Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (24 page)

“Run over,” I say, “more than a year ago.” I let a minute or two pass. Then I ask, “What brings you this way?”

“The mare,” Michael says, glancing a little too fast over his shoulder toward the trailer, “Sarah's mare. Thought I'd bring her back.” I don't say anything but I'm wondering if “her” means the horse or Sarah. He gets out of the truck, looks into the trailer, then walks over to where I'm standing.

“Sarah still around?” he says almost casually but the word “Sarah” seems to stick in his throat.

“Yea,” I say, “she's still around.”

“How is she?” he says, glancing toward the barn.

“Fine,” I say, “considering.”

He looks me in the face. “Considering what?” he says.

“You know, her mother died.”

“No, I didn't,” he says, genuine surprise in his voice. “I knew she was sick, but I never heard any more.”

Nor asked “any more,” I'm thinking, but I don't say it. I hesitate a minute. “Then there's little Sammy,” I say. Hell, I might as well get it out in the open.

“Little Sammy?”

“Sarah's baby.” You'd think I plunged in a knife right at gut level. I watch this man of little emotion run through about a dozen. Finally he just stares at the ground. I stare at the same clump of dirt, starting to feel something, I'm not sure what, for him. Then he flattens the clump with his toe, looks me straight in the face, and says, “How old is he?”

“Who?” I say, my mind racing.

“Sarah's baby.” He has me in an eye lock. Now I'm not afraid to tell anybody anything, but giving out the finer details of Sammy's birth is Sarah's decision. I'd already had my say on the matter.

“I'm not sure,” I answer. “You'll have to ask his mother.” I look him straight back into those dark brown eyes that must have driven Sarah crazy.

He looks away first. “I need to see her,” he says, scanning the pasture like she might come riding up, “about the horse.”

I volunteer to go after her. I know she won't come on her own and that it will be better all the way around if Michael avoids Jack.

“Why don't you unload Athene while I'm gone,” I say, walking toward the house for my car keys. Michael looks relieved. His truck and trailer disappear around the far side of the barn as I head out.

On the drive to Sarah's, I consider what to tell her. As little as possible, I decide.

Sarah looks surprised but glad to see me. “Hi, Aunt Kate,” she says. “Look who's here, Sammy.” Sammy's in the middle of the kitchen floor, on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth like a hobby horse. “What brings you out on warm morning like this?” she asks.

I hesitate. “You need to come with me,” I say, more solemn than I intend.

“Why?” Sarah asks, a note of panic in her voice. “Is it Jack?” I shake my head. “Donna? Daddy?” Her voice rises an octave with each name.

“No,” I say, “everyone is fine. I just need your help.” I'm starting to feel guilty. She calms down a little but still looks suspicious.

“I can't leave Sammy,” she says.

“Bring him,” I say, “he can help too.” Judas, I think to myself. I feel like a goddamn Judas. But Sarah doesn't say anymore. She picks up Sammy, grabs an extra diaper and we're off. We don't talk much on the way to the farm. Sarah holds Sammy up to the window and they both look out as trees and buildings and telephone posts blur by. Doubts sail by in my mind like roadside signs. What if Michael breaks her heart again? What if he wants the baby? What if? What if?

“I think I'm doing the right thing,” I blurt out loud.

“You are,” another voice answers.

“What?” Sarah asks.

I look at her. “Nothing,” I say. She turns toward the window again.

“You're doing the right thing,” the voice repeats. This time I recognize it. Not Sarah's, not my own. The voice is Vivienne's.

I park the Blazer in front of the barn. Sarah looks puzzled. “Let me hold Sammy,” I say, easing him from her arms, “and come inside.”

Sarah finds Athene. She lets out a cry and leaps for the mare's neck. She doesn't see Michael. Not yet. I can't stay any longer. It would be like watching a child have his appendix cut out. You know he'll be better off but you don't want to see the blood. “Here's Sammy,” I say. She takes the baby, but her eyes are wild, so Harrison green, I wonder if I've made a mistake.

I give up little Samuel and head for the house. Once inside, I shout, “That's it, Vivienne, the last thing I can do for you.”

