The Magic of Ordinary Days (15 page)

I sat tall and sucked in.

She looked down at my lap. “Do twins run in your family?”

And this question, I couldn't answer.

Fourteen

Around the first of October, the weather turned cooler as a front came in, bringing rain. Then, after a few days of cloudiness, Indian summer returned. I took advantage of the remaining warm days to go walking through the elm grove. Martha once explained to me how the elm trees had come to be planted. “A homesteader could add to his original claim by planting ten acres of trees. Forestation was supposed to increase rain and snowfall here, but of course it didn't work. My grandparents tried some trees, but at first they planted the wrong types, and before irrigation, it was a dismal failure. All of those trees died in less than a year. Then they found out that Chinese elms could survive just about anything.”

She also told me that the first tree farm, as she called it, was now the elm grove at the Rocky Ford fairgrounds, the same place where over two hundred German POWs from Camp Trinidad were being housed.

I stepped over twigs and dead branches that had fallen from the trees. With the onions and beans pulled, while we still had warm afternoons for growth, Ray was seeding the winter wheat. And in a few days, the sugar beet harvest would begin, keeping Rose and Lorelei busy for long days at a time. But what would I do?

If we lived closer to Trinidad, I could offer to teach English at the POW camp. It would be interesting to get to know something about the German soldiers firsthand. But what would Ray think about it?

On the first day of beet harvest, Ray explained the process to me. He used the tractor to pull a contraption appropriately called a beet puller behind it. It had two prongs that went into the ground under the beets and forced them up. Then the harvest crew came in with beet knives—short swordlike knives with a straight, narrow hooking device that came off at a right angle from the end of the larger blade. The interns went through the field, leaning down and hooking the beets off the ground, then hacking off their tops with the knives. Later the beets had to be loaded in the truck for transport to one of the nearby factories that could extract the sugar. The beets came out of the ground bulky and dirty. It was the filthiest and most physically demanding work of the entire season, and although it came near the end of an arduous autumn harvest, when all the interns were most likely exhausted, none of our workers ever lodged a complaint. I kept my distance from the fieldwork, as that seemed to be what Ray wanted, but occasionally I'd take a ride with him to the sugar beet factory to drop off a load.

In the midst of the sugar beet harvest, Lorelei and Rose were able to take a day off for another drive. We met in Wilson, then drove all the way south, past Trinidad, over Raton Pass, and into New Mexico. “Will your absence be a problem?” I asked them. I didn't want to cause them any more trouble.

“We have a pass,” answered Lorelei.

“Our activities out of camp are not very restricted anymore. It's much more relaxed than when we first arrived.”

We crossed the border while still in the mountains, then wound down to rolling land. Farther south, the land became drier and flatter still, more of a pink desert than a green plain, with lavender-blue mountains and mesas scalloping the horizon.

I didn't know what Lorelei and Rose had expected, but surely they looked disappointed, or something else was bothering them, I didn't know what. Along the way, we stopped at various good observation spots for butterflies, but by now, with fall's night chills quickly beginning to scare insects away, we found none of them. It wasn't until we arrived in a spare woodland sheltered by canyon walls that things began to change. The dancing leaves and bright colors of fall had always made the world feel fanciful to me, as if dressed for a party. Orange and crimson, hanging on to the branches for life, the leaves flitted and twirled about whenever a breeze came through. Leaves already fallen to the ground crunched beneath our feet as we walked along the canyon floor. I searched the walls for any petroglyphs left behind by ancient Indians. Deeper into the canyon, rock walls cracked by tree roots sheltered us from the wind.

The mood began to change when Rose stumbled on a Fritillary sunbathing, wings open, on a bare branch exposed to sunlight. The Fritillary was another butterfly of orange and black color, but unlike the Monarch and the Viceroy, its pattern was spotted. While Lorelei was still sketching in the notebook, Rose found another butterfly This time it was the Purple Hairstreak, the same butterfly they had been seeking on the day we first met. On an orange oak leaf, the butterfly opened and closed its wings, letting us see the gray-brown undersides of its wings contrasted to the purple topsides.

Lorelei only whispered, “The Hairstreak,” for me to know this sighting was of great importance to them. She completed her drawing quickly, and then we stood still and watched. Surely the butterfly would take notice of us and be on its way. The Purple Hairstreak remained on the same leaf, however, for longer than I would have liked to stay in one place, particularly if I had owned wings.

Rose was reading my mind again. She asked, “Did we ever tell you about their wings?”

When I shook my head, she continued, “The wings of a butterfly are made up of millions of tiny scales, not one solid part. All the scales come together to form the wing and give the butterfly its color. And every time one flies, some of the scales fall off as dust. By the time the butterfly is old, much of its scales and color are lost.”

Lorelei touched the ground with a pointed toe. “All around us is butterfly dust.” She looked up and smiled. “We just can't see it.”

That butterfly sighting changed everything. Soon Rose and Lorelei were humming favorite tunes and talking in layers again. I shrugged off their earlier solemn disposition. We sat down on some dry buffalo grass that snapped beneath my new heaviness.

