The Girl from Charnelle (18 page)

She rescued him from his crib, calmed him down, swept up the broken cup, tossed it in the trash, then sat down on the back porch and watched her mother stroke Fay. Greta got up and staggered back to her shed. Blood was matted on her chin. She yelped in pain every few seconds
.

“What should we do?” Laura asked
.

“You go back in, honey. I'll take care of this.”

Mrs. Tate stayed there on the stump for the rest of the afternoon, just staring, not saying a word and not coming in, just opening and closing the wooden pins in her hands
. Something's happening,
Laura sensed,
there's something more to this,
but she didn't know how to say it because it was at once impossible to articulate and yet so obvious, hovering in the air like an unacknowledged ghost
.

 

Later, after the excitement had waned, Laura felt weak and feverish again, but she was afraid to disturb her mother. She put Rich down for his nap and then lay down herself. Drifting in and out of a shivering daytime sleep, she replayed in her mind what had happened and tried to figure out what it meant. It had been the same way, she suddenly thought, a year ago when Gloria eloped with Jerome. Gloria didn't say a word about it to Laura, even though they shared a bed. She knew that her sister was in love with the lieutenant. She'd read some of their letters, hidden in a small brown box at the back of Gloria's bottom drawer, beneath her underwear, and Laura figured they might get married soon enough, after Gloria turned eighteen, but the whole family was shocked to find her gone one morning, leaving only a note, saying she and Jerome had eloped to Mexico and that she would write later
.

Laura's father was in a furious rant for a couple of months—wanting to hunt them down and throttle them both, grounding all the children as if they'd been party to this conspiracy, even threatening to contact the air force and bring charges against Jerome. But then he seemed to resign himself to the fact of her absence. Their mother stayed silent, as if she knew more about what had
happened with Gloria than she was willing to tell. Not until a week after Gloria's eighteenth birthday did they receive a postcard from Switzerland, saying that she and Jerome would be moving to Greece soon. It wasn't clear to any of them if she was ever coming back
.

“There are no secrets,” Laura's mother said mysteriously after the family read the postcard, shaking her head as if indeed there were secrets, and you needed to be clairvoyant to understand them
.

It had amazed Laura that her sister could do such a thing. At the time, it had seemed, like what Greta had done, violent and inexplicable. But the more Laura brooded over it, the more she retraced her conversations in bed at night with Gloria, the more she recalled her sister's behavior leading up to the elopement—the secret letters, Gloria working extra jobs and hoarding her money, the way she seemed distracted and worried but also jovial, manic, even—the more it all made sense, as her mother had said, like a clear and obvious path leading backward from this one moment. It made her a believer, though she wouldn't have known how to say it at the time, that there were always seeds of the future in the present, growing, preparing for the blossom
.

 

In mid-May, Mr. Tate went to Amarillo for four days to work on a construction job for the new downtown bank. They didn't expect Greta's puppies for a couple of weeks, but Mr. Tate had already built the whelping pen, an open-topped plywood box, with one side partially cut away and a pull-out chicken-wire gate over the opening. He nailed down old scraps of carpet he'd salvaged. Greta had been relatively docile since falling from the fence. She paced less, didn't growl as much. But she still favored Mr. Tate. He made a small door in the fence so that Manny could feed her without having to go into the pen, and the hose could be draped, as usual, through the chain link into her water bowl. He told the family not to worry about her. She still had plenty of time
.

The third day he was gone, however, Greta started her labor. By dusk she'd begun turning in circles, clawing at the old scraps of carpet in her shed. Fay lay in her own shed with her chin on her paws and watched quietly
.

“We've got to get her into the whelping pen,” Mrs. Tate said. “If she stays in the shed, we won't be able to help her.”

