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PANTHEON 2002
In the River Sweet, set in the Midwestern United States, New Orleans, and Saigon, is one Catholic woman's journey to wholeness, as she struggles to embrace her past, her daughter's lesbianism, and her own spiritual evolution from fundamentalism to mysticism. Ruth Anne Porter and Johnny Bond were engaged to be married when he was sent to Vietnam in the late sixties. Ruth Anne became a volunteer at a French convent in Saigon. Johnny was sent to a secret radar installation in Laos and when it fell to the North Vietnamese, he was taken as a POW. They were eventually reunited and married. Both harbor secrets from that time. While Johnny was a POW, Ruth Anne fell in love with a blind Vietnamese boy and had a son by him, whom she left behind. When her grown son contacts her by e-mail, she must decide whether to tell her secret or go on hiding.
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In the River Sweet began as a short story about a POW's family during his absence. Thinking I was writing a short story, I spent several weeks re-searching the war in Vietnam. I came across two collections of first-person narratives by women who had served in Vietnam, Piece of My Heart and In the Combat Zone. It was then I realized I had a novel on my hands. I wanted a family story that would allow me to weave together several concerns: hate crimes, the Buddhist-Catholic dialogue, and the story of a woman being re-united with her child. The day I understood that Ruth Anne would go to Saigon as a volunteer I knew that I, too, would go to Vietnam. I went in the spring, 2000, at the beginning of the monsoon season.
At Powells.com, read an essay by Patricia about her literary influences while writing In the River Sweet.
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Jesus would not say fag, she knew that much.
Father Carroll said it. Limbo had laughed but Limbo did not know
any better. His job was to make sure the johns were clean before Mass.
He carried the cleaning supplies in a wooden box like a toolbox and
whenever Ruth Anne walked by she could smell the disinfectant-
waxy, nearly toxic-the same odor there had been in her church growing
up. It was a comfort to her.
The boys and the girls from the college had come to Father Carroll
and they wanted to put a sticker-a decal-on the church door. The
decal was a symbol of them. They wanted to put the decal on the door
and it would let everyone know-all of them-that they were welcome
at St. Joan's. They wanted a decal on every church and every restaurant
and every public space in Tarkington but that was quite a bit to hope
for. She tried to tell Laurel that.
Father Carroll had said no. We can't do that. I understand your
cause, he said, but the bishop would not approve. He foisted it off on
the bishop. He wanted to be liked, even by them.
In the lunchroom, where they counted the Sunday collection, Ruth
Anne wiped up a few granules of instant coffee Limbo had spilled. She
gripped a sour sponge in her hand. A jackhammer vibrated outside the
narrow window. Orange cones surrounded the jackhammer and the
few cars dipped around the man who operated it. Finals were over;
most of the students had left for the summer, and the streets and restaurants
and dance clubs and parks were empty without them. Limbo
hunched at the table, poking at the numbers on his cell phone with the
eraser end of a pencil, waiting for his mother to pick him up. Once in a
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while he would hiss Yesss to the game he played against himself. She
was sure Father Carroll said it; he shook his head. It was the same way
Limbo said Bless their little hearts when he heard gossip. Bless their
hearts. It can't be helped.
Laurel had said it can't be helped when she told Ruth Anne and
Johnny. They called it coming out. She came out. Laurel was their only
child and she came out. Their baby. They still called her our baby the
way you do. Joking. But meaning it too. Laurel had said, I'm twentyfour
years old and I want what you have. Love and affection. She and
Oceana were together every day. Johnny had introduced Oceana to
Laurel when Oceana worked at Brambles the summer before. He hired
her to work beside him in the kitchen, deboning chicken or chopping
scallions, so that he could devote himself to the finer points. Hard
sauces and marinades. Roasted garlic. Laurel had gone up the hill to
borrow a cup of dried cherries. They called it borrowing when they
took a half-dozen eggs or fruit from Brambles' big kitchen but they
never gave back what they borrowed. That was last July. Not quite a
year. July, when the night sky would be green-blue like handblown
glass until nearly ten o'clock. On break Oceana in her whites would
smoke a cigarette on the brick patio behind the kitchen and Laurel
would sit beside her in a metal chair that left a pink grid on the backs of
her thighs and Ruth Anne would know she'd been up there again when
she saw the pink grid. They would talk. Johnny had said he saw Laurel
patting Oceana's cheek.
