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[ A N 0 V E L >$13. 95 - - • ·T H E \\ 1th The \a/if(' David PlantP rctum:-. to familiar to the man) admin•r-; of his territor~ magnilkent trilogy, The Pranctwur flunily -PrO\idenrc, Rhode Island among the woods and lahs wht>re the French Catholir .. heritage of this rt>doubtablt• familv thou""h threatened in WHOs :\e\\ England, stql rasts a long and in escapablr shadow. . Lockrd in a tangled \\eb of and lo~al•v ' betrayal, grief and attachment, art> three gene rat ions of Francoeur women hound b~ David Plante was born in Rhode Island in family ties but <li~ided by histoJ). Antoinctt~ 1940 and now lives in London. He is the is young, restless, and suicidally torn author of several novels, including 1'l1e between, on the one hand. tht> intcnselv fh111cueur Famil.lf trilogy, The Porl'iguer, spiritual world of her proud French Catholi~ and Tllr' Catholic. He has also published one grandmother Hecna, who has roots in a work of nonliction, Difficult Tile darker mysterious past, and, on the other, ~tomen. Fami/.11 was nominated for the the bright, ambitious. modern America of ~ational Book Awarrl, and Plante was the recipient of her Protestant mother .Jenny. a Guggenheim Fellowship and an Award in As husband, father, and son, one man tries Literature from the American Acadcnw and to rrc·oncile their diffen•nces, and his own • Institute of Arts and Letters. He is a regular divider! loyalties, but in the end only family contributor to The Neu· Yorkn: traged) can break down the barriers. Combining a rare rompassion and a brilliantly lucid simplicity, David Plante explores the clash of cultures, religions, genders. and generations in a powerful story of a family and its secrets. · .Jackel desigu b.IJ Darlene Barbaria The Native BOOKS BY DAVID PLANTE The Native 1988 The Catholic 1986 The Foreigner 1984 Difficult Women 1983 The Woods 1982 The Country 1981 The Family 1979 Figures in Bright Air 1976 The Darkness of the Body 1975 Relatives 1975 Slides 1971 The Ghost of Henry James 1971 This is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events; to real people, living or dead; or to real locales arc intended only to give the fiction a setting in historical reality. Other names, characters, and incidents either arc the product of the author's imagination or arc used fictitiously, and their resemblance, if any, to real-life counterparts is entirely coincidental. Copyright© 1987 by David Plantei All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system. without permission in writing from the Publisher. Atheneum Macmillan Publishing Company 866 Third Avenue. New York, N.Y. 10022 library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Plante. David. The native. I. Title. PS3566.L257N38 1988 813'.54 87-33498 ISBN 0-689-11951-8 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 I Printed in the United States of America Part One & & He opened the bathroom door and saw his daughter's head go under water. When he reached in, up to his elbows, to grab her arms, air rose to the overflowing surface. In anger, he lifted her body out. She was breath ing, and he was sure that she let her arms and legs dangle heavily so they would knock against the side of the tub when he pulled her over. He threw her face-down onto the floor and the impact made her cough. He got her to her knees. Her long hair was stuck to her face, naked shoul ders and back. She kept coughing. He shouted, "You were just waiting for me to come in. I know." She began to cry. "Get on your feet," he shouted. "Corne on, get on your feet." "I can't," she gasped. "You can't? You can't?" He took hold of her hair. "You want to kill yourself, really kill yourself? I'll show you how, I'll help you." She clutched the edge of the bathtub as he swung her head by her hair. Bits of toilet paper and cotton balls smeared with make-up were floating on the watery floor. 'Til show you how it's done if you're serious." Her head in his hands, he shoved it down to the water. "I hate, I hate, I hate a faker." "No," she howled, "no." He pressed his daughter's face closer to the water. Her breasts against the side of the tub, she strained to hold her head up. His wife came in, shut the taps off and turned the handle to release the plug. Wet, Philip was kneeling, his chest against his daughter's back. 7 "Both of you get up," Jenny said. Philip let go of Antoinette and stood. "Help her," Jenny said to him. His hands slipped on her wet skin. She staggered a little when he took his hands away. "Stand up," her mother said to her. Antoinette leaned against the washbasin; her head bent low, her body wobbled. "Go