Veda: A Novel (9 page)

We settled into a routine. Raymond went to work early and came home while it was still light. He took Rosalie and Bubby on walks and told em the names of plants and flowers. Took em out to the orchard to visit the trees. Bubby loved to follow his daddy around, wearin his hat and carryin his lunch bucket. It made me happy seein Raymond with the kids that way. Made me think ever’thin was goin to be all right.

I was glad to be close to my folks and my sisters. And, since I didn’t have a washin machine of my own, I was specially glad to be close enough to use Mama’s Maytag. Wash day was my favorite time of the whole week. I packed kids and dirty clothes in the baby buggy and went down the hill to Mama’s. I liked bein there in her kitchen with the steamy smell of Fels Naptha soap and the sleepy chuga-chuga of the washin machine. Rosalie would be on the floor with her color book, her soft curls fallin across her face. Bubby usually found some lids to play with, and baby Ruthie’d be asleep in the buggy. I’d turn the radio on and sing along to “Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy” or “Is You Is Or Is You Ain't My Baby.” I knew the words to all the songs, but I couldn’t sing em at home ’cause it was “worldly” and Raymond didn’t approve.

Then the news would come on and I’d feel awful. Hearin about all those soldiers gittin killed. Boys eighteen, nineteen years old. Married men. Daddies that wouldn’t ever git to see their children. Made me feel guilty for havin a husband safe at home while all those others—Rheba’s and Flossie’s husbands, and most of the young men from our church—were overseas fightin the war. And the other thing I felt guilty about was wishin, sometimes, that Raymond would git drafted.

He had a job. I couldn’t complain about that. And we had a decent place to live now. But he never lifted a finger to help me. On Sabbath I’d git so mad at him I wanted to scream. He’d git himself ready for church. Put on the clothes I laid out for him, the shoes I polished. He’d shave, oil his hair, then set by the door with his Bible and his hat, tappin his foot and tellin me to hurry while I cooked his breakfast, nursed the baby, got Rosalie and Bubby dressed and fed, fixed Rosalie’s hair, and tried to make myself presentable. Then there was the long walk, him struttin on ahead with Rosalie while I struggled with the two babies in a wobblywheeled buggy. Once in a while someone would take pity on us and give us a ride, and grateful as I was to not have to walk, that made me mad too. I hated to be beholden.

.

18

M
Y PAPA DIED THE SPRING
after Ruthie was born. It was a real blow to all of us. He’d been ornery, but he wasn’t sick. Then all of a sudden he took to his bed with a cough that kept gittin worse. The doctor come to the house and give Mama all sorts of potions and whatnot, but it was like Papa just give up. Wasn’t but a few days and he was gone. Mama took it awful hard. They been together forty-five years.

I was the youngest and, I think, Papa’s favorite. When I was little, he took me with him to do chores and check on the sheep. He taught me to ride horses and spit, and I learned my first cuss words from him. Got my mouth washed out with soap more’n once for it. Mama took over once I started school, makin sure I learned manners, but I never forgot how it was with Papa and me when I was little. I missed him somethin terrible.

I thought about the stories Papa used to tell. And how he could always make me laugh. He told me how things were way back before he had a family. About his cowboy days when he was herdin sheep across Montana and Wyomin, only gittin off his horse at night, sleepin on the ground, and eatin nothin but canned beans and hardtack. I liked to imagine him that way. Young and handsome, not all crippled up.

He told me stories about my brothers when they was younger. About George gittin trampled by his horse, and Wilbert bein throwed by a bull. I loved the way he told the stories, usin his whole body, actin ever’thin out. One minute he’d be buckin like the bull and the next pretendin to be Wil hangin on for dearlife. He told stories about my sisters too. One about Bea hidin the dirty dishes in the oven ’cause her fella showed up before she got em washed, and them burnin up when Mama lit the stove. Papa told that one so many times I thought I remembered it myself.

I specially loved it when he talked about the old Indian woman he called Leet-ivy. He’d always chuckle a bit, then lean way back in his chair. “She was a funny old thing,” he’d say. “Bout a hundred years old. Didn’t have a tooth in her head. The only white people words she knew was cuss words and my name.

“That old woman. Git right up in my face and go to spoutin gibberish I couldn’t no more figure out than nothin. Like her name, we never knew for sure. Said it over and over. Somethin that sounded like ‘Leet-ivy, Leet-ivy,’ so that’s what we called her. Couldn’t tell what it was she wanted neither. She’d jabber somethin and then holler, ‘Goddamn ya, Miles,’ and jabber some more. I’d smile and wait for her to wear herself out.”

Mama got after Papa, sayin it was mean to make fun of the poor old thing that way, but I loved the stories and I begged Papa to keep goin.

“She was always wrapped up in one a them Injun blankets. Had so many bones and teeth rattlin round her neck we could hear her comin a mile off. Wore a dirty ole pair a moccasins with rags hangin out the back. Brung us things, dead rabbits, squirrels. Your ma, she give Leet-ivy coins, pretty rocks, old pieces a cloth. Then after she rode off, we buried the varmints. Sure as hell wasn’t goin to cook em. One time me and the boys was in the barn when she come in and started carryin on. I was shoein a horse and I just kept poundin, tryin to drown her out. Wilbert and George snuck up behind her and drove nails into them shoe-rags of hers. I could see what they was up to, but with all the hammerin, Leet-ivy didn’t notice. When she tries to leave and sees she’s nailed down, she goes to cussin a blue streak. The boys near-bout bust a gut laughin.

