Church of the Dog (24 page)

I take a minute to view all my prints hanging in the red light and soak them up. It feels like my view of the world has finally come to maturity. In each photograph I finally see my family.

Back in Oregon I wander around the Three Hills Library once again, looking at the faces of those looking at my photographs, this time in color. There is tenderness as they laugh at some and carefully examine others. There is a photo of Whitey leaning on a fence and pointing out something in the distance. Owen on top of his tractor. Bertha bringing me a plate of cookies in her kitchen. Hank moving cattle with me, mouth open—in the middle of a story, no doubt. The list goes on. I called this collection, which I’m donating to the Three Hills Historic Museum, “Our Family Portraits.”

Whitey approaches me from behind and gives me a one-arm hug from the side. “You done good, boy,” he says with a wink. But it was his proud smile that really said it all.

“Thanks, Uncle Whitey,” I responded. “Thanks for everything.”

I walk down the driveway to the mailbox. Inside is a box and a letter for me. I run all the way back up the driveway to the picnic table outside my little house.

First, I tear into the box. It’s from Gram. I open it to find my lily bulbs, sprouted, and iris tubers with greenery all wrapped in wet paper towels and plastic wrap. I take out her note and read it: “While your soul is welcome to reside in my garden always, don’t you think it’s time you plant a little of your soul where you are?”

Then I pick up the plain white envelope addressed to me from Triumph, Idaho. I resist the urge to tear into it as fast as I can. Instead, I take it out behind the Church of the Dog, back where the sunflowers grow, and sit among them, cross-legged. As I tear open the flap, I consider how his tongue had been there, and I find that strangely exciting.

I pull out the plain white paper and take in his handwriting— printing, not cursive. Intuitive. I knew that. Thankfully, he doesn’t use all capitals, either. People who use all capitals are either hiding something or so deep inside themselves that I’ll never get them out. Yes, I’m relieved to see he uses lowercase letters. His letters are pretty straight up and down, not an emotional right slant or a try-not-to-be-emotional left slant. The loops on his g’s and y’s are incomplete: incomplete sex life. He uses blue ink instead of black, and I can’t tell you why, but I like that. Something about blue ink is friendlier. He crosses his t’s in the right place and without an abusive slant. His signature is consistent with the rest of his writing rather than being an entirely different penmanship style, which means that he is who he appears to be. He writes quickly. A quick thinker. I like that.

After I look at it, I read it.

After I read it, I smell it. It smells like nothing.

And then I get excited. I fan myself with it as I smile and make excited squeals that are totally out of character for me to make.

I get up and run into the Church of the Dog, get my bright yellow paper and a pen and a book to write on, and then run back to the sunflowers.

I fold it once, put it in the envelope, lick it, kiss it, and study his envelope to address it. Then I stand up again, run back into the Church of the Dog for a stamp, and do a little dance. Actually, I do a big dance. I stop and make myself take some deep breaths, but I can’t help but to keep shaking the excitement out of my hands.

I take the grocery list off my door and write
wine
on it. “Please let him be everything I think he is!” I say and then catch myself. “Cancel that. Please let me have the clarity and intelligence to see who he really is instead of being blinded by who I hope he is. Let me have the courage to see the truth and accept it. Whatever the outcome, let the journey be fun and not destructive to me in any way.” That’s better. I take a few more deep breaths and settle down.

Still, it’s an adventure, and I love adventures, whether they are geographical or adventures of the heart. Adventures are exciting, and I always learn something.

I knock on Daniel’s door, and when he opens it, I say, “I’m long overdue for my second two-step lesson. I’m afraid I’m the only person in these parts who doesn’t know how to do it reasonably fast and how to twirl.”

“Nah, there are other people who don’t know.” He doesn’t get my hint.

“Well, what I’m getting at,” I say, “is that while I was hoping for a gay male friend to take me dancing every weekend as I move gracefully into spinsterhood, I was thinking maybe you’d do.” I try to charm him with a smile.

“Oh, really?” he replies, somewhere between amused and offended, I think.