When they opened the gate, Greta barked wildly. The hair on the back of her neck bristled. Then she hunkered into her shed and growled, her teeth glowing in the evening light. Mrs. Tate sent Manny to the back of the shed and had him bang
on it to get Greta out, but she just barked until he slipped his stick between two boards and prodded her. She snapped at it, then skittered out. Mrs. Tate stood by the door, and after Greta ran through the opening, she guided the dog with the rake into the whelping pen and dropped the gate. Manny then boarded up the opening of her shed with a piece of plywood
.

“Should we muzzle her?” Manny asked
.

“I don't know if we could if we wanted to. Besides, we got to let her pant. We'll just wait here and see what happens. Gene, go get the newspapers.”

Gene brought the stack of old newspapers they'd been saving. Mrs. Tate and Manny dumped the paper in the pen and moved back. Greta clawed at the paper, bunched it together in a pile, sat on it, rose, turned several more circles, and clawed again. She sat back down and began breathing in short, shallow breaths, her belly rising and falling quickly. Mrs. Tate slipped the garden hose through the links and filled the water bowl. Greta lapped at it, but she still eyed them all as if they were to blame for her misery
.

“It's okay now, girl,” Mrs. Tate said. “Don't you worry.”

Laura turned on the porch light, and Manny clamped a floodlight to the pen. It had been very hot, even for this time of year, though when nightfall came, it cooled off, so everyone put on old sweaters. Greta's eyes were bloodshot and runny from labor, with black droplets, like candle wax, in the corners near her nose
.

Around eight, after Rich was in bed, the dogs down the alley started barking and howling, aggravating Fay, then Greta, who both barked back. Greta paced the pen rapidly, panting, then turned in tighter and tighter circles. Suddenly she let out a whimpering growl, squatted, and out slithered a watery black sac, the size of Laura's cupped palms. When Fay had litters, she'd always torn the dark-veined sac immediately, bit at the cord, and licked at the puppy's face until the nose and mouth were clear. Greta sniffed at the twisting sac, pushed it over with her paw, sniffed again, but didn't break the thin membrane. Then she walked to the other side of the pen, indifferent
.

“Laura, quick, bring me the sewing kit and washcloths!” Mrs. Tate shouted. Laura ran inside and got the kit from the counter and warmed the cloths that her mother had set out
.

When she returned, the puppy still lay in the corner in its sac. Manny and Mrs. Tate had entered the whelping pen and were blocking the dog with the stick and rake. Mrs. Tate reached down and grabbed the puppy, backed out of the pen with Manny following. She sat down on the ground and broke the membrane with
her finger. Mucusy fluid dribbled down her arm and onto her sweater. She laid the slick pup on her lap. It didn't seem to be breathing
.

“Manny, get me some thread from the kit. Laura, take one of those cloths and wipe its nose and mouth. Hurry now. But be gentle.”

As Laura wiped, her mother knotted the small end of the cord and then took the cloth and finished cleaning the pup's face
.

“It's not breathing,” Laura said
.

Her mother turned it over and patted it firmly on the back, then reached into its mouth with her finger and pulled out a thimbleful of blackish green gum. The pup whimpered. Fay barked, followed by Greta. Mrs. Tate leaned over the fence and set the pup down on the papers in front of Greta. The dog eyed her warily, then sniffed at the wet bundle. Greta reached out and pawed the pup, knocking it on its back. It rolled over and shook its tiny head quickly, rooting. With her hind leg, Greta kicked it across the carpet until it lay against the wall with shreds of newspaper stuck to its wet fur. Fay barked sharply three times. Greta seemed spooked. She turned and growled
.

“It's okay, Greta,” Mrs. Tate soothed
.

But Greta growled again, and then, in a rapid dart, she lunged toward the pup, snapped viciously twice, then raised it over her head and shook it. Blood spewed over Greta's face
.

Gene and Laura screamed
.

“Oh, my God!” yelled Manny. “She's killing it, she's killing it!”

“Stop her, Momma!” Gene hollered
.