It was all right to want a decal on every church, but you had to be realistic.
We start with a fag decal and where will it end, Father Carroll
said. Where?
She did not tell Johnny.
If she told him, they would go off on it and they would talk about it
for hours. If Laurel only knew the way they whispered. They wanted
to understand the coming out and they talked about how they had
brought her up and the boys she had skateboarded with and whether
being a tomboy had anything to do with it even though they knew it
didn't. Ruth Anne had done the research at the public library. The
books were stacked beside their bed.
Johnny's truck shimmied at high speeds. They took the back roads
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to get to River County where the round barns were. Johnny felt at
peace among them. No matter how many times they went out there he
always said that the Shakers were the first to build barns round to keep
the evil spirits from accumulating in the corners. River County was the
round barn capital of the world.
At his favorite place beside a red barn surrounded by wild rye, he
sprayed a halo of repellent to kill the chiggers and mosquitoes. The
river lazed beyond the barn and if it were early spring they could hear
the high river, but not now, in June. In June the river was flat and if they
walked all the way down to it the unending whine of the insects would
make Ruth Anne anxious. Johnny would not make her stay on the riverbank
long. He never wanted her to be anxious or unhappy. He only
wanted to see the green river to know it was there.
He spread the old quilt on the ground. There was a certain pleasure
in seeing what he had packed for them to eat. He lifted everything out
of a basket and set it down in a way she could tell he had imagined as he
packed. Two cheeses and a loaf of herb bread with cuts across the crust
that had split and blistered as it baked. Red wine with real wineglasses.
Radishes trimmed like rosettes. A dessert to knock your socks off, he
said. A miniature lemon tart.
They sat down on the quilt in the rye-the new green and the nodding
dry stalks from last year. No one would see them and Johnny liked
that about this particular place. He had inquired at the round barn museum
and found out that the owner lived in Minneapolis. The night was
held at bay by the sunset on the taller gone-to-seed rye and they were in
a bowl of it: dusky, romantic. She was happy he had brought the big
quilt, for the big quilt would keep her from touching the rye which
looked lovely but felt like wire brushes if you came in contact with it.
She saw Johnny as he had been when they were young. This was not
imagination; on the contrary, as Johnny talked, the decades would peel
away; she hoped he saw her in the same light. At first they would talk
about domestic issues. Was Laurel at home and was Oceana's orange
Nova parked in the driveway? Had Moxie been walked? But after two
scant glasses of merlot Johnny could get her to take off her blouse and
she had known they were going to the round barns when she dressed
that morning and she wore a blouse that would encourage him to ask
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her. She wore a blouse she knew looked good on her: red, with her red
hair. And beneath that, a camisole. Johnny loved a camisole and this
one was cream-colored stretch lace and he pretended to count the freckles
below her collarbone before he slipped the straps down.
They fooled around on the old quilt. Johnny brought two pillows
from the lockbox of his truck and they fooled around in what felt like
the first night of summer in River County. The round barn did not disappear
into the dark but became more substantial, blackish red, with the
full moon above, its light shining down like a gossamer top hat.
She did not exactly forget to tell him about her bones but she let that
news dwindle when Johnny slipped her straps down. What the doctor
had said dwindled and what Father Carroll had said dwindled. What
was good about sex was the forgetting of all her cares and woes. Johnny
fed her wine and brought her into the married moment: he had his
ways.
Let's do a loop, he said when they had packed up the truck. They
swerved in the gravel and took a drive along the river to a T that meant
they were going the long way back. They rolled their windows down.
Johnny sang an Irish song he had learned from his mother, "Peg o' My
Heart." Was he thinking about her or was he simply singing the song?
Johnny could get stuck in time if he brooded about his mother; she had
left when he was ten years old and she had become just another part of
history he did not want to know about. If anyone asked about his
mother he would make that clear in no uncertain terms. But he was in
good spirits and Ruth Anne did not think he was about to brood. He
was only flinging his voice to the barns and the barn swallows and the
bats.
They stopped at the frozen custard near Delphi. The digital thermometer
at the bank across the street read degrees. Blue lights
zapped the insects that swarmed around the frozen custard. Kids who
were still too young to drive loitered on the concrete tables, eating
boatsful of ice cream. Johnny got out and brought them cones and they
sat in the cab of the truck eating them in the blue insect light. The news
about her bones picked at her and finally she told him.