on," Jenny said to Philip, "leave us alone." He went to their bedroom, slammed the door, took off his wet clothes, and got into bed. He twisted and turned and kept thinking he should get up and go out to them; but he remained in bed and when, finally, the door opened, he began to shiver. Jenny did not switch on the light. Philip tensed the muscles of his neck, arms, legs to try to stop himself from shivering. Jenny got into bed. He knew he should ask her how Antoinette was, but he couldn't. He knew he shouldn't have an erection. She asked, "How are you?" When he felt his wife's hand on his bare shoulder, he turned towards her. Her body was warm. Before he fell asleep, he asked, "Where is Toinette?" "In bed." Then he heard as from a distance. "After you leave tomorrow, I'll take her into Boston, back to the doctor, and ask if he thinks she should-" In the dimness was a deeply polished, blond-wood dining table with a lace runner, and in the middle an empty milk-glass bowl. Jenny, holding the edge of the table, was looking out of the window, where there was more light than inside the room. Her husband came in from the kitchen and saw her. He pressed a switch and the lamp hanging over the table lit, a white glass shade fluted about the edge and supported by a brass ring and three brass chains. With a small jerk of her body, she turned to him, smiling, and raised her hands. Behind her was a glass-paned highboy, the wood as light as the table; through the reflections of the lamp on the 8 panes appeared, themselves like transparent reflections, white cups and saucers, and behind these were plates tilted on edge. She always blinked rapidly when she was surprised-or perhaps she wasn't surprised, but wondered why her husband was standing at the door. Her ash-blond hair was short. Philip said quietly, "You were in the dark." "I was looking out the window," Jenny said as quietly. Philip pulled out a chair and sat, turned a little away. Jenny said, "Isn't it nice that it's Friday?" "I was thinking, driving home, that I should visit my mother some time over the weekend." ''I'll come with you." "You don't have to. You know that." She got up and walked around the table and stood behind him and put her hands on his shoulders; she lowered her chin to the top of his head, on the bald spot. She said, "Antoinette stopped by today." "When?" "Not long before you came in from work." "She wouldn't wait for me?" "I told her not to." "Maybe you're right." He took one of her hands from a shoulder and kissed the palm. "And how was she?" "l thought she was in a good way. I mean that. I thought she was in a really good way." She drew her hands away. Philip stood to follow her into the kitchen. He leaned against a counter as she took from the refrigerator a steak in cellophane, unwrapped it and put it on a white plate. "She bought herself a car," Jenny said. "A car? I was wondering how she got here. How about that." "I told you she's better." "Did she tell you where the money came from?" "Her job, I suppose." "She's got a job?" 9 Jenny nodded and said, "Ah-hun," and held her chin up, blinking rapidly. "You know," Philip said reflectively, "I wanted her to come home to live after she gave up everything in Boston. I wanted her to think we believed in her when she didn't believe in herself. But she went too far. When she tried to kill herself, I couldn't believe in her any more." "She knows that after all you did she went too far." "Does she?" "She does." "I couldn't take what she did." Jenny raised her chin more and pressed her lips together. "Not like you," he said. "You never stopped believing in her." "Oh," Jenny said, "there were times when I nearly felt the most reasonable thing would be to let her go, let her go kill herself if that's what she wanted." "Not really." "Yes, really. If she hated life so much-" Philip put his arms around her. "What do you know about hating life?" he asked. "Only what I've learned from you two." She leaned away from him to look at him. His face was thin and dark, his fine nose broken and a little askew; his irises were black. Holding her, he said, "You shouldn't come with me to visit my mother. You honestly shouldn't." When he made love with her that night, he felt about them both a sense of deep calm that circled them at a dark distance. Perhaps his efforts for that deep calm counted for nothing, and he had to give in to it happening of itself, as he gave in to his love for his wife. Lying awake as she slept, his foot on her leg, he thought: This is not an exaggeration, this is not false. They drove over a hill on the highway, wet from melted snow, and other hills appeared around them, covered 10