Mad Season (18 page)

“Garth,” Carol said, “this is Vic’s mother.”

The boy glanced up, did he flush? Looked like he might speak, or protest. And then with a frown he swooped low to his project again, stuck the glue in the wrong place.

“Fuck!”

Here was a new Carol. A swift step and the boy was yanked up to face her, eyes stunned, mouth open to a missing tooth.

“Don’t you say that word again!”

And he was back on the floor, facedown in the furry rug, crying. Ruth wanted to be away, far away. The boy sat up: “See what you did?” He held up two frail pieces of the airplane.

Carol said, breathless, “See why I keep sheep?” Then taking Ruth’s shoulders, pushed her back toward the stairs.

“Same reason I keep cows,” said Ruth, trying to appease, though it wasn’t because of her children, who weren’t like this: stubborn maybe, disobedient sometimes, but never vindictive. This child wasn’t sorry at all, he was spoiled rotten; he needed discipline, probably had little. No wonder Carol preferred sheep. Sheep obeyed without backtalk.

Then on the stairs, one she hadn’t seen before. Looking nothing like Wilder: different coloring, larger features. He nodded, wordlessly, and when Carol introduced them, her voice small like she was afraid of this one:

“Hello,” he mumbled, but didn’t look at her, only stared past her, into the distance. Afterward Ruth remembered the lips, white as parsnips, the stare of the blue, blue eyes. There was something missing here, because of the drugs she supposed. Carol didn’t detain him, she was used to it probably, had long ago given up.

And then Garth’s voice, “Hey! Kurt! Come up here, I need help with my model. I’m outa the right glue. Kurt!”

And Kurt moving slowly up the stairs, hangdog, his back humped like he bore a weight he couldn’t lift; no good-bye, no “nice to have met you,” just a slow, labored exit. Would he help Garth with the model?

When they sat down again in the kitchen, Carol made a valiant effort to entertain: tea, homemade biscuits this time. “I add bits of dried pineapple, you see. Wilder loves them, he’s my bake boy. Has he used your stove, too?”

Ruth spread her hands. She couldn’t remember things these days, not even what Sharon had made for supper the night before.

“He wants to see Emily, I know that. Probably he’s, well, afraid. Do you think that’s it?”

The woman was ingenuous, Ruth thought, the wrong woman for these three sons. Too bad one couldn’t match parents to sons, after they’d grown up a little.

Ruth said, “There was some rift, even before the police got to him.” She didn’t want to get into it, didn’t want to betray Emily again. “I don’t know, except that Emily’s unhappy.”

That much she could say for Emily’s sake, knowing it would get back to Wilder; he should know he’d made Emily unhappy. Though it might be best if they stopped seeing each other, wouldn’t it? But she couldn’t say that to Carol, could she?

Ruth wondered about the husband she’d seen only that one time by the courthouse: gray-brown hair going bald, inaccessible, made Emily “uncomfortable,” she said. Emily, the romantic, maintained he was something of an autocrat. She didn’t think the parents got along.

“Kurt was George’s son, by his first marriage. “Wilder and Garth are mine.” Carol looked like she wanted to say more but didn’t know if she should. Ruth waited.

And here was Wilder, coming in the back door, flushing to see Ruth; her throat tightened. But when his mother scolded him for the mud he’d brought in, he carefully removed his shoes. He was carrying a bag of groceries, as though, like Kurt’s shoulders, it weighed a thousand pounds.

“I hope you got something for yourself,” Carol said, and he said, “Yup,” and they both smiled a little.

Was this young man a killer? It didn’t seem so, yet he’d lied. Ruth had to remember that.

The boy dropped the bag on the counter, began unloading potatoes, mayonnaise, bread. He held up a half gallon of Ben and Jerry’s. “Heath bar crunch.” I need to indulge myself. Want some?”

Carol shook her head. “Watching my diet. Ruth?”

“No, thanks, I make my own. Plain old vanilla.”

“I’ve sampled it,” Wilder said. “With maple syrup, not bad.” He started out of the room, turned back.

“Ms. Willmarth? Is there any news about Vic? I wish I could help.”

Carol went to Wilder, hugged him. Was this planned? Had she told Wilder to say that?

Was Wilder laughing or crying? Ruth squeezed her tea bag, set it beside the cup. It was time to go, leave mother and son, their arms around each other now, though Wilder was already breaking away. It hurt to see them, made her think of Vic. And what had she accomplished? What had she learned?