Her old doctor-a woman with horses and property-had fallen in
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love at the age of sixty-three and closed her practice and moved to the
Upper Peninsula.
That morning she had missed the old doctor from the vantage point
of an examination table in the new doctor's office. Goose pimples crept
over her legs and arms under the thin cotton gown. A poster of a koala
bear had been tacked above the table with the stirrups where the new
doctor would make her press her heels: Hang in there, baby. She had always
gone to the old doctor and the old doctor had been there for her
when Laurel was born and she had been there when Ruth Anne was sick
afterward from the IUD and she had been there during the surgery
even though a specialist had performed the surgery. Her old doctor had
held her hand as the sedative took effect before they wheeled her into
the operating room for the surgery that meant she could not have any
more babies. She had been only thirty years old. A priest long gone had
told them it was all right to use birth control and they had believed him.
She paid the price for that. The old doctor knew all about Ruth Anne's
body; she had been a patient with a three-inch file; no one had asked
about her reproductive history since before Laurel was born in.
A chubby, blue-eyed nurse entered the examination room. How're
we doing? she said. And, Let's check your height to see if you're shrinking.
She giggled. Ruth Anne wanted to say, spitefully, Didn't they teach
you not to say such things? She stood tall, stretching her spine as if an
invisible cord tugged at her from the heavens, and she measured as she
thought she always had, around five feet six inches. The snappy nurse
stood with Ruth Anne's chart on a clipboard pressed against her belly
and the questions began. Later, Ruth Anne felt certain the nurse never
dreamed she would provoke a lie.
Number of live births?
Adrenaline irrigated Ruth Anne's body, the urge to bolt, to slip into
the pink paper flip-flops the nurse had given her and walk right out the
door.
One, she said.
Her voice sounded meek and true. It was a lie she had not told in a
long time. Only one baby had made its wet and malleable way down
that birth canal, she lied. Only one baby had pawed at her breasts,
rooted there, red-faced.
That was the part she kept to herself when she got around to telling
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Johnny at the frozen custard what the doctor said about her bones. She
always had and always would keep that to herself.
For a long time Ruth Anne thought that God had punished her for
using birth control, but Laurel had patiently talked her out of that.
Laurel taught composition at the college for a pittance and she still
lived at home. After dinner she and Ruth Anne would sometimes sit on
the deck that looked away toward the golf course and they would talk
into the night while Johnny closed. The lights of Brambles up the hill
were cozy yellow squares in a long row. They might have the telephone
beside them on a redwood table and Johnny might call after he counted
out what was in the register and he might call again while he waited for
the boy or girl who mopped to finish. Johnny was owner and chef and
manager and always close to home. He was up the hill, not far, but he
would call to say hello to them, his girls. Moxie might be lying there beside
them, in dog dreams. Late in the summer, fireflies would curlicue
among the burning bushes. And Laurel would explain to her what God
could mean if people were not so dead set on the stories in the Bible.
Hominids walked the earth . million years ago. Their footprints were
found in Tanzania in the s. If you believe that, how can you believe
the literal Bible stories? Thinking that the Holy Spirit only worked
through the people who wrote the Bible is just another form of idolatry,
Laurel said. Don't you think the Holy Spirit could work through someone
now? Don't you think new books could be written and added to the
Bible? Don't you think the Holy Spirit works through people of other
religions? These were ideas she brought home from free lectures given
by professors from out-of-state.
If she believed what Laurel said, Ruth Anne might lose her part-time
job at the church and what mattered to her-receiving Jesus on her
tongue and marking the seasons with the liturgy. Laurel said that whatever
is out there in the sky is also within us. Or we are in it. Our sinews,
bones, blood, and hair. That's eternal life. Her bones were already part
of the cosmos, but that was no consolation.
Ruth Anne would imagine telling other truths she might be forgiven
for. The photograph was in a cinnabar basket, the smoky red lacquer
carved with dragons. She could picture it; she knew just where it was in
the attic closet: hidden on a shelf behind Laurel's girlhood dresses. A
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christening gown, a first communion dress, a confirmation dress. Tell
her, tell her, a voice would insist from within and that voice had been
there since Laurel was thirteen or fourteen, a long time to be tormented
during the talks on the deck. She imagined saying, There 's something I
have to tell you. Or, There's something you need to know. But she
never did. She could not bear the unpredictability of telling the truth.
