Sarah's Window (12 page)

When John left the following week, Susan was on the verge of despair. The first day went smoothly enough, but come nightfall the child became agitated and irritable. Susan tried repeatedly to get him to sleep, but he would doze off only to awaken a short while later and start to cry, and then she would race back up the stairs to rescue him from his misery. He sat up in his crib and wailed and pleaded with large dark eyes, but there was little she could do to soothe him.

Susan was lost. She could not know, nor could anyone, what consciousness directed his body and mind. She knew he was uncomfortable, that he was mute and dwelled in a world of instinct; this she could forgive him. But that he had rejected her so absolutely, this she could not abide.

Throughout the evening she appealed to the child. She brought him things to drink and eat, piled gadgets and cuddly toys before him. Then, finally, feeling herself growing frantic, she turned off the monitor, closed the door, and went back downstairs and turned up the stereo. But still she could hear his cries.

She was in the kitchen chopping onions for a spaghetti sauce when suddenly all her frustration and resentment erupted. She slammed the knife down on the chopping board and threw her head back and shrieked at the ceiling, "Stop it, Will! Damn you, just stop it!"

She brusquely dried her hands on her apron and marched down the hallway to the stairs.

"I've had enough of you!" she shouted at him from the bottom of the stairs, and for a moment he seemed to stall, but then he started up again, and she went on.

"I've had enough of your tantrums! Now shut up!"

She started up the stairs once again, fueled by rage, threatening him with each thundering step. When she rammed open the door and came charging in, he looked up at her, stunned and fearful.

"What do you want?" she cried and swept up a toy from the floor and flung it across the room, knocking the little teddy bear music box off the dresser and sending the lamp crashing to the floor.

She advanced, and Will shrank from her and crawled to the back of the crib.

"What did I ever do to you to make you hate me so?" she screeched. She sprang at his crib. "I'm not evil! But you make me feel that way!" She gripped the crib railing and leaned menacingly toward him, and Will cowered in the corner and wailed.

"Stop it!" she screamed, and she shook the crib railing. "Stop it!"

Then, suddenly, she paused. She felt as if she were teetering on the edge of a dark and terrifying moment. Something had stepped into her mind just then and brought her up short, and she felt as if she were dragging herself back with all the mental courage she could summon. In those agonizing seconds she did not see Will; her mind was focused on what lay beyond, on her next gesture, her next action. And she was horrified at what that might be.

Her hand shook as she dialed the number. "Mama?"

Clarice answered, and Susan knew she had been drinking, and her heart sank. Oh, Mama, she thought, for God's sake, why can't you be sober tonight?

"I'm coming over to get you. Right now. I need to get out of here. I can't stay cooped up with this child."

"Susan, honey. Are you okay?"

"No, I'm not okay. And I need you to put down whatever it is you've been drinking and get your hair combed and put on your shoes and come out with me."

"It's late. And it's raining."

"I don't care if it's a blizzard. Get yourself dressed."

She found her mother lying on her bed flat on her back, sound asleep. It appeared she had tried to get herself ready and passed out before she could finish. She was wearing her raincoat over her nightgown and a shoe on her left foot; the other shoe lay on the floor beside her bed.

Jack Bryden didn't sleep most nights. When it finally got to the point where the sheer tiredness of being just hung around his neck like a horse collar throughout the day and weighed him down, then he'd sleep like a baby. But most nights he'd just lie in bed, trying not to fidget too much and wake up Ruth. He'd listen to whatever song was running through his head, hoping it would be Cole Porter or Emmylou Harris, but sometimes it was something dumb he'd heard on the radio and didn't even know the words to and then he'd get irritated.

Occasionally, when he couldn't stand it any longer, he'd roll slowly out of bed onto the floor and snake his way on his belly into the other room. These actions required a good deal of strategic planning and mental resolve, and he would sometimes fall back asleep just thinking about it. Inching to the edge of the bed, slowly drawing back the blanket and suffering the shock of cold air, then twisting his front half down and off the bed, the hind part following, slithering onto the cold hardwood floor, grinding over onto his back and lowering his hips ever so slowly. Once while doing this he caught sight of himself and got the giggles and had to hurry and get his rump off the bed because he was jiggling the mattress and was sure Ruth would wake up and think he was playing with himself again, after which nights she wouldn't talk to him for weeks.

