Plains Song (24 page)

Caroline startled them all by sharply clapping her hands. The sound, of course, frightened the bird, which rose to flutter wildly for a moment on the ceiling, until Blanche moved to where she could raise her hand and provide it a perch. She stroked its soiled, balding head with one finger as she walked from the room. Sharon glanced—no more, just a quick, passing glance—to see that Caroline sat with her eyes lowered, as if in thought. She had been fearless in revealing what had been concealed, in resolutely confronting what had been hidden, but the most appalling facts were those that burned like gems in the open. Not in the bedroom only, or in the barn, or in the mind's dim recesses, but in the shimmering light that rose from the fields and buzzed with the drone of insects. On the palm of her hand Sharon felt again the stinging slap of Cora's brush. No matter how fearlessly youthful eyes stared, or youthful voices cried out what should not be mentioned, the tongue would prove to be silent, the eyes lidded, in matters that were secret to the heart. In that way—how else?—it was possible to guess at what they were.

“Just because she don't talk,” said Madge, “don't think she misses out on much, for she don't.”

In the kitchen they could hear the bird chirping. Fayrene rose from the table to slap the hands of Crystal, who was using her fingers to fish the mini-marsh-mallows out of the fruit salad. Lips parted, Crystal mimicked Blanche's frozen “cheese” smile. “Don't you make a face at me!” Fayrene said, and gave her a slap. It brought a fiery glow to Crystal's freckled cheek and closed her mouth, but not her bright button eyes. Whatever she saw, would she see it, like Sharon, for the rest of her life?

They drove to Cora's service, in Battle Creek, in Avery's new station wagon, the cushions already strewn with dog fur. They passed under the tree from which Sharon had once been swept from the back of a horse. Madge did not exchange glances with her. Ned Kibbee, seated on her left, appeared to sleep. In the funeral hall Blanche sat beside her father, her hands in her lap, her wide-eyed serene gaze on the window that opened on the schoolyard, where children were playing. Their voices distracted Sharon from the service, but part of her mind listened to the music.
Abide with me
. She pondered the meaning of the words. But what, indeed, had abided? The liberation from her burdens, the works and meager effects of Cora had been erased from the earth. If she had guessed, Sharon would have felt her speechless humiliation. Others could, and would, grasp it painlessly as a metaphor. Cora would not have grasped it. The violation,
like a shaking of the earth, was too profound. Her death was an incident of small importance compared with this ultimate rejection. Works and days. Her soul had made its peace with things. The comb she had pulled through Sharon's tangled hair, more than half the teeth missing, had been placed on the bureau. If questioned, Cora would have replied that since she had lost more than half of her hair, they were well matched.

The half-submerged life had stifled Sharon, and she had fled. Vivid as the tableaus in the museum in Lincoln, of early man and extinct monsters, she saw herself in the plush-covered train seat on her way to Chicago, and freedom. In the aisle at her back, clutching his fiber laundry carton, a young man leaned forward to rub a clear spot in the window with the heel of his hand. But the smear of grime proved to be on the outside, not the in. “It's up ahead,” he had said. “What is?” she asked. In the window she saw his reflection, his eyes moving as he searched the darkness. “Boy, am I glad to see the last of that!” he had exclaimed. A lifetime later, his ignorance, his great expectations, brought a film to Sharon's eyes, an ache to her throat. Had he led his own life, as she had, only to find that it led back to where he had started, his eyes fastened on the darkness where he hoped to see a glimpse of familiar light? Had they both grown up and old in order to recover what had escaped them as children? In the aisles of a supermarket, in Boston, Sharon had heard one young woman say to another, “I'm now seriously into music.”
Into
music. Had
Sharon winced at the triteness of the phrase, or at its truth? Where else had she been but into music? There had been a moment, yes, there
had
been a moment, when she might have seriously got into something else, but the pain of an early rejection had seemed stronger than a future attraction. As much as or more than the child she had borne, Sharon had been Cora's girl. Abstinence was something she understood; indulgence she did not.

At the door to the chapel Caroline said, more in admiration than in anger, “If anybody ever earned a rest, she did.” One of the many facts of life she had trained herself to face.

Late in the afternoon, Bryan drove Sharon and Blanche to Grand Island in his new pickup, a truck so high off the road it frightened Sharon to look out the window. Blanche had come along with them just for the ride. Eileen had explained that of all things, including the movies, she liked to ride around in the pickup the most. An FM radio played rock music. The air conditioner blew a chill draft on Sharon's legs. Now and then Bryan helped himself to a butterscotch lozenge from the pack on the dashboard. As the twilight deepened, the bowl of the sky glowed with an ethereal light. Sharon's face, reflected in the window, was like that of an old worn coin. On the darkening plain her eyes searched for lights in the farmhouse windows. A sweet sadness, a longing touched with dread, filled her with a tender, pleasurable self-pity. Whatever life held in the future for her, it would prove to reside in this rimless past, approaching and then
fading like the gong of a crossing bell. In Blanche's muteness, in her elusive presence, Sharon felt their mutual kinship with the child buried in the grave without a marker, nameless as the flowers pressed between the pages of Cora's Bible. Houses and barns, the living and the dead, into thin air. In the cab of the pickup, the blacktop flowing soundlessly beneath them, Sharon was at once incredulous and believing, at one with the world and fearlessly detached. Did the young orbiting in space feel a similar bafflement and elevation?

The monotonous swirling and beat of the music confused and drowsed her senses. She fitfully dozed. At a three-way intersection of streaming traffic she awoke. Beyond the stoplights, a huge sign advertised the Crossways Inn. A pattern of moving lights traced the outline of an Indian shooting an arrow at the sky. In the space reserved for messages she read that
WOMEN WORLD WIDE
were in assembly, and that children under 12, accompanied by their parents, were free.