“You'll need more clothes soon,” said Rose. “We've already begun to make you a suit.”

“You can come out for a fitting and meet our parents,” Lorelei said.

I had accepted the dress, but a suit was too much. “You shouldn't go to so much trouble on account of me.”

Both of their faces fell. Refusing their offer meant something to them, something I didn't understand but could sense anyway. “Well, if you really want to....”

“Oh, we do,” Lorelei said as her face brightened.

“Come out as soon as you can. We want you to meet our parents and grandparents anyway, and we'll also be able to mark the fabric for a perfect fit.”

I remembered shopping for clothes with Abby and Bea, spending half a day in and out of dressing rooms, then dining out for lunch.

Rose asked, “Where are your parents, Livvy?”

The words came out of my mouth, but no longer from out of me. I was somewhere else, free of it. “My mother died this year. My father and sisters are in Denver.”

“Do you see them often?”

“Not since I married. But I'm hoping to visit for the holidays.”

Rose folded her hands before her. She had a look in her eyes of years much older than her age. Her voice became even softer. “Livvy, is something wrong?”

For a moment, I considered telling them, telling them all of it. That I had made a mistake, the kind I was supposed to have been too well raised, too smart, too full of good common sense to make. That I had fallen prey to the most feminine of failings.

But in the end, I said, “Of course not.”

And on the long ride back, the girls and I had switched places. They were now giggling and jousting with each other, whereas I couldn't get memories of growing up with all my hopes still intact to stop prodding me down deep into the bones.

That night in bed, shafts of dusty worry lit up by the moon came streaming into the window. I threw back the covers and looked at my changing body. I touched it for the first time, the hard mound expanding between navel and groin. Then I lay back and closed my eyes.

I remembered seeing newborn babies at church. Tucked into their mothers' elbows, swathed in blankets, sometimes even their faces covered, they had been difficult for me to study. During christening ceremonies, my father had described healthy infants as incredible gifts from God. Always I had had the impression that babies were precious, fragile, and easily infected. Even as the minister's daughters, we weren't allowed to get close.

How, then, could something so valuable be entrusted to a mother who didn't want it?

Fifteen

On the day of my scheduled obstetric appointment, Ray drove me to La Junta to see Dr. McCutcheon. In the morning, the skies had been cloudy, threatening rain, so we left early and ended up arriving in town almost an hour before my appointment time. Instead of waiting in the office, we went into the Fred Harvey House at the train depot and managed to snag a table by the window in the dining room. We ordered coffee and slices of pie.

Ray sat across from me. He fingered his keys on the tablecloth and stole looks out the window. As the waitress came to deliver our plates, I noticed that he gazed up at her with an expression I could only guess to be pride. I saw it again when he looked up as I was returning to the table from the ladies' room. Then it occurred to me. A married man sitting with his pregnant wife, and all in public to witness his accomplishment. Under normal circumstances, his pride would be understandable. But what of our situation? Wouldn't some people inevitably question the paternity of this child? But I wasn't sure if that kind of tawdry thought ever occurred to Ray.

“What is it?” I asked him as I sat back down at the table.

“Nothing,” he answered.

“You looked happy.”

Now he smiled. “Something wrong with that?”

I looked around at the other customers. Couples, mostly couples, sitting together, smiling, eating, and chatting away. Probably they had done things the right way. Most likely they had met, dated, fallen in love, then gotten married. If they had both wanted a baby, they had probably sat down and planned it.

Ray's voice was low as he began to speak. “After the baby comes ...” But then the waitress returned with our bill. Ray looked over the check, up at me, then out the window. People stood outside waiting for tables, and by then, it was time to be on our way. Therefore Ray paid the bill and never did finish his sentence.

My checkup began with an examination that detected no problems or abnormalities. Then the nurse ushered me into Dr. McCutcheon's office for an opportunity to ask questions. After the door closed behind me, I sat on the edge of the chair and stated the truth. “I'm nearly four months.”

Behind the desk, Dr. McCutcheon rocked back in his chair. “That's about what I would have guessed. Were you told a date?”

“Early March. And not a bit premature.”

“March looks about right.” The old doctor smiled. “And we never want premature babies.”

“No, I suppose not.”

“You know, Mrs. Singleton ...” He looked me over as he toyed with a pen on the desktop. “I doctor both young and old. And I've had countless wonderful experiences during all these years of caring for families.” He paused. “But the best of all things is getting to bring babies into this world.” He glanced over at a wall of newborn infant photos. “A healthy baby is always a blessing.”

I shook my head. “This was a mistake.”

He looked at me with resolve. “Once the baby gets here, you won't see him or her as a mistake anymore.”

I'd heard this before. I remembered one of Mother's friends, at least her age or older, who had become pregnant just about the time her two sons went off to college. Mother had whispered to me that the baby was unplanned, obviously. But once that little girl had arrived, she had stolen everyone's heart with her flashing dark eyes, auburn hair, and smile. Mother's friend never missed an opportunity to show her daughter off in public, always dressing her in the finest clothing from shops in downtown Denver. I took a short breath. “I'd like to believe you.”