Asked For (10 page)

Magdalena rose from her chair. One hand tussled James’ hair as she passed toward the tree. “Merry Christmas, little brother,” she said while her fingers were still on his head. “Love that dark hair.”

Pop took a longer draw on his pipe as she stepped toward the tree. He blew hard into the air, a cloud of smoke hiding him as it swirled in front of his face. James smoothed his hair where Magdalena had mussed it. He wished she’d sit down before Pop said something about her face and the traces of last night that looked even more obvious against the morning pallor her fair skin had.

She bent and picked up a package. She read the name and handed it to Harold. Then she sat, and Harold shrugged, then stood. Everyone knew Harold was anxious to get to Sandra’s house, his steady girlfriend for over a year now. James was glad Harold had stayed home this morning, that they all were here. Harold chose a package, read the name, and handed it to Carla. This was new. James had never seen this done before, but his brothers and sisters understood the rules as the gifts were distributed, each one receiving and then giving. Alex handed a gift to James. James stood, found a package, the one he’d wrapped for Mama, and he handed it to her. She looked uneasy as she smiled and took the present from his hand.

“You’ll like it, Mama.” He’d found a picture of her hidden away, and he’d framed it with wood he’d whittled and smoothed with a knife. He wanted her to put it on Pop’s dresser, next to the other two photos Pop kept there. She thanked him, her eyes on Pop. James glanced at his father. He was staring straight ahead, a shroud of smoke hanging around him. Mama stood, took a gift from under the tree, and passed it on.

James returned to his spot on the floor and watched in fascination as his brothers and sisters and Mama received and gave. This had to be something they used to do, that they stopped doing for some reason after he came along. He wanted to do it again next year, and the next, and forever. It felt good. He wanted to always feel this way.

There were two gifts left under the tree. Magdalena picked up the one he recognized, the gift they’d all shared in for Pop. She carried it to Pop’s chair and stood in front of him. The gift hung in her hands, the dark smudges under her eyes making her look like a fighter instead of a daughter, or a hag or a whore. James saw then how much alike they were, his sister and his father. Not just their hair, and their fair skin, and their height, but something else, too. She was like Pop on the inside, the place that gave her the courage to stand there with last night’s makeup still on her face. Mama said Magdalena had been her happiest baby, but James couldn’t imagine his sister that way. Her happiness was like a thin covering over a deep sore, one that never seemed to get better. It was the sore he thought she relished, that was her strength, and it made her do the things she did.

Pop nodded at his lap, one hand holding the pipe he was nursing, the other gripping the arm of his chair. James prayed Magdalena would set the package on his lap, not drop it, not throw it, not insist he reach up and take it.

She smiled. If her eyes hadn’t glistened, James would have thought it was respectful. “You need to get up and hand that last gift to whoever it belongs to. Do that first, and I’ll put this on your lap so you can open it.”

“I’ll get it.” Mama jumped to her feet. She started toward the tree, but Betsy latched onto Mama’s skirt. Mama was yanked to a stop and glanced down at her daughter. Betsy’s fingers twisted around Mama’s hem. Mama bit her lower lip and backed toward her chair. Slowly she sank into it.

“Last package, Pop.” Magdalena nodded toward the tree.

Pop’s pipe clattered into the ashtray on the floor near his chair, and he gripped both armrests and hauled himself to his feet. In one stride, he reached the tree, bent down and swept up the gift. James’ jaw dropped. Pop still had the ballplayer in him. He’d never seen Pop move that way. Pop straightened and glanced at the name. He turned to James, waved the package like an underhand pitcher, and lobbed it into James’ lap.

“Thank you.” James could barely speak. He watched his Pop; he memorized that move.

Pop stepped backward and sank into his chair. Magdalena laid his package in his lap. “Merry Christmas, Pop.” He reached for his pipe, relit it, and puffed silently, his gift balanced on his knees. “Okay, everyone, open your gifts!” Magdalena’s eyes were like fire, venomous fire, instead of yuletide flames. She waved her arms to encourage them as she waded back to her chair.

James prayed Magdalena would open his gift first. It wasn’t much, but she needed it. He’d found an old mirror, a small piece of a bigger one, and he’d made it a frame just like he’d done for Mama’s picture. He wanted Magdalena to get a closer look at what she needed to see to keep out of Pop’s way. He wanted to protect her even if she didn’t care. He turned and watched as she dropped into her chair. She looked like she wanted a cigarette.