“Is that possible?” she asked.

Bryan did not seem to hear her. He drove the pickup under the shelter at the entrance, then walked around the car to help her down from the cab. Blanche appeared to be seated back from the window in a darkened room. Sharon called to her, wagging her fingers, then followed Bryan into the bustling throng of the air-cooled lobby. Young and matronly women, many of them wearing blue jackets with large name labels, moved about with professional assurance. There were
few men. A large poster with a likeness of Alexandra Selkirk was partially covered with petitions to sign and graffiti. At intervals bells rang. Bryan left her side to inquire at the desk about her reservation. He was given a key, which he brought back to Sharon. He did not conceal how ill at ease he felt in a swarm of women.

“It was good to see and talk to you, ma'am,” he said. “It did Eileen a lot of good.”

“I do hope everything works out.”

“It always does,” he replied. “It just don't work out the way you want it.”

He was at once flattering and patronizing. She was an old and frail woman, but substantial enough to deserve his frankness. She was relieved he didn't offer to escort her to her room. Here in the lobby of the Crossways Inn she breathed the bracing air of womanly independence. A young woman with a clipboard approached Sharon, said, “If you'll excuse me,” and looked at the number on her room key. “That's to your left,” she said. “Follow the arrows toward the swimming pool.”

Sharon moved in that direction, but she was stopped by a blast of applause and appreciative howls that came from a dark, grotto-like entrance. Back in the cave-like gloom a blue light focused on a bizarre figure. The light emphasized his corpse-like pallor. He—or was it she?—sat on a stool, one knee drawn up to the chest, the other long limb twined around the stool leg. The tails of a denim shirt draped the stool seat. Drab olive-green pants, with bulging thigh pockets,
were wrapped about his calves like leggings. The gaunt face was solemn. Reddish hair grew up from his head as if sucked by a fan. Sharon thought of a gargoyle. A chill prickled the flesh of her arms. From the dark at his side he raised a guitar, lowered his head to the strings so that he looked like a hunchback. Pretending to pluck the strings delicately, he mimed the words of an obscene song. Sharon was spellbound. Her flesh crawled, an expression she had always found ridiculous. His crouching, cringing manner, the subtle movement of his fingers, conveyed as words could not the corruption of his nature. She stared, her eyes wide, her lips parted, powerless to move or to resist his suggestions. At the crotch of his legs, thrusting upward and outward, the black shaft of the microphone, nudged by his knee, wagged like a tailpiece. Was she hypnotized? She knew that she was watching a simulated orgasm. His body jerked convulsively. An explosion of applause and hooting indicated the performance was over. She saw only the top of his bowed head, like a tangled string mop.

“Why don't I just show you,” said the same young woman (Sharon noted that her name was Deborah). She took the key from her hand and proceeded down the corridor to the left. At points where the halls intersected, illuminated arrows indicated the rooms. Sharon's proved to be near the swimming pool, the ceiling of the corridor rippling with the reflections off the water. On the knob of the door a card had been turned to read
DO NOT DISTURB.
The room was not occupied, however, but proved to be full of the previous
occupant's smoke. The color TV was on, soundless but alive with animated faces.

“You come from far?” Deborah asked. Sharon paused to consider. “I'm from Salem, near Portland. The two girls next to you”—she pointed—“are from Atlanta. We're from all over, not just from the dust bowl.” At the door she said, “Leave your valuables at the desk. Keep the door locked.”

Sharon thanked her. On the TV smoke was rising from a forest fire, planes were diving. Behind the drapes at the window she could hear the cries of children in the swimming pool.

The life congenial to Sharon, however melancholy, is the world of phantoms, more alluring than dreams, that impinges on her dreaming. The pervasive tone is a sweet sadness, a pleasurable longing, suffused with drug-like strains of music. Longing for what? Signs are visible. A child is sometimes seen wearing a blindfold, groping about as if for companions. A voice says, “It is not your longing, but part of the world's longing.” A profound recognition sweetens her sorrow. She moves, she floats, she glides, she gasps to see the earth receding behind her, space unfolding
before her. Bells are ringing. It proves to be the phone beside the bed.

“You didn't call.” It was Alexandra Selkirk. Her voice was hoarse.

“I fell asleep.” In the mirror Sharon saw that she was fully clothed, except for her shoes.

“I can't imagine how. It's a bedlam. Shall we eat in my room?” At the thought of food Sharon was silent. “I don't hear you.”

“How did it go?” Sharon asked.

“Darling, I wowed 'em. But I am famished. The number is one-nine-four. The door will be open. I'll be in the tub.”

Sharon asked, “What time is it?”

“Twenty minutes past one.” Sharon was silent. “One-nine-four,” said Alexandra. “The door is open.” She hung up.

Swimmers could be heard bouncing the diving board, splashing in the pool. An amorous couple, the woman in pajamas, stood grappling in the warmth of the laundry room, like a single two-headed monster. They pressed against a cart full of billowing soiled sheets. Just one day before Sharon would not have marveled at the forces that brought such loose ends together, making them one. At intervals bells rang, flashing lights seemed to beckon. Here and there doors stood open, TVs flickered through clouds of smoke. Dishes were piled on carts, trays of bottles and glasses in which the ice still melted lined the corridor walls. At the intersection of two hallways, a man and a woman sat on the stairs, the woman sobbing. Her
head rested on his shoulder, as he patted her arm. Sharon saw that her clasped hands were trembling. “Can I help?” she asked.

The woman shuddered like a cold child. It moved Sharon to take a step closer. The man said, “You got any Valium? She's off it. She's got the withdrawals.” Hearing these words, the woman whimpered.

“What can I do?” Sharon pleaded.

“Ma'am,” he replied, in a gentle voice, “what can we do to be saved?”