Once his body was safely on the cold wood floor, he would begin his serpentine crawl, using his elbows the way he had done in the army except now he didn't have to carry a rifle. He'd maneuver past the sleeping enemy, around the foot of the bed and out the door, which, if all went as planned, he would manage to catch with the toes of his lone leg and pull neatly shut behind him. One night he had fallen asleep, exhausted, right at the foot of the stairs, and Sarah found him when she came down in the early hours of the morning. But Sarah was good about those kinds of things, never harped at him or acted wounded. She had helped him to the sofa and covered him with a blanket before she left for the cafe, and he'd gone right back to sleep.

Most invertebrate nights, however, he'd lift himself on a crutch and slip on a coat and make his way to his old pickup, where he'd sit with the heater on and listen to Ella or Louis on the Discman Sarah had given him for Christmas one year. And in the spring and summer he'd just sit in the porch swing, and then he was glad to be alive.

There was a thick mist creeping silently through the Hills that night, moving through the darkness like something predatory, and the sweet smell of spring hung in the chilly air. Jack ventured out onto the porch and lowered himself onto the cold slatted swing and laid down his crutch.

He hadn't been out there but a few minutes when he heard the stairs creak, and the screen door hinged open and Sarah came out, wearing her long green robe and dragging a coverlet behind her.

She laid the coverlet over his lap and sat down next to him.

"It's sweet out tonight," she said.

"Sure is." He paused. "Can't see a damn thing, though."

She took the Discman from him and flipped it open to see what was inside, then gave it back to him.

"I need to get you some new CDs."

"No point in doin' that. I always listen to the same old ones."

There was a long silence between them, and then Sarah kicked the swing into motion and they swung together without talking.

Finally she said, "Did the phone ring?"

"Nope."

"I thought I heard it ring."

"Must've been dreaming."

"I wasn't asleep."

They could hear the sound of the engine long before they saw the red-and-blue light swimming through the fog. The vehicle slowed and turned off the highway and cruised down their street, coming to a stop in front of the house.

A cranelike figure wearing a badge and uniform strolled toward them out of the mist.

"Evenin', Jack. Sarah," Randy said politely, pausing with one boot on the bottom step of the porch.

"You got trouble written all over you," Jack said.

Sarah said nothing but planted her bare feet on the ground and leaned forward just a little in a manner of expectation.

"Somebody already notified you?" Randy asked. "About what?"

"Well, since you're up, I thought maybe Clay'd already given you a call."

"Nobody's called," Jack answered.

"Had us a little accident down the road a piece."

"That's a nasty road," Jack said, squirming to get comfortable.

"What happened?" Sarah asked.

"Well, now, I'm gettin' to that, Sarah. Just hold your horses."

But Randy was a talker, and he had a certain way of thinking. He had to start at the beginning and tell them the whole story, about how Susan Wilde had run her Land Cruiser into the ditch and flipped right into the low drystone wall that ran next to the road for the length of Donnie Henryson's farm. It woke up Donnie and his wife and terrified the kids, set the hounds to barking for the longest time. Donnie's wife didn't want to go outside, so Donnie had to go out alone and wade across the ditch in the dark with his flashlight.

"Who was in the car?" Sarah cut in anxiously.

"Now, I'm gettin' to that, Sarah."

"Then get to it," grumbled Jack.

Susan had been wearing her seat belt, he said, and didn't appear to have sustained any truly serious injuries, thought she might have a broken bone or two. But it seems she'd lain there in the ditch, pinned back with the air bag, and then it deflated and she was part floating in water. Donnie Henryson had stood out there with her until the fire department came, trying to help her keep her head above water, because she couldn't hold it up herself after the air bag went down. He kept talking to her, and praying for her. Couldn't do anything himself, trapped the way she was. And the worst part was that the baby was in the back crying his little heart out, and Donnie said Susan was saying some pretty awful things to that baby, but that was the shock, of course.

Sarah drew in a sharp breath. "He wasn't hurt, I hope"

"Not a scratch." He turned and pointed to his patrol car parked in front of the house. "He's asleep in my backseat."

Sarah shot up and tightened her robe around her waist, then loped barefoot down the porch steps and over the wet lawn toward the car.