After Laurel had gone to bed or after Laurel had gone indoors to grade
freshman essays, Ruth Anne might have a spell.
He was a man now.
Whenever she told the lie or whenever she did not tell the truth that
kept insisting to be told, a blank-faced boy or a blank-faced teenager or
now a blank-faced man rose before her like a bad dream. His features
would be erased. Her throat would tighten when she remembered him.
Her arms would feel again the giving away to his grandmother and her
breasts would feel the glut of milk she had to stop with the long muslin
bandages. Her nipples prickled in memory. She might bring a box of
tissues to the deck and cry her way through the box and later Johnny
would saunter down the hill, whistling contentedly, and when he saw
her in the light that dimly lit the deck he would know from the look on
her face that she was having a spell. Johnny had stopped asking why a
long time ago. They reserved hard liquor for grief or emergencies and
Johnny might make her a strong drink and sit beside her until the spell
was over. He would hold her hand. Not speaking until she stopped crying.
Then he might whisper words of love that sounded like a foreign
tongue for all she felt them at that moment.
The sign loomed ahead at the edge of the airstrip, lit by a floodlight
shining from the ground up. VIETNAM VETS GATHERING. OCTOBER 10-12.
The airstrip was a long, weedy field with broken tarmac and a limp
wind sock. In a corrugated metal hangar a droplight cast a white skirt
over the engine of a plane that had been set up on a plywood table. A
lone man in a blue mechanic's jumpsuit leaned over the engine. Johnny
hoped that Ruth Anne would not notice the sign and he hoped that they
would not have to talk about it.
page 7
He turned on the radio. Music he thought of as hard-edged blurted
from the radio and he pushed the button to scan the stations until he
found what he thought they both would enjoy: the blues hour.
He had heard her out about what the doctor said.
Before you get worked up, see what the bone test says. Wait and see.
He wants me to stop cycling. He wants me to walk instead. He wants
me to jump off the deck over and over. For the impact.
So many times he had watched her push her bicycle out to the flat
section of the driveway beyond the copse of birches. She would swing
one leg over the bicycle seat and look both ways on the county road before
settling into her ride to work. He could see in the dart of her body
that she left her worries behind. She felt like a kid again. Now the doctor
had scared her with the story of a woman who was bedridden. He
said that when the bedridden woman reached around and gripped her
spine it felt like sand.
That woman's thirty years older than you are, hon.
But still.
I know, he said, taking her hand. By then they had passed
the - sign and he knew she would not bring it up.
He could not get the old doctor out of his mind. He kept forgetting
that Ruth Anne had a new doctor. The old doctor knew all about them
and their troubles. It was some relief that she was gone, though he
would never say that. When she was sick from the IUD the old doctor
had looked at him as if it were his fault that she had chosen the IUD.
Johnny had not had an opinion about the method. He had left that up to
Ruth Anne when she went to the birth control clinic downtown.
Having sex did not feel the same when he thought there was not the
possibility of making a baby. It was not better or worse; it was just different.
When they had first been married and wanted babies he had
been shocked at the way it felt inside her when he thought she might get
pregnant. He thought of destiny as female and he was in her grasp. He
could not get over how their life might change irrevocably as a result of
that one urge that one night. He had wanted babies. He and Ruth Anne
had been only children and they wanted what they did not have growing
up: the many voices clamoring, children on a bed in pastel PJs,
smelling clean, waiting to have their hair brushed and a story told, the
winter sledding parties, the sand castles.
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Johnny's family line was sparse; the men had died young on both
sides. His great-grandfather from Galway had died building the Brooklyn
Bridge; he fell into the river and his body was never recovered. That
was the story that stayed with him as a boy. You could die working.
Johnny had always worked in kitchens and he thought of them as safe
havens.
Except in the rangers. In the rangers he had been trained to whisper
without being heard and he had been trained to use a compass and he
had been trained to operate a radio and send the worst messages life had
to offer. That was so long ago that what he remembered were patches,
nothing continuous, nothing like a newsreel. A field of opium poppies
in the valley below. Fish nibbling infected flesh from his back.