“Yes. Assuming you’re a decent dancer,” I challenge.

“Oh, I’ll show you!” He mocks my challenge but gets up and picks—I swear—the fastest song he could find, something I didn’t recognize, involving yodeling. He returns and extends his hand to me. I get up, and he takes me for a spin I won’t soon forget. By the time we were done, I didn’t know which end was up because of all the spins he took sadistic joy in making me do.

When the song ends, we notice Zeus barking at the door. I thought he was just barking at all the excitement going on in the house, but he is going nuts about something outside. Dan and I freeze for a moment to listen.

“Sounds like a dying rabbit or maybe a coyote,” Dan says and shuts off the music on the way to the door. When he cracks the door to peer outside, Zeus pushes his way through and runs to the Church of the Dog. “Hey, you’d better come with me,” Daniel says warily, so I get up from the table, a little afraid.

It takes me a minute to put it all together, what I’m seeing and hearing. As we walk toward my house, a pastel blob begins to take the shape of a newborn baby in a car seat. We reach the porch, and I just stand there looking down at this foreign little thing. I don’t know anything about babies. I don’t even know how to hold them. Its hysterical crying assaults my nervous system so that instinct takes over, and soon I pick up the little one in her fuzzy, pink blanket with bunnies on it, in an attempt to make it stop.

Dan and I look at each other, bewildered, as if asking each other if this is really happening. And I don’t know, sometimes my humor comes out at the most inappropriate times: “What do you think, Dan? Does motherhood become me?” I joke, pretending I accept the circumstances.

He gives me a look like he can’t believe I’m joking when this child has just been abandoned. His breath becomes forced as he looks at the child, like he would reach for a window if he weren’t already outside.

Dan begins to go through the yellow vinyl diaper bag with Big Bird on it and a million pockets, pulling out diapers, a few clothes—mostly pink—and from another pocket a bunch of papers. He looks at one. “Birth certificate. Her name is Faith.” He unfolds another. “ ‘Ms. O’Shaunnessey, I thought I could be different than my mom, but I’m not. She wouldn’t stop crying, so I hit her. She’s two months old and I hit her.’ ” Dan stops reading for a minute and takes a deep, forced breath. “ ‘I want her to have better. I used to sit in class and wonder what it would’ve been like if you were my mom. That’s what I want for her. Kelli.’ ” Dan pauses for a minute, then looks up and asks, “So Kelli was your student?”

“Yeah. The girl with the black eye at the parade. Fifteen years old. Dan, I have no idea what to do now.”

He shakes his head as if to say he’s just as lost as I am.

“Dan, people don’t leave babies on doorsteps. Okay, maybe in books and movies, but not in real life. This doesn’t happen in real life. Real life is more complicated. There are legal matters, you know? I can’t just keep her. How do I keep her without being suspected of kidnapping? Or having the state take her away from me and stick her in a foster home? See, you have to think of these things!”

I’m starting to freak out as the reality of this situation sinks in. But as I bounce up and down with the child in my arms, I must admit that something about holding a baby feels very fundamental and natural to me, as if the baby were filling a hole in my chest, a hole in my heart.

I watch something shift in Dan that I can’t really explain, but the words that follow this change in demeanor surprise me. “You know, Mara, I’m just starting to get it that the way a person’s family takes shape is not always what they expected. What I’m saying is, maybe this is all exactly how it’s supposed to be.” He kind of glances at the sky to imply this is God’s plan.

“But, Dan, I have no clue what to do with this.”

“Give yourself some credit, Mara. Jesus, you mother everything on this ranch from plants and hogs to sick cows. I think you’re ready. I think you’ll be a good mom.”

“Yeah, but see the difference here is that I can’t leave a baby in the barnyard while I’m at work. I never wanted to be in this situation. I never wanted to raise a child by myself.”

“I thought you said you were my family,” he says.

“Yes,” I answer.

“Then I’m yours, too. You wouldn’t have to raise a child by yourself.”

“God, you’re serious, aren’t you?” I take a minute and look at him like he’s crazy.

“Absolutely,” he replies slowly and with confidence.