"Now, wait a minute, Sarah..." Randy shouted, but she was halfway to the car.

Will was asleep with a blanket tucked around him. Very gently she peeled back the blanket and lifted him to her breast. He awakened just a little and whimpered, and his tiny limbs shuddered; then he fell back asleep.

Jack and Randy were in a low conversation when Sarah came up to them with the baby in her arms.

"Where's the father?" Sarah asked.

"Well, now, Sarah, if you'd hung on a bit, I was get-tin' to that part. I was tellin' your grandpa here that John Wilde's out of town, out in California, and we got ahold of him and he asked us to bring the little tyke to you, if you don't mind."

"I don't mind," she answered.

"Won't be for long," added Randy.

"I'll keep him as long as it takes," she said, with a glance over her shoulder.

Jack twisted around in the swing. "You better check with your grandma before you go takin' on anybody else's baby."

"I'll take care of him," she said again, quietly, but with a firmness neither man missed. "He won't be in anybody's way."

Then she went inside and left the two men staring at the ground. Jack asked Randy if he had a cigarette on him and Randy did, and they smoked in the dark. By the time they finished their cigarettes the fog had rolled back and the clouds had spun away. The stars sparkled brightly in the blackest of skies, and the night was a marvel of beauty to behold.

It was just after noon and a spring storm was moving in from the south as John drove down 177 toward Bazaar. Heavy clouds flew overhead like timid souls fleeing the wrath of the storm. When he drove up their driveway the sky had turned an ominous black, and he dashed up the front steps just as the rain began to fall. He rapped lightly on the screen door frame and peered through the mesh into the shadows.

He heard Sarah's voice call, "Come in."

John went inside, set down the playpen, and slid the bag off his shoulder. He found Sarah in the kitchen. Will was strapped firmly to her chest with a dish towel. He had seen photographs of Kenyan mothers wearing their babies like that.

"I'm so very sorry," she said.

If his eyes betrayed any weakness, it was only for a moment. When he spoke he made sure there was nothing in his voice that hinted at the brightness in his heart.

"Thanks for taking Will. I don't know what we would have done."

"It's okay." She was pouring coffee into a mug and she held it out to him. "I'm glad I can help."

John took the mug from her and her fingers brushed his.

"How's Susan?"

"She's fine. Physically. A fractured wrist. That's all." He took a sip of the hot coffee. "Considering how bad it was. She's very lucky."

"What happened?"

"She went out for a drive. Thought it might help put Will to sleep. She said she turned around to check on him, and when she looked back at the road..." He paused. "She'd driven right into a patch of fog. Couldn't see a thing. I guess there's a bend in the road right there."

"Yes, there is. I know it well."

John's eyes were on his son. The child's cheek was resting on her breast, and he was deep in sleep.

"Thank God he wasn't hurt," muttered John.

"Oh, yes," she said.

There was another pause.

"Have you had any sleep?"

"No. Spent the night at the airport waiting for the flight."

"Sit down."

There was such sweet firmness in her voice; it calmed him immediately. He pulled out a chair and sat down at the kitchen table.

"Have you had lunch?"

"I'm not hungry."

She had her eyes on him for a moment, then she stepped over to the refrigerator and pulled out a covered dish.

"We've got homemade chicken salad."

"I'm really not hungry."

"I'll make it for you all the same."

There was silence while he watched her lay out two slices of bread and spoon the chicken salad over them. "I can keep him as long as you need me to," she said. "What about your job?"

She dropped a handful of chips onto the plate and turned to place the sandwich before him.

"Water? Iced tea?"

"Water's fine."

"Joy and I already discussed it," she replied as she filled a glass with water and set it down in front of him. "I can take him into work with me."

"I'll pay you. We'll work something out."

"Don't worry about it."

"I'll pay you," he insisted, through a mouthful of chicken salad.

"Eat your sandwich."

Sarah looked down at Will; he hung there in the dish towel, his bare arm dangling, and she lifted it and kissed it and said gently, "He has the most beautiful skin I've ever seen. The color is absolutely exquisite."

John looked up at her and wiped his mouth with the napkin she handed him. Then he smiled and said, "I think so, too."

When he had finished she cleared away his plate and John picked up the bag with Will's things and the folding playpen and offered to take them where she wanted.

