when Madeleine was reading, interrupted every now and then by a sigh, or the rustling of the blanket as she moved her feet to a cozier place. But no clock and no sighs could be heard now. The howling of the wind through the trees was too loud. Uproar raged outside, branches were torn off, dust, leaves, water and foam raced through the air and splashed against the windows. The squeaking of the roof, the rattling of the doors, the angry whistling of the wind squeezing itself through the narrowest cracks, none of all that turmoil disturbed Madeleine, as she quietly turned page after page. She had seen storms before. She knew the worst was yet to come.

Her silent concentration was disturbed when the phone rang. She put down her book and walked over to the small teak table beside the door to the sun room. Dave had arrived home and called for a last check.

"I'm all right, Dave. And I want to stay here."

It was part of the bad weather routine. For Madeleine all those things belonged together, the couch, the pillows and blankets, the tea, Dave's calls. And Thomas looking at her from the fireplace. How often had he looked at her with those questioning eyes. They were both loving and disturbing. What was he thinking? What did he want, what did he need?

"It's OK, sweetheart," he used to say, "go to sleep. I'm fine. Don't worry."

Then he would turn over and fall asleep. She would lie next to him, their feet touching, sometimes his hand resting on her breast or stomach. His steady breathing, an occasional snore all spoke of his peace of mind. But for her, the images would not go away. Thomas sitting on the deck of their new cottage, looking out over the lake, staring in the distance for hours. Then he would walk down to the landing, climb into the boat, announce he was going sailing for a few hours. But he never went far. He would sit down, light his pipe and stare again. As if the horizon could bring the farm back. As if it could bring back everything that the farm had meant, the warmth of the stables, when the cows were ruminating their hay, standing in rows, close together to keep the cold away in the heart of winter. The early morning dew over the fields, the distant howling of a pack of wolves on a warm summer evening.

Of course Thomas and Madeleine had been disappointed when Dave refused to take over the farm. But how could you blame him, Dave liked to be around people. He made a much better living doing repair works to houses, building small extensions, doing any job he could handle by himself. Carlene had never been a farm person anyway. She hated to be exposed to the whims of nature in the countryside.

Madeleine brought the tea in from the kitchen, then sat down on the couch. The images of Thomas staring at the horizon were on her mind. At the farm, he had loved to observe and predict the weather. He was usually right. Often it felt as if he designed the weather, as if his casual remarks about how a storm would develop were not predictions but blueprints. He would go out and fix a panel on a shed, or rearrange some roof tiles just before a storm came. When Madeleine's shins started aching, he would look at her, then go out and watch. He read the clouds, judged the light, smelled the wind. Then, smoking his pipe, he would stand at the gate until he nodded and got his tools out for the repairs that he felt were warranted.

Thinking of these moments kindled more in Madeleine than fond memories. Storms were when she felt most attracted to him. She couldn't wait for him to finish his repair jobs and come in for supper. She would stand behind him as he ate his dessert, and run her fingers through his hair. No words of invitation were needed as they started making their way to the bedroom, holding hands as they climbed the stairs. Waves of desire would engulf them, as they indulged in the most fiery love their bodies were capable of giving and receiving.

Then they would lie back, while the howling of the wind increased. With her head resting on his chest, his hand in her hair, they would listen to the storm. "It's the shed today," he would say, "but I think I've fixed it." They would doze off, then be awakened by the noise of a breaking branch, the rattling of a window or the roaring of an exceptionally powerful gust of wind. By the end of the next day, the storm would subside, and just before sundown they would go out to check for damage. A tree might have been uprooted, a chicken might have been killed by a stray branch, a barn door hinge torn loose. But no big things. Never.

Madeleine remembered how Thomas had changed after they sold the farm. The fire had gone. Love making became tender and sweet and long. But she often thought of the uncompromising passion of days long past.

Then came the cancer. The doctors that took half of Thomas' face away, but didn't cure. The emaciated, shriveled body that friends and family paid their respects to. He who mastered the weather was lowered into the ground on a drizzly and cold autumn day.

She sighed. He still watched her and she didn't know what he thought. She poured another cup of tea, rearranged the blanket and continued reading.

Outside, the lake was now a hell of wild agitation. The wind was whipping the trees and branches flew through the air, becoming driftwood in the turmoil of anger and destruction. The storm turned into a wild animal, kicking the walls and doors, crying as it got ready for its next attack, shrieking as it approached the cottage, cursing as it jammed its teeth into the walls, the roof, the doors, the windows, howling as it threw its head from side to side, tearing out the meat, tasting the blood, mercilessly wearing out the last bits of resistance of its powerless victim.

When the cursing started, Madeleine suddenly put her book down and turned around. She fixated the portrait of Thomas. The eyes had changed. He seemed to stare at the roof of the sun room. She followed his look and saw the glass panes move with the wind. They bulged with every squall, their edges pulling at the nails that kept them down.

"Thomas, the roof," she shouted. Her knees pressed into the seat of the couch, her hands grasped the top while she was clinging to the back.

She stared at the portrait, then at the sun room and at the portrait again. The squeaking increased as the nails and screws desperately resisted the tearing of the wind, slowly but steadily losing their grip. Then all she could see were the eyes of Thomas, those mysterious eyes that stared back but didn't see her.

"Thomas, the roof! Thomas, the roof, Thomas, Thomas!"

Madeleine yelled and ranted, shouting his name, pressing herself against the cushions of the couch, clutching the top with both arms.

"Thomas, Thomas!"

With a thunder of destruction the beast tore down the sun room. An orgasm of noise exploded as glass, window panes, stray branches and metal crashed into the side wall. Then suddenly there were waves of warmth invading her body. She jerked up, gasped, shrieked, until she finally surrendered and slid down on the seat of the couch. The right side of her face was strangely warm. Was that his chest? Something tickled her scalp, her hair moved. Were that his fingers? Madeleine sank into a deep dreamless sleep, while the beast was fumbling its prey, picking pieces out of the heap of rubble in the first light of dawn.

She woke when the evening approached. The storm was over. The sky had opened, and the last rays of sunlight illuminated the rocks. Madeleine hardly looked at the wrecked sun room. She stared at the landing, down the steps, close to the waterside. One end of the rope was still attached to the lamp post. But the far end was hanging in the water, without use, without purpose.

She opened the door and stepped outside. Silence reigned, and not a leaf moved.

Not far from where the boat had disappeared, a loon landed in the lake. It shuddered, folded its wings. Its cries seemed to come from the horizon, from far away. From a place where no living soul can go.