SARAH

Have you ever awakened and felt like something was about to ignite or explode or fall to earth or fall away from earth? That's the way I feel this morning. Andrew would tell me it's anxiety brought on by “unsteady hormone levels induced by childbirth.” Daddy would say it's “the pull of the moon.” Donna would say “You got up on the wrong side of the mattress.” Aunt Kate would call it “just a fucking awful morning.” Jack wouldn't call it anything. I don't think the man has a moody bone in his body. At least not since Sammy was born.

Jack has his own style of handling the baby, somewhere between the Hope diamond and a basketball. He talks to him, changes his diaper, would breast-feed him if he could.

The day we came home from the hospital, Jack decided to introduce Sammy to Bilo. He crawled under the kitchen table on his hands and knees, actually on one hand, holding Sammy tight against his chest with the other hand. He squeezed in beside Bilo then carried on a conversation for both dog and baby. “Hi, Bilo,” in a squeaky little voice, then “Arf! Baby!” in a barky voice, back and forth, so silly that I laughed until my sore abdomen ached.

He's still that way. The first time I had to go to Dr. Fleming for a recheck, Donna kept Sammy. But the next time Jack said, “I can take care of Sammy. No problem. And don't you call Donna Jean. She'll be over here all morning, talking nonstop.” So I didn't. I left the two together assuming they both would be okay. I was half right.

When I came home, Jack was leaning over the crib, bobbing the upper half of his body, singing “Send in the Clowns.” I slipped in beside him and looked down on Sammy. Sammy was fine. But Jack wasn't. He had this clown mobile Aunt Kate had given to Sammy suctioned to the center of his forehead. He swung around and nearly caught me in the face. A yellow clown and a red one twirled into an orange tangle.

Jack smiled, a little embarrassed-looking but mostly pleased with himself too. I could tell by the way he lifted his eyebrows and crinkled his forehead. Of course, it didn't crinkle evenly with the suction cup stuck in the center. “Sammy was crying so I thought I'd entertain him. See,” Jack said, swinging back around and tangling three more clowns. “I just pulled it off the wall and stuck it to my forehead. It stayed on,” he said tugging on the suction cup. “Really well,” he added. It didn't budge. He pulled again, this time harder. I watched his skin stretch out from his forehead.

“It's stuck all right,” I said. “Let me try.” I wiggled it back and forth, then up and down. The clowns jigged in a spastic dance. Sammy waved his hands.

“You've got to break the seal,” Jack said, his voice a note or two higher than usual. “Get a spoon.”

I reached into the drawer, grabbed a spoon by the handle, and aimed for the suction cup glued to Jack's skin.

“For God's sake! Sarah!” Jack yelled, “that's a grapefruit spoon. I want you to break the seal not gouge out a chunk of my head like a grapefruit section!”

“Calm down,” I told him, grabbing another spoon. I stuck the rounded tip right at the junction of skin and rubber, held onto the mobile, and pushed hard. The suction broke, clowns fell forward, Jack backward.

“Thank God!” he shouted, catching his balance. Then a little calmer, “thought I'd have to wear the damn thing to work.” He rubbed his forehead.

“You'll have to wear ‘part' of it,” I said.

“What?”

“Look in the mirror.”

“Jesus,” Jack said. In the center of his forehead was the biggest, brightest, roundest hicky I've ever seen.

We tried combing his hair forward—too short. Band-Aids—took too many. Revlon cover stick—he said he couldn't live with himself if he used makeup. Finally, he concocted a story about tripping over a lamp cord and falling head first onto a door knob. Then he made me swear on the sanctity of motherhood not to tell anyone, especially Donna.

He checked on Sammy again, grabbed some sunglasses, kissed me, and headed out to work singing “Send in the Clowns” more like Janis Joplin than Judy Collins. I sat in the middle of the nursery floor, untangling clowns and wondering how I could have ever left this man.

Thinking about Jack's hickey doesn't even get me out of this blue mood today. Maybe I'm worried about Donna. Jack says she's just getting older “like the rest of us.” Aunt Kate thinks, whatever the reason, it's an improvement because Donna doesn't echo Andrew like she used to. Wonder how Andrew analyzes the situation—that is if he's noticed? I'm not sure Donna even knows what it is. I do. Restlessness—plain and simple. But there's no “plain and simple” way to deal with it. That's what worries me.

