Finding Bluefield (20 page)

*

Barbara watched Nicky sleep. Her long brown hair was braided and pulled back from her face, and Barbara couldn’t remember the last time she thought Nicky looked as beautiful. As she stared she followed the twist of her lip, the slope of her brow, the angle of her chin, the way her ears hugged her face, the way her nose was off center. She started to breathe in unison with the rise and fall of the blanket as it measured out the steady rhythm of Nicky’s breath.

Barbara took a pen from her pocketbook, found a piece of paper in the nightstand, and began to draw. The pen felt good in her hand.

A nurse came in to change Nicky’s IV bag. Barbara covered her sketch.

An hour later when Nicky stirred, she saw Barbara sitting by her bed. “I never thought I’d see you again.” Nicky was still groggy from the anesthesia.

“Everything went well, Miss Stewart,” the nurse said. “The doctor will be in soon to talk with you. If you need anything, just press the buzzer.”

“Good thing I had small boobs,” Nicky said. “I won’t miss much. Now if it were you,” she said to Barbara, “there’d be plenty to miss.”

“You’ve had a lot of painkillers,” Barbara said.

“I look like a man now,” Nicky said. “Maybe I’ll get a haircut and run for president.”

“Trust me,” the nurse said, “no one would ever mistake you for a man. You’re beautiful.” She adjusted the drip flow of the IV.

“Here’s the thing,” the nurse continued, “every day that you are able to look in the mirror and see yourself alive and kicking is a good day.”

After the nurse left, Barbara put the paper down and held Nicky’s hand.

“The nurses have been so nice to me,” Nicky said.

“I think this one was flirting with you.”

“You’re cute,” Nicky said. “What were you drawing?”

“Just doodling a little.”

“Let me see.”

Barbara held up the paper with Nicky’s face on it.

“What’s the rest of me look like?” Nicky said.

“You’re all bandaged.”

“Damaged?”

*

By June, when the humidity was joined by heat and the water in their new pond was just warm enough to bear, Nicky, Barbara, and Paul suited up for a dip. Barbara brought a camera and Paul carried a basket of food.

“Don’t race her,” Barbara whispered to Paul, when they reached the beach. “Let her enjoy the swim.”

Nicky was first to step in the water. “Race you to the raft,” she yelled to Paul as she dove in.

“Cheater!” Paul yelled as he ran into the pond and began swimming.

Barbara folded her arms across her chest and watched them both glide through the water. When Nicky reached the raft, Barbara put down the camera and walked into the pond and swam out to join them. She pulled herself up the ladder and onto the raft. She stretched out on her back and caught her breath. Paul was sitting, knees against his chest. Nicky was standing, her back to Barbara, her wet braid hanging down her back.

Nicky turned to face Barbara. “Thank you.” She bent over and gave Paul and then Barbara a kiss.

“I fell in love with your mom at a place like this, on a day like this,” Barbara told Paul. “Except it was much hotter.”

“And we weren’t wearing suits,” Nicky said.

“Kids do that at Butterbrook Falls,” Paul said.

“How do you know?” Nicky asked.

“Everyone knows.”

“I know,” Barbara said.

“I didn’t know,” Nicky said. “Have you been there?”

“No,” Paul said. “But kids talk.”

“Tell me more about falling in love,” Nicky said.

Barbara hung her feet over the side of the raft. “It gets real hot in Virginia. Too hot to do much of anything, so she took me swimming at the Stewart farm pond. By the time your mom and I left the pond, I was in love.”

“I thought your anniversary is election night,” Paul said.

“That’s when we decided to tell each other,” Barbara said. “Till then we each kept it a secret.”

“I fell in love,” Nicky said, “the moment I saw Barbara sitting at the counter drinking coffee and eating a slice of my blackberry pie. “

“She loves that pie,” Paul said.

“Good thing I didn’t order pumpkin,” Barbara said. “You know, Paul, we took you out to see the Stewart pond first thing when you came home from the hospital. Before we even took you inside the house.”