James turned back to his gifts, amazed again there were so many. Surprise and small gasps rose up around him amidst the rustling of paper being torn aside. He unwrapped pencils, and looked at Mama and Pop and thanked them. Mama smiled. A book about baseball was next. It was old and used, but it made his heart leap. Harold grinned. New napkins for his spot at the table sewn by Betsy and Gail, a shirt, blocks cut from wood from Alex, an orange, and cookies from Carla. He thanked them all before he opened another orange which lay still wrapped near his knee, alongside the last package Pop had handed him. He lifted the orange first. It wasn’t easy to find oranges this time of year, and he could tell it wasn’t ready to eat yet, by the feel. It was hard, probably slightly green like the others. He peeled the paper aside, and saw white instead of orange. White leather with neat lacing. He tore the rest of the paper away and gripped a baseball in both hands. He looked up at Mama, then at his brothers. They smiled, they grinned, but they nodded toward Magdalena.

“Like it, little brother?” Magdalena was holding the mirror he’d made her. She winked.

“How did you…” He clasped the ball in both hands, feeling its smoothness, gripping its hardness.

“I’ll expect great things out of you,” she said. “Now you got one more there. Open it.”

James had forgotten about the gift Pop had handed him. He had his own baseball, and nothing else mattered. He held the ball in one hand and grabbed the soft package with the other. He stabbed a finger through the paper. Brown appeared beneath, soft, dark brown. The ball slipped from his fingers as he tore the paper away, the smell of cowhide overpowering Pop’s sweet tobacco smoke. A baseball glove. His hands quivered. He could barely breathe.

“Who’s that from?” Pop snapped to attention, his voice sharp. James looked at Magdalena. She’d pay dearly if she’d given this to him. The ball was enough. Pop would be on her for sure, now.

Magdalena grinned at James then looked up at Pop. “Not me.” She shook her head, a slow shake she enjoyed. James heard Pop come to his feet, the box he hadn’t opened hitting the floor. It was a new pipe, and an ashtray they’d carved from wood. Neither would break, but the thud was awful, like the pounding in James’ chest. He heard Pop leave the room. The back door opened and closed, the dog letting out a yelp of welcome, and Pop was gone. Mama’s face was white as she looked at Magdalena, her eyes huge question marks. Magdalena nodded, and her grin deepened.

James didn’t understand his mother’s look. It was an expression that had never been there before. He pressed the glove to his face and inhaled the leather. He grabbed the baseball and tucked it into the webbed pocket. Mama watched, the look still there. Suddenly he saw what Mr. Morgan had said ages ago. She was beautiful. A beauty James had never seen lit her face with the flush of being alive. Her eyes seemed darker as she combed her fingers through her hair. She took a long, deep breath, her eyes intense, her focus far away. He wanted her to stay this way so Mr. Morgan could see he was right. The clock on the bureau chimed, and Mama jumped to her feet. The light in her eyes vanished. It was time to begin lunch. She had to hurry.

She scooped paper from around her chair. As they scurried to help her, she came close to James. He had paper in one hand, his new glove and ball in the other. She looked into his eyes, farther than she ever had before. But it wasn’t him she was seeing, it was someone else, maybe someone like him. “That’s a really nice glove, James.”

The back door opened.

“Hurry,” Mama said. Then she glanced one last time at James. Whoever she saw, or wherever Mama’d been, it was just her now. She was back and the other person was gone.

Chapter 10

Lana 1933

“Grandma?”

The shadow Lana thought was Grandma moved away from the bed. Maybe it wasn’t her, or maybe she hadn’t heard Lana call. The room was dark, and the squat form blended in, making it hard to discern the dusky figure whose edges blurred within the fog of gray. Lana opened her mouth to call again—she didn’t want to be alone—but nothing happened. Nothing came out, not even air. She winced. Why did it hurt so much? Having her other babies hadn’t hurt like this, hurt enough she felt like crying instead of crying out.

She lay smothered under a heavy blanket of warm air. The room was stuffy like her kitchen, but she shivered, a cold inner chill creeping through her. Maybe Grandma had gone across the room to open and close the window to even the temperature. She listened for the creak of the wood, the window being forced up, and the thud of the weights in their channels. Everything was quiet. There was no sound.