Donna stopped by one day last week. She was wearing her usual hot weather clothes—camp shirt, Bermuda shorts, tennis shoes—but her face looked different. She jumped out of her Honda and ran to the door, acting happier than I'd seen her in weeks. I hadn't really talked with her in weeks either. But Sammy was napping and I was glad for her visit.

“Notice anything different?” she asked, blinking her eyelids.

“New shoes?”

She checked her feet. “No.” She lifted her hands to her face and patted her cheeks.

“New dress?” I said.

“No-o-o, Sarah!” She blinked a few more times and patted her cheeks harder.

“I get it!” I said, shielding my eyes. “It's your radiant beauty! You've been MADE-OVER!”

“Bingo!” she said, bending her knees into a curtsy. “Holly's cousin did it just now in Holly's shop. Can you really tell a difference?”

I nodded.

“I started to have it done gradual like those men who turn their hair back a little at a time with Grecian Formula. Base and blush one week. Lipliner and lipstick the next. Eye shadow, eyeliner, mascara and on and on. But then I thought, why not go whole hog and do it all at once.”

“You look great,” I said. “How much was it?”

Donna cleared her throat. “$76,” she whispered, “with starter kit and all. So, honestly, what do you think?”

“Worth every penny,” I said. “Has Andrew seen you?”

She shook her head. “I'm not going to tell him, unless he notices on his own, or Daddy or the twins either.” She stared beyond me. Her face clouded.

“Your eyes look so blue,” I said, wanting her good mood to continue, “bluer than I've ever seen them.”

“They're blue all right,” she said. Then she looked back at me. “Holly's cousin Barb used this highlighter she called brick powder or powder brick—meaning the color, not ground up brick or anything. She said it magnifies whatever color your eyes already are.” She smiled and blinked again.

“What about your hair?” I asked.

“What about it?” Her smile uncurled. “Does it need changing too?”

“Oh, no,” I said, wishing I hadn't mentioned hair. “It always looks nice, curly and nice.”

“Truth is,” Donna said, sounding somewhat pacified, “I thought about giving up perms and getting one of those short blow-dry jobs.” She swept her hair up and away from her face. “What do you think?”

“Oh, Nonna! You'd be pretty bald.” I threw my arms around her.

She hugged me back. A desperate hug. “You haven't called me ‘Nonna' since you left. I've missed you so much!” she said. Then she began to cry.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she sobbed.

“Nothing?”

“Everything!”

“Like what?” I asked. But she shook her head between sobs. I held her until she was cried out. Then Sammy woke up. Donna went into the bathroom, repaired her make-over as best she could, and left. After she was gone, it hit me. Donna wasn't crying just about her hair or even about missing me. There was sadness much deeper and stronger. And her crying wasn't soft and dainty whimpers like it used to be. It was painful, jagged, ugly sobs like mine always was.

Donna's acting more and more like Mama—busy, fidgety, distracted at times. Mama. She was buried a year ago today. No wonder I feel so unsettled. If only Mama could see Sammy. She'd love him just like Daddy. And she'd forgive me, too, like Daddy has. He hasn't said so but I can see it in his eyes. I understand now what came between us for so long, even before the first time I tried to run away.

He's back to gardening. Donna said he let his plot go to weed last year when Mama was sick. Probably the only time in his life that he wasn't growing something. Daddy always said gardening was nature's way of training humans. Sometimes he does what he calls “garden experiments.” Like with his mantelpiece cucumber. Donna and I called it his riddle pickle. One summer when we were still kids, Daddy tried an experiment in his cucumber patch. He took an empty vinegar bottle and slipped a blossom, still on the vine, through the small glass neck. Then he pushed the bottle under the plant. He asked Donna and me if we thought it could grow. We both said no, not without soil or light. But in a few weeks Daddy led us back to the same patch in his garden, like the maître d' in a fine restaurant, and showed us the bottle. There inside was a huge white cucumber. He said it didn't turn green like the other cucumbers because it didn't get enough light, but it still grew because the vine nourished it. He broke off the vine, filled the bottle with vinegar, screwed on the lid, and set his masterpiece of an experiment on the living room mantel next to Mama's Royal Dalton dancing girl. “A reminder,” he said, “of the wonders of nature.”