Before that he had thought, You will live to have babies and grandbabies.
But grandbabies were not in the cards for him. He knew that now.
Out of the blue he said to Ruth Anne, I guess we 'll never have grandchildren.
She looked at him sharply, as if she'd been drifting someplace faraway,
and her face shone coppery in the mercury lights from a new mall
on the east edge of town. They were almost home. The radio played
Bonnie Raitt, a song she sang before she quit drinking, a song about
love gone wrong. Ruth Anne said, Some of them do have babies.
The miracle of modern medicine, Johnny said, and they laughed. He
was grateful they could manage a laugh about it.
At the house Laurel and Oceana were cooking Chinese.
Ruth Anne could smell the prickly ash-a little like pepper or bergamot
-before she stepped into the kitchen. There was a hullabaloo
upon their arrival, with Moxie on his stiff-from-sleep arthritic legs limping
over to greet them and be greeted and Oceana and Laurel in a hug at
the stove that looked to Ruth Anne too intimate as they extricated from
it, blushing. The window A/Cs belched like the sound a tuba emits; the
fans whirred and clicked. Johnny excused himself to trudge up the hill
and check on all that might have gone wrong in the big kitchen without
him there to oversee. Was he excusing himself, Ruth Anne wondered,
because the kitchen at the house felt too cramped to contain them and
page 9
their daughter and her girlfriend? That's what they would say: girlfriend.
Oceana willowy in shorts and a tank top. Laurel in a once white
apron with and a blue cat on the bodice.
We 've been to meditation, Laurel said, by way of explaining why
they were cooking late.
Oh?
A Buddhist nun's visiting, Oceana said. She licked her fingers and
wiped them on a tea towel she had slung over one shoulder. Here, look,
she said, handing Ruth Anne a photograph of the nun who smiled radiantly,
her face nut-brown, her black hair nearly not there, a buzz cut.
Her voluminous maroon robe the color of dried blood.
Ruth Anne sat down at the table and Laurel said, Your button.
Hmm?
Laurel grinned and said, Your blouse is buttoned wrong.
Ruth Anne looked down and redid the top three pearly buttons on
the red blouse. She felt the wine now. She was a little sorry she had
drunk two glasses. Her paperback book was upstairs and she wanted to
be already in bed with her book and no one keeping her from reading
until she fell asleep. She asked for aspirin and water and Oceana, ever
solicitous, brought them to her at the table. A wheel of lemon floated in
the refrigerated water.
Are you all right, Laurel said, fingering tofu cubes into a skillet of
smoking oil.
It's hot is all.
We heard what Father Carroll said about the decal.
Ruth Anne fanned her face with a catalog. That couldn't have come
as a big surprise to you.
No, but still. We hoped against hope.
I'm awful tired, Ruth Anne said.
We can talk tomorrow, Oceana offered. It can wait.
Ruth Anne went upstairs to her bedroom. Laurel followed her. An
ancient window unit struggled against the gathering heat on the second
floor. The skylight was moist with humidity but the colors were cool.
Pale grassy walls and a gray cotton counterpane. Sisal rugs. Out the
casement window waved heart-shaped catalpa leaves lit by the porch
light.
What's up? Ruth Anne said.
page 10
Can Oceana spend the night?
Don't ask.
We could sleep downstairs on the sofa bed.
Ruth Anne placed her hands gently on Laurel's cheeks. She was close
enough to smell the herbal soap Laurel used. Sweetie-
Laurel jerked away. Never mind. She turned with a dismissive shrug
and clattered down the stairs.
She would be mad and she would swell up like a toad, Aunt Teensy
would've said. You'll get glad again. You will. Ruth Anne saw no point
in going after her and she turned off the A/C and opened a window
and undressed. Her heavy hair felt damp, irritating, one more irritating
thing, and she braided it to keep it off her neck and shoulders. She lay in
the dark, listening. A breeze came up and shook the catalpa hearts. She
felt her own heartbeat and she thought about her bones growing porous
and what the doctor had said. Johnny would call it a day of Critical
Mass if he had been privy to all that she mulled over. By Critical Mass
he meant one worry piggybacks on another. They had gone to meditation.