“But, Dan, you and I aren’t the only people involved here. What about Kelli? What if she just needs help learning different ways to handle stress? Can you imagine living with something like this? I want to give her a chance to do it right, you know, to try it again—with a little support this time.”

He considers this. “You know, to use your garden analogy, it sounds like she’s got a lot of weeding to do before she’ll have space for a baby. I don’t think that kind of weeding can happen overnight, you know? I think she did the right thing.”

Zeus catches a scent and takes off down the driveway. Daniel and I look at each other. Faith’s crying escalates to screaming. I hand Daniel the baby and race down the long driveway behind Zeus. I run and run into the strong wind, even as Zeus turns into a smaller and smaller white dot. Far down below, the taillights on a car parked at the end of the driveway reflect red light as another car drives past, and I realize Kelli is somewhere between those lights and me and that if I can reach her before she drives away, we’ll have one outcome, and if I can’t, we’ll all be stuck with an outcome that will ultimately be much harder for both her and Faith to live with. The driveway is full of ruts and potholes, so I try to focus on each stride, but all I can think is, What if I don’t get to her in time? And that thought slows everything down like in those dreams where you want to run but you can’t. Every second that all our fates hang in the balance seems like an unbearable infinity. I have time to consider all the ways our lives might look one year from now, five years from now, ten years from now, and twenty years from now based on whether I reach Kelli before she gets to her car and whether I can convince her to stay once I do reach her. Eventually, the tiny white dog that is Zeus begins to get bigger, and I realize he has stopped, but still I keep running. I run all the way up to the larger and larger white dot until I see Kelli sitting in the driveway, crying. I run all the way up to her, but she doesn’t look at me.

I crouch next to her. “Hey,” I say softly. “Hey, what’s going on?”

All she does is sob loudly. She bends over her legs, her face in her hands, and she sobs loudly.

“Hey,” I say again and rub her back a little. “Hey, no matter how bad it seems now, it’s going to be okay. I’ll help you. But you gotta tell me what’s going on.”

She can’t. She sits up, my arm still on her back, and puts her head into my shoulder and sobs. “I just can’t do it!” she finally gets out.

I realize I’m going to be here awhile, so I sit down next to her and embrace her, so grateful she didn’t actually leave.

“I’m just like my mom!” she explodes into my shoulder, wailing even louder.

“Aw, sweetie,” I say and rest my chin on the top of her head.

She cries and cries, almost like she’s having seizures, like she’s been holding back tears since she was born and now they’re loose, running away everywhere like wild, thundering horses. I sit on the sharp gravel, hold her, and wait them out.

“I hurt my ankle,” she finally says, calming down. “Bad.”

“Should we get you to the hospital?” I ask.

“Yeah,” she says. “Oh, fuck. Will you help me get my mother’s car back to town, too?”

“Okay,” I say. “Keys in it?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m going to back it up so you won’t have to walk as far.” I jog to the car and open the door. The smell of cigarettes and beer nearly knocks me over. I get in anyway, turn the key, and creep up to her. Then I get out, put her arm around my neck, and help her to the backseat. I get back into the driver’s seat and drive up the hill to the top of the driveway where Daniel has been waiting with Faith.

“Kelli hurt her ankle,” I say to Daniel calmly, “and we need to return her mother’s car. Would you be kind enough to follow us to town in your truck?”

Daniel puts Faith in his pickup and follows us.

As I drive to town, Kelli asks, “Did your parents ever hit you?”

I take a big breath. “No.”

“What were they like?” she asks.

“My dad died serving his country when I was fourteen. At some point Mom decided we needed to move to a spiritual community where we would help with subsistence farming and tofu production. I hated those bean curds. I ran away and lived with my grandmother for the rest of high school.”

“Was your mom mad?” she asks.

“Well, Mom couldn’t fault me too much since she was the one who taught me to walk away instead of fight. Like when I was bullied in school, she told me to ignore it and walk away. That didn’t work. Yeah, my dad taught me violence isn’t the answer, and my mom taught me that running away isn’t, either. What did your parents teach you?”