Sarah hesitated a long moment before motioning him to follow her upstairs. She paused at the bottom of the narrow staircase and turned to him and said, "It's not very tidy right now. Not really suitable for a baby. But I'll rearrange things."

The stairway opened into an alcove underneath the eaves. A small bed, still unmade from the night before, stood against the wall. At the foot of the bed was an old oak dresser, its top buried under clutter, and a straight-back chair shoved under a dormer window served as a catchall for her clothing. There was a monastic simplicity about the room.

"This is where you sleep?"

"Yes."

The alcove had a sloped ceiling, and John had to stoop slightly as he stood beside her. Through the dormer window he could see the dark rain clouds scudding by.

He stepped past her into the bedroom.

"We do have a crib," she said. "Down in the basement. I'll bring it up this afternoon."

John set down the bag and leaned the playpen against the wall, then looked around. Sarah had paused in the alcove to lay Will on her bed, and when she appeared he said, "So this is what he was writing about."

"You mean Anthony?"

"In his letters."

"Yes."

"May I?"

"Of course."

The hardwood floor creaked as he carefully made his way across the room, lifting his feet to avoid the paint-caked glass jars and bowls that were scattered around. As he passed from one painting to another she named the grasses and the flowers for him. He was stunned that she had found all this color in the drizzled browns and greens of the prairie. She explained how difficult it was to find some of them, that several of the wildflowers were especially rare and grew only on real prairie, in the conservation projects or along the edges of pasture outside the fences where the cattle couldn't get to them.

The rain fell in a downpour, pummeling the roof, as he quietly studied a gouache of a pink filamented prairie smoke. He said, "Why do you hide all this?" He turned to look at her. "You do, don't you?"

A faint nod.

"Does anyone know you paint?"

"Yes. But nobody comes up here. Not anymore."

"You mean no one ever sees this?"

She shook her head.

"You must know how good these are."

She paused, gave a tired shrug.

"You don't believe me?"

"It's not that." She hesitated.

"What?"

"I don't like people to see what I do."

"Because of what they might say? Their criticism?"

She shook her head. "No. Because of what they might see."

His eyes held on hers, and it seemed to her the blue grew very intense; then he turned and walked to the center of the room, where the easel stood, and bent over to look closely at the painting of a clematis.

Sarah said, "Da Vinci thought if you look closely enough at a stone, at the variations of color as light touches it, then you'll see there all of God's creation— mountains, woods, plains, hills... even the expressions of the human face. He said the same applied to the sound of bells. Listen to church bells, he said, and in a single stroke you'll hear every sound in every language ever uttered on earth."

John straightened and said, "You know what I see when I look at this flower?"

"What?"

"I see an entire landscape." He paused, and then added, "I see you."

The smile hovering on her mouth faded.

"I think I've never seen anyone as clearly as I see you," he murmured.

They both stared at each other for the longest time. Thunder rolled in the distance, and a car rolled in the driveway and then the screen door slammed. Ruth called out Sarah's name, but Sarah did not answer.

Finally John approached her and looked down into her eyes and hesitated a long while before he raised his hand and brushed her hair back from her face.

"How's your head?" he whispered. He found the bruise and touched it with his fingers. Her eyes closed at his touch, and John lowered his mouth to kiss the raised place above her eyebrow. When she felt his warm, dry lips against her skin, she thought the world had slipped away.

"Are you in love with Billy Moon?" he whispered.

She opened her eyes at the question, hesitated a long while, and then she answered softly, "I thought I was."

He swallowed heavily.

Her lips were poised and parted, waiting for him. He wet his own lips nervously with a flick of his tongue and then, ever so slowly, he lowered his mouth to meet hers.

There was in that kiss such tenderness and desire longing to be expressed that neither of them could breathe. The world withdrew from around them and sounds receded into the distance—the water running in the kitchen downstairs, the driving rain, the old beams creaking in the wind.

When at last John withdrew, there was a glimmer of sadness in his eyes, and he brushed her hair from her face and took a step back. She looked down then because she did not want to see the guilt on his face. She said nothing, nor did he. She kept her eyes lowered, her hands clasped in front, at her waist, and she did not look up when he left the room, nor when she heard his footfalls on the steps.