The pain struck again. She tried to ignore it, think about Grandma instead…wherever she was. The darkness thickened, blocked all sight and sound, leaving her isolated with a pain she couldn’t ignore. She groaned. The air was heavy and grew even hotter. She couldn’t breathe; the pressure and pain were too great.

A scream came from somewhere. It startled her, a piercing cry that ripped through the blackness. Lana trembled. The gloom split in two. The shriek was shrill and sharp, like a vocal knife. It cut through the dark, slicing down from above and dropping onto her. It severed her, separating her top half from her bottom. Lana screamed. It was the same horrible sound she’d heard just a moment before: anguish, and a plea for relief. She screamed again. And again. Louder and louder. Lightning shot through her abdomen and burned down her legs.

“Grandma!”

Someone moved, came through the darkness to her side. She lifted a hand, but as she did, agony gripped her, coiled her into a ball. Hands tore at the wet bedding around her. She cried, and slapped at the hands. They wouldn’t stop, but everything else did. Everything else began slipping away. Shuddering and hot, she was unable to scream again. The darkness consumed her.

****

There were voices. Voices so soft she couldn’t tell what they were saying. A man. A woman. A man with two heads and two different sounds; Grandma, when she was younger, a little younger, but not much. It was too dark to see them. Maybe she’d died, maybe these were mourners. She wanted to tell them she really wasn’t dead, they just needed a light so they could see she was still breathing. At least she thought she was. It was too dark to tell.

****

The scream came again. It shot from her depths, seared through her abdomen, knotted her chest, and raked her vocal cords as it escaped. It hurt, everything hurt, she was too hot, there were too many hands. They pushed, they pulled, they pressed. She wanted to bat them away, but she couldn’t. Her arms lay dead at her sides.

****

The scream went away. A soft whimper took its place, a sweet muffle. It jarred her, its gentle cry far more powerful than the scream. Her arms flailed when she heard it, dragged her upwards through layers and layers of murky water, the darkest being left below, a glow of soft gray above. Voices were in the thin grayness overhead. Men, a woman, maybe two of them. The whimper increased. Her heart pounded and she swam harder. Something touched her, something cool on her forehead, something warm beneath her legs.

“She can’t do this again.” It was a man. Someone she didn’t recognize. The gray was gone, a foggy glow in its place. She frowned, tried to see who he was, her eyes squinting through the haze.

“She’s waking up!”

Grandma? Ella? The whimper became a wail. Her eyes opened. She was sure they did. Tall shadows stood like trees around her. One moved close and touched her.

“Lana…Lana, can you hear me?” It was Ella. Her voice gurgled, like she was talking through the water, or maybe it was tears. The wail came nearer. A soft, warm bundle pressed against her. Her arms were too heavy to move, too exhausted from swimming to the light. She dropped her chin down near the cry at her side, rolling her head close to the squirming warmth. What if she really was dead? Or dying? What if she couldn’t find the tiny voice? Her limbs lay lifeless, joined together by dull pain and exhaustion.

“You understand?” It was the same man as before. He sounded firm. “She can’t go through this again.”

A grunt answered him, another man. The tallest form moved away. A door opened and closed. The two remaining shadows moved close together and stayed at her side. The bundle began to cry, and her heart came alive.

Chapter 11

Lana 1933

Carl’s truck rumbled slowly up the lane. Lana listened from her chair near the table, the motor much smoother than the one in Cletus’ truck. Carl was here to pick up Ella, just like he did at the end of almost every day. Lana sighed. She was ashamed things had to be this way, but she was too weak to change them. The aroma of roast wafted from the kitchen, where Ella worked to complete another meal. On occasion Lana was strong enough to cook on her own, but most of the time she couldn’t. Growing new blood was a slow process, and that’s what the doctor said she needed to do. Alex had torn away at her insides too much, his birth almost violent. So violent that Ella’s face turned white when Lana asked her about the two days she couldn’t remember.

“Carl’s here,” Lana called into the kitchen. Magdalena romped by, riding an invisible horse. “Go tell Ella Carl’s here,” Lana said to her daughter. Magdalena galloped away, bounding over her little brother, Harold, who was crawling across the floor. Harold didn’t flinch. He was peaceful, like Betsy, just not withdrawn. He was a combination of Lana and Cletus, the best of both. Harold would make a fine man someday.