“I’m hungry,” Paul said.

“Let’s go back and eat.” Again, Nicky left first. She took two steps, vaulted off the raft and disappeared into the dark pool. Barbara and Paul followed.

Nicky spread the blanket on the sand and opened the picnic basket.

Paul scooped up a butterfly that landed on Barbara’s shoulder.

“Some butterflies,” Barbara said, “only live for twenty-four hours.”

“What do they do?” Paul asked, biting his cheese sandwich.

“They spend most of their time getting food.” Barbara twisted her beer bottle into the sand and sat up.

“Do they have fun?” Paul asked.

“What would be fun for a bug?” Barbara said, reaching for a deviled egg.

“Bugging people?” Nicky said.

“What’s a good time for you?” Barbara asked Paul.

“Playing baseball.”

“How about you?” Nicky asked Barbara.

“I like doing this,” Barbara said. “I like my job.”

“I like knowing how to make a great blackberry pie,” Nicky said. “I like knowing the names of animals and plants that live around me. I like knowing about Georgia O’Keefe, Rosa Luxemburg, and penny sales.”

“What’s a penny sale?” Paul asked, biting down on one of Nicky’s homegrown, crispy, full sour pickles.

“My father, your grandfather Paul Stewart, witnessed a few of those.” Nicky squatted down. “He said that during the nineteen thirties, a lot of farmers couldn’t pay their bills so the banks took the farms. They held auctions and sold everything off, keeping what was owed them. In some places, neighbors got together and bought all the stuff, only one person bid at one time and they only bid a penny. Afterward, they gave all the stuff back to the family. People looked out for each other.”

“What if a stranger showed up?” Barbara asked.

“Outsiders were asked to stay away. If they didn’t understand, they either got scared away or locked up in someone’s barn until the auction was over.” Nicky poured some lemonade.

“That’s so cool,” Paul said.

“Yeah, but it didn’t happen often enough. Most people lost their farms.”

“Is that how we lost our farm?” Paul said.

“We didn’t lose our farm, sweetie,” Nicky said, “We sold it so we could buy this house.”

“Did we get a lot of money?”

“Enough,” Nicky said.

“Was it a big farm?” Paul said.

“It had two hundred acres of rich Virginia soil,” Nicky said. “Three barns and the house I grew up in.”

“Do you think we’ll ever visit?”

“It wouldn’t be the same anymore,” Nicky said. “There’d be no point.”

“Maybe one day,” Barbara said.

*

After dinner, Barbara put a record on in the den, opened the windows wide, and went out onto the rear deck. She took Nicky’s hand and began to dance while Paul ate desert. When Paul was finished, Barbara took his hand and let him cut in. Recently, she’d begun to teach him steps, Jitterbug, Swing, Texas two-step, show him how to lead. She didn’t say, now we are going to learn how to dance or anything, she just always danced with him, taking him for a spin or two around the living room.

“It’s not healthy to eat and then sit,” Barbara said as she glided Paul across the deck.

“But it’s not safe to go swimming either,” Paul said.

“Who said anything about swimming?”

“You did,” Paul said. “At the pond when I wanted to go swimming after lunch.”

“That’s because you could get a cramp and drown,” Barbara said.

“Can’t you get a cramp from dancing?”

“But you won’t drown,” Barbara said, moving to the sound of the big band.

“But you could get stepped on,” Nicky added from the table where she sat with her coffee.

“Dancing,” Barbara said, stopping to bow, “is a dangerous sport.”

1982

“Nicky,” Barbara yelled from the house. “Nicky, come quick!”

Nicky dropped the buttercup squash she’d just picked from her garden and ran to the house. Barbara was holding the day’s mail.

“Look at this,” Barbara said, handing Nicky an envelope. “It’s from Claire Harper. That’s your sister’s kid?”