Nothing, she answered herself. She was nowhere. She’d been thrown in quicksand, was sinking down, and down. She thought of Willy drowning in the creek. For the first time she knew his panic.

* * * *

Colm was back home in the local hospital. He was a bird with a busted wing, his leg was trussed to the knee like a hockey stick. He’d asked his father to call Ruth, he wanted to tell her himself, before the police got to her, to say it wasn’t the fat man who had Vic. It wasn’t fair to keep her hopes up. They’d grilled the fellow in Ann Arbor, could prove only an illegal weapon, they were sending him back to Vermont. There was no Vic.

Then who, she’d want to know, who did have him? And he’d have to shake his head like a kid in school who couldn’t answer the question, who didn’t even know what the question was.

His mind kept coming back to Pete, but he couldn’t push that, she’d think he had an ulterior motive (did he?). There’d been no ransom call; Pete was still a possibility. The police hadn’t ruled him out.

“A visitor,” the nurse said. “Are you up for it?”

He didn’t feel ready, but it might be Ruth. His heart was doing screwy things in his chest, it wanted to get out. One more day here and he was leaving. There were things to do, like seeing the man Smith for himself, he had his own questions to ask. He had crutches, he could get around. The Detroit surgeon had done a decent job on him. He didn’t want to think of the cost: he had no health insurance—one more thing out of whack in this country. What could even a president do? Congress? All those interest groups. Lousy politics!

He hiked himself up on the side of the bed, he wasn’t going to see her on his rear end like this, a man back from a failed mission, the abductor still loose, the boy in limbo.

The ankle hurt like hell, the bullet had split bone, he was taped up like a Christmas package ready for the mail.

And knocked flat by the perfume.

“I heard from your father,” she said in her high sweet voice. “We were supposed to meet for that supper, remember? I didn’t know you’d gone away. He said you were hurt, I was worried. I baked you some cookies, gingerbread.”

He felt trapped in her scent, like she’d sprayed something lethal into his neck. “Leave the door open,” he said. “They don’t like it closed.”

But Bertha was already on him, door shut, thrusting out a package wrapped in foil.

He didn’t need cookies, he needed a drink. “Got any Guckenheimer?” he asked, but she just tittered.

“Your leg, Colm, what happened? What were you doing that you got shot? Shot!” She zeroed in on the bandaged leg like it was the feast of Christ, a holy communion between herself and God. Her permed orangy-red hair (did he remember it that color?) wriggled out of its careful confines.

“I was in Ann Arbor, looking for Vic. You know about Vic.”

She was quiet a minute. “Ann Arbor? What would Vic be doing in Ann Arbor?”

“Nothing. He wasn’t,” he said, pulling himself up from the bed. He had to get to the chair, he had a helpless feeling, like this woman was about to bake him into a cookie. He didn’t want to go into it. It was none of Bertha’s business.

Halfway to the chair he stumbled, he didn’t have his crutch. She grabbed him like a hot pan, hustled him into a chair.

“Poor kid, you need someone to help. How you going to get to your appointments? I’m not doing anything now, ‘cept church work, you know, I have time. Too much.” She gave a nervous laugh.

“I’m fine,” he said firmly. “I don’t need help. Look, Bertha, I’ve got someone coming. I can’t talk anymore right now. Maybe later.”

And cursed himself for giving her even that opening.

“All right,” she said. “I just happened to be going this way. I’ll keep in touch. You may need a willing hand. Jesus—”

“Keep Jesus out of this, Bertha, please? Jesus wasn’t around when Vic was kidnapped.”

“How do you know he was kidnapped? How do you know he didn’t go on his own, wasn’t scared to death, poor child, with what’s going on around here—he just left, wanting peace?”

“Bertha, I need to close my eyes a minute. I’m worn out from the trip over to this chair.” He closed his eyes, he was spinning through a revolving door. . . .

When he opened them again, Bertha was gone; in her place, Ruth, a rainbow after an acid rain.

“I ran into Bertha in the hall,” she said. “She looked daggers through me when I came in here, said you were resting, you needed your sleep, you’d been looking for Vic. She said to tell you to stop looking, God’s watching over him. If I could only think so. Good Lord.”

“Lord?” he said, holding out his arms. “Yes, I’m here.”

And when she grimaced: “At least break out her cookies,” he said. “I got Jell-0 for lunch. I hate Jell-0.”

“No, thanks, I’d choke on them.”

Ruth. She was Florence Nightingale in a green beret. She pulled it off and her hair went wild underneath, uncombed, like she had other concerns these days. He wanted to drink her in.