Mrs. Tate, who had fallen back stunned, clutched at the rake, knocked it over, then grabbed it again in the shadows and whacked Greta three times on the head until the dog dropped the puppy. Greta bit at the iron brace. They all heard the click of teeth on metal, and then she leapt back in the far corner and crouched into a snarling coil. Mrs. Tate kept her in the corner with the rake's splayed end. Wet, black-red spots darkened the dog's white-and-tan coat
.

“Manny, get in there and get the puppy.”

“I can't go in there.”

“Yes, you can. I'll hold her here. Take your stick.”

“But—”

“Do it!” her mother shouted, her voice so deep and ferocious that it stunned them all, even Greta. They turned to her, their eyes wide. They'd never seen her like this before, the lamplight shining electrically over her hair, her face caught in a shadowed scowl
.

Manny crawled in. Greta barked savagely, growling, throwing herself against the rake, letting herself be stabbed by the tines, but Mrs. Tate held her in the corner while Manny grabbed the puppy and jumped back out of the pen. Greta snapped at the rake again as Mrs. Tate dropped the gate over the opening
.

In the floodlight, they inspected the puppy. The back of its neck had been severed almost clean through. The head was barely connected to the body. Gene staggered backward and vomited on the stump. Laura took one of the warm, wet cloths and wiped her brother's face. Manny went inside and brought back a small paper lunch sack. Mrs. Tate placed the pup in it, twisted the top, and sent Manny to the other end of the yard to bury it. Then she went inside and washed her hands, held Gene until he stopped shaking, and put him to bed. She finally came back outside
.

“Why'd she do that?” Laura asked
.

“Because I touched it, I think,” her mother said quietly. Her anger from before had disappeared. “She smelled me on the pup.”

“Is she gonna have more?” Gene asked
.

“Yes. I think so.”

“What are we gonna do?” Laura asked
.

Her mother shook her head and stared at Greta, who lay panting in her whelping pen with her eyes half shut
.

“Manny, let's put Fay in the pen with her. Fay will show her what to do.”

“She'll attack her,” Manny said
.

“No, I don't think so. It's me she objects to.”

They let Fay into the pen. Greta barked and growled at her at first, but Fay paced the pen away from Greta, then sat and watched the younger dog until Greta calmed down. Then Fay went to Greta and began licking her face and the still-torn ear. Greta snapped at her, but not with the viciousness from before. Finally she let Fay stay beside her
.

Within the half hour, Greta began whimpering again. She turned tighter and tighter circles, and then she squatted. Out came another sac. Greta sniffed it, pawed at it, and then, as before, ignored it. Fay nosed her way to the sac, broke it open with her teeth, and began licking the mucus from its face until the pup squealed. Then Fay ate the sac. The pup was lighter-colored than the last one, tan with white-and-black marks, and bigger. Fay nosed the pup toward Greta, who lay in the far corner, recovering. Greta immediately stood up and walked away. Fay lay down next to the pup to keep it warm
.

 

By midnight Greta had delivered five more puppies and lay in the corner of the pen, exhausted and alone. From what the family could tell, at least four of the puppies were alive. One puppy never moved or made a sound. Although Fay kept them warm, they were squealing from hunger, but Greta wouldn't do anything. Manny brought a saucer of warm milk. They let Greta out of the whelping pen, and then Mrs. Tate pulled each pup from the pen and finger-fed it. They waited another hour, but Greta seemed to be through with the births. She licked herself, eyeing Fay every once in a while, growling at Mrs. Tate and the kids whenever they spoke
.

By two in the morning, Mrs. Tate told Manny and Laura to go on to bed
.

“What's going to happen?” Laura asked
.

“It'll be all right. Dogs have been having puppies for years without our help. They don't need us.”

“But she's ignoring them,” Laura said
.

“It just may take her longer to figure out what to do. Besides, whatever happens will happen. I'll stay here awhile. Fay will help her. Laura, check on Rich and Gene, and then you and Manny go on to bed yourselves. You got school tomorrow.”

“Let me stay and help, Momma,” Manny said
.

“There ain't nothing else to do.”

“What if she goes crazy again?”

“I said I'd take care of it. Go on to bed.”