Would Laurel still be Catholic if she went to meditation? The lie
she had told at the doctor's office came back like a slap in the face. She
pushed away the thought of him and the cinnabar basket carved with
dragons. She wanted to sleep. She wanted Johnny in the bed ASAP.
Johnny's touch and his chest a place to lay her head could keep her from
a spell if he came to bed in time.
In a while she heard the Nova sputtering to life and the crunch of the
Nova's tires over cinders. The girls were smart with their degrees and
Ruth Anne had never finished hers and it had always bothered her. On
Saturdays she worked in reserves at the public library and she had first
dibs on every single book acquired by the library. That did not make up
for not finishing her degree. Once she had known French, enough to
read Flaubert aloud. The girls were smart and yet they hadn't figured
out that Father Carroll's attitude was the prevalent attitude. Safety
was not an option for them, decal or no. If you heard fag from a man
like Father Carroll, who wouldn't you hear it from? You could not
avoid those words in Tarkington but ten years ago they were a rarity.
Gay. Queer. Dyke. Limbo would repeat it; Father Carroll should have
thought of that. He repeated whatever he heard like a two-year-old.
Father Carroll said it one way and Laurel and Oceana said it another
page 11
way. She was no longer taken aback by their queer jokes. It had been
almost a year. She had grown accustomed to them. They would laugh
at the pamphlet put out by fundamentalists and she would wonder
where the pamphlet came from, but they never said. Oceana would read
aloud, If you are one of those fools who goes around parroting that
God loves everyone, this world's condition is your fault. They laughed.
Don't be one of those fools who thinks that God loves everyone. Yellow,
red, black, or white. Straight or dyke. On the refrigerator they had
taped a postcard of a protester at a lesbian wedding. A heavy-set woman
in a sharkskin cape carried a picket sign: The woman
had been on a treadmill of fury forever. You could see it in her face.
She thought about getting up again. She thought about cleaning. She
had become the kind of woman who might get up in the middle of the
night and scour the stovetop with cleanser. There was satisfaction in it.
Johnny slipping down her camisole straps in the sunlit rye by the
round barn seemed a million miles away.
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From The Chicago Tribune
"Through nuanced revelation, Henley lifts Ruth Anne off the page into a place very close to real life. A true accomplishment in the craft of fiction."
From Savannah NOW
"The themes Henley tackles are hardly new. What is the nature of faith? Of commitment? Of love? The book's central proposition - how long-buried secrets can surface to contort even the most seemingly serene lives - has long been a mainstay of novels both respectable and unabashedly romantic.
The author brings to the tale, though, lyrical prose and a deft hand at evoking, by turns, rural Indiana, steamy Saigon, and multi-hued, tolerant New Orleans. Her characters, too, show her fine eye for human imperfection - they're generally persuasive in their halting search for grace and blundering dealings with their own past. 'If you are in another country and you are young, mistakes will fade into what you leave behind,' the young Ruth Anne told herself in distant Saigon. We know, all too ruefully, that life is hardly that simple."
From The Boston Globe
" . . . in Henley's hands, the barrage of problems becomes a means of exploring the tensions between stability and intimacy in a marriage. Skillfully moving between past and present, the novel portrays how youthful hardships drive Ruth Anne and her husband, Johnny, to fashion their relationship as a safety zone and to forego genuineness for the sake of calm and predictability. What threatens their orderly lives is less the troubles they face than the ensuing pressures to reveal aspects of themselves that they had suppressed as they settled into the comforts of marriage."
From The Dallas Morning News
"Patricia Henley may be a rising star on the literary scene. Her first novel, Hummingbird House, was a finalist for the National Book Award and the New Yorker Fiction Prize, and her new novel, In the River Sweet, is sure to please readers."
From The Denver Post
"The apparent ordinariness of their lives (the characters of In the River Sweet ) is but a thin veneer for the turmoil beneath. When the story climaxes in violence, anger, and retribution, decades of unresolved feeling pour forth. Henley is a restrained storyteller with an eye for good characters, a taste for detail, and an ear for pitch-perfect emotion. In the River Sweet is a gem."
From Publisher's Weekly
"Though the plot moves back and forth in time a great deal, it is enhanced rather than weakened by this strategy. Henley, who is also a poet, balances long stream-of-consciousness passages with short potent sentences to wonderful effect, tilling the familiar ground of sexuality and spirituality with originality and grace."
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