Nicky stared at the return address. Claire Harper, Santa Barbara, California. She sat at the kitchen table. The letter was addressed to Nicky Stewart and Barbara Phillips. The handwriting reminded Nicky of Carol-Ann’s.

“Open it,” Barbara said.

Nicky carefully tore open the envelope and unfolded the letter. “Dear Aunt Nicky and Aunt Barbara,” Nicky said, looking up at Barbara. She read on in silence. “Carol-Ann died. September twenty-eighth,” Nicky said. “It was sudden. Richard found her in the kitchen. They had just returned from a party, and she was making some tea.”

“Are you okay?” Barbara said.

“I’m okay.”

“You shouldn’t be.”

“It’s not like I’ve seen Carol-Ann recently.”

“I’m not sure what reaction I think you should be having,” Barbara said, “but this isn’t it.”

“There is one thing,” Nicky said.

“What?” Barbara took the letter and began reading it.

Nicky stood. “I wonder how Claire got our address?” she said.

“That is strange.”

Nicky took out pots and pans from the cabinets.

“What are you doing?” Barbara asked.

“I need to start cooking. It’s getting late, and Susan and Abe will be here at seven. I’ve got a big menu planned.” She removed vegetables from the refrigerator, grains from the cupboard.

“Fine.” Barbara turned. “I’m going to make a fire.”

After Barbara left, Nicky sliced, chopped, minced, sautéed, simmered, and stirred. She had pots cooking, casseroles baking. For dessert, she had planned to make squash pie, she preferred buttercup to pumpkin, but as she prepared the crust, she had an urge for pecan pie. “I need a few things for dinner,” she called into the living room. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“I’ll come with you.” Barbara ran in from the living room.

“I need you to watch things. Take the casserole out in fifteen minutes, but leave the oven on and leave the potatoes in until they’re soft. The soup can keep simmering.”

“What do you need?” Barbara said.

“Set the table while I’m gone.”

Nicky started the Bel Air. Two years earlier, Barbara had surprised her by having the Chevy restored for their twentieth anniversary. It took seven months for the mechanic to find or fabricate all the parts, to make all the repairs, and to re-cover the convertible’s top, but when he was done, it looked just like it did in 1957 when Nicky’s father drove it out of Bluefield’s Chevy dealership—with a few upgrades. Barbara had the engine modified to use unleaded gas and had three point seat belts installed and added an FM radio.

As Nicky drove the familiar hills of the Finger Lakes, she looked around at the landscape and thought, this isn’t my land, and it never will be. I’ve spent almost half my life here in Medford and I still feel like I’m from Virginia. I still feel like a visitor. And now I’m alone. No parents, no sister. Just me. I’m the only adult left, the elder of the family. When Carol-Ann was alive, even through all those years of not speaking, I always felt like the younger sister. Carol-Ann has returned to the earth, and too soon, it’ll be me.

With pecans in tow, Nicky headed home. It was beginning to drizzle as she turned on to University Drive. A young woman, hatless and umbrella-less, was hitchhiking. Nicky pulled over.

“You shouldn’t hitch by yourself,” Nicky told her.

“Did you stop to tell me that or are you offering me a ride?”

“Get in.”

“The bus stops on the next block, but I was hoping for a ride in this car,” she said, getting in the car. “It is so cool. I never hitch rides.”

Nicky listened to the women’s accent. “It’s a Chevy—”

“Bel Air,” she interrupted excitedly. “Small-block V-Eight, three speed.”

“You know cars?” Nicky said.

“I know this car. My father has a fifty-five,” she said. ”But it doesn’t look like this.”

“This is a fifty-seven,” Nicky said. “You accent sounds familiar. Where’s home?”

“Virginia.”

“Is that right?”

“Outside Richmond.”

“I used to go to Bub’s Barbecue in Richmond. Is it still there?” Nicky asked.

“How do you know Bub’s? I love Bub’s.”

“Born and raised in Bluefield,” Nicky said.

“I know where that is, but I’ve never been. Do you get back often?”