She was quiet for a time. Then, “You didn’t find Vic. That man didn’t have him.”

And he nodded, hearing the break in her voice, reached out for her. She dropped heavily to her knees, by his chair.

Here was a woman who cried out through her silence.

* * * *

Lucien lived one day at a time now. Today it was Marie come to visit, just when he wanted to get the chores done, relax after milking, lock up for the night. She had Harold with her, he didn’t need that, Harold’d complain about that Joey. Joey here with Tim, bringing in the cows: Joey or Willy? He wasn’t sure which now, something missing up on top, anyway.

“Dad, we was driving out this way, Harold’s got a job offer, that new firm—whatsa name, Harold?” And before Harold could open his mouth, “We’ll be in the money now. I won’t say ‘bout time, but. Oh, well. Look!”

She whirled about, landed with one leg stuck forward like a mannequin. He couldn’t see what it was—new dress? Harold touched the pink stuff, like he’d wove it himself. What was that fairy tale, Rumple-something? Belle used to read it to Marie. Rumple stole some baby, it ended bad.

“Little Michelle, too. Show grandpop, doll. Harold bought it. He likes to see us look nice, he got taste, Harold.”

Lucien squinted. The girl was in something blue, it had lace. He held out his arms. She shied away.

“All right then,” he said, hurt. He knew he smelled of barn. If they’d said they was coming. But no, they just arrive, like he’s nothing to do but sit and yak.

“Leaving you a ham, Dad. Harold cooked it, didn’t you, Harold?”

Harold nodded, took a step backward. Harold wasn’t a talker.  He didn’t like to come here, Lucien knew it. Harold knew he knew it. Harold was, what was the word? Fastidious. Fastidious. Marie taught Lucien that word. Fastidious. Humph. Lucien and Belle was fastidious they’d’ve gone under the first day of farming! Now the grandgirl was catching it. It made Lucien angry. He lunged after the child, grabbed her, he wouldn’t be rejected. Held her, squirming, against his stained overalls. “Grandpop’s a baby.”

It was too much for Harold, he rushed in, yanked the child away. “She don’t like that.” He held her to him like a bag of gold. “We gotta get going,” he told Marie. “I can’t keep her waiting.”

Lucien turned his back.

“Dad, you gotta understand. They bring kids up different these days. You don’t force ‘em to do things like you did me.”

That did it. He confronted her. “What’d I ever force you to do? You was the little princess! Go ask your mother.”

“Dad, Mother is—” She sighed. “Okay, Dad. Okay. I was. Now sit down, Dad, we wanna talk a minute.” She turned to Harold. “Hold your horses, Harold, it’s important.”

Lucien was suspicious. “I got help in the barn. I gotta supervise. They don’t know the way I do. We’ll talk some other time.”

“It’s always ‘some other time,’ Dad. Five minutes. Sit down five minutes. Put that ham in the fridge, Harold. Dad, when you gonna get a new fridge? Mom wanted a new one. You could’ve afforded it. All that money they took—how much?”

He shook his head. He didn’t know how much. He only knew there was always some to pay the vet, the plumber, machine repairs. Most things he did himself. He burned his own trash, buried on his own land. Why’d she want to know how much money?

“The broker was here, right? Esther Dolley?”

He tried to get up out of his chair. She put a hand on his shoulder.

“Well, she was, she told us. She’s a smart lady, Dad, right, Harold? Harold knows. She got big clients. One especially. He’s land hungry. Got all he wants now ‘cept this farm and Willmarth’s. Esther thinks Ruth’ll sell, being Pete’s gone and that boy, you know—God, that gives me the willies! So that leaves you.”

He managed to get up now, all the way. He’d forgot about the feed, the blend of it. Willy wouldn’t know, Tim would give too much. Ruth spoiled her cows, gave ‘em names. Lucien didn’t hold with that, he didn’t give names. He knew ‘em by their looks, their quirks. They were all Bossy.
Vaches.

“Dad, they’re saying milk’s bad for you now, it’s on the TV. Bunch of doctors speaking up. Already people drinking skim, soon it’ll be powdered milk, you watch, or none. Even babies, Dad. Mother’s milk and then—”

“Pepsi Cola,” Michelle said, and giggled. She was sitting on her father’s lap, Harold holding on to her like she’d get contaminated if she moved. His chin down in her hair.

“Pepsi Cola, sure, you silly.” Marie diddled the girl’s chin. “Anyway, you’re alone now, Dad. You’re seventy-one, or is it two? You can’t do like you used to. And without Mom ...”