“She was skinny as a starved jackrabbit,” Papa said. “Couldn’t eat, I ‘magine, havin no teeth an all. One day she shows up and gives me this big ol’ smile. I can see her gums is all red and swoll up and she’s got her jaws clamped down on a set of the awfullest lookin choppers you ever seen. Holy Christ, I says to myself, she’s gone and stuck a bear’s teeth up in her gums. I knew she’d die of blood poisonin if I didn’t get em out a her mouth, so I put her up on old Blacky, the meanest sonofabitch horse I had. He went crazy, buckin and rearin, and ever’time old Leet-ivy opened her mouth to holler, ‘Goddamn ya, Miles,’ some a them teeth fell out.”

.

19

February 23, 1945 (Fri.) [Max 52°, Min 35°.] Chilly, unsettled and changeable here in Portland, with raw wind and light showers intermingled with sunshine. I had my preinduction physical examination this morning which resulted in my rejection from military service at this time.

R
AYMOND GOT A LETTER
from the draft board sayin he had to go to Portland for a physical examination. I held my breath. He wasn’t the soldierin type. He hated guns and war, of course, but he also hated the idea of bein around men that didn’t live the kind of clean and godly life he lived. For him it would of been worse than the WPA. That letter scared him, and before he left for Portland, he took us to have a family picture made. “If I have to go to war,” he said, “I want there to be a photograph of me and my family.”

So we got this picture. There’s Raymond in his dark Sabbath suit and me in a nice dress somebody give me. It’s dark blue and has a pretty lace collar. Rosalie’s wearin a flowered pinafore, her hair in ringlets, Bubby looks like a serious little man with his striped shirt and suspenders, and Ruthie’s a little china doll propped up in front of me. My pregnancy doesn’t show.

Raymond didn’t git drafted after all. They told him he had ulcers. He’d always had stomach trouble but didn’t know what caused it. Now that he knew what it was, he complained even more. He started missin work, comin home midday all doubled over. His paychecks got smaller and smaller. I felt bad for him, but I wasn’t well either. I was six months pregnant, my feet were swole up, and my back hurt. Besides that, the doctor said I had iron poor blood. Told me to eat liver to build myself up. He knew I was a vegetarian, but said I couldn’t afford to take chances with my health and the baby’s.

That didn’t set well with Raymond. My eatin liver was somethin he wouldn’t stand for. To him, it was a matter of conscience. When I said that to Mama, she hit the ceilin.

“Raymond can do what he wants with his conscience,” she said. “But this is about you and that baby.” She started buyin liver and cookin it for me whenever I come to her house. It tasted nasty and had a awful smell, but I gagged it down. When I told her Raymond was goin to be mad, she said, “Raymond doesn’t need to know.”

April 13, 1945 (Fri.) [Max. 52°, Min. 28°.] A record cold morning for Mid-April with a persistent, biting wind. I left work at mid-morning due to my stomach trouble. Veda met with an accident which may necessitate an operation. She was removed to the hospital and I am very much concerned. I shall hope and pray that an operation may not be necessary to save her and the baby.

The wind blew all night and was still whistlin in the mornin when I went out to sweep the leaves and branches off the porch. It was cold. I pulled my sweater tight around me and held it with my forearms while I worked the broom. My feet were swole up like balloons, so I had on a old pair of Raymond’s shoes. A pile of leaves blew up into my face, and when I stopped to rub my eyes I seen Raymond comin up the hill all hunched over. I knew how much he hated workin out in the wind, but the month wasn’t even half over and he’d missed four days already. I could feel the bile raisin up in my throat.

“What happened?” I asked when he reached the porch.

“It’s too cold,” he said. “I can’t work in this.”

“You can’t NOT work! We won’t be able to pay the rent. We can’t afford for you to take time off.”

“Leave me alone,” he said. “My ulcer is acting up. I’m in no condition to work.”

“No condition!” I yelled. “NO CONDITION! What kind of condition do you think I’m in?”

He started to go in the house, and I grabbed at his coat.

“Leave me alone,” he said, givin me a shove.

I felt myself fallin, grabbin at the air. I landed on my stomach at the bottom of the steps and couldn’t git my breath. I tasted copper.

Raymond was beside me then, sayin, “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to…” He carried me in the house and started dabbin at my legs with a washrag. I felt a rush of somethin wet. I sent Rosalie for a towel and shoved it between my legs. It turned red with blood. “Call the doctor!” I screamed. “Call the goddamned doctor!” I was in the hospital for a week and was told that I had to stay off my feet or I could lose the baby. I couldn’t go home because there was no one there to help me, so I went to stay with Mama. We were there for the next six weeks. Mama took care of my kids.

I prayed a lot through that whole time, askin God to tell me what to do. I knew Raymond didn’t mean to hurt me. Like that time at Burris’s place when he hit me and bloodied my nose. I was yellin at him and all he wanted was to be left alone. I never did think he was mean. I just thought he was weak. And I didn’t know how we were ever goin to survive with him bein that way.

.

20

June 3, 1945 (Sun.) [Max. 75°, Min. 42°.] Quite cool in morning; partly cloudy today, but pleasantly warm, A nice sunny day. Our fourth child, a son, was born at the hospital at 3:30 p.m. today, weighing 8 lbs. 2oz.

R
AYMOND BARELY CAME
to see me while I was laid up at Mama’s, but he showed up at the hospital after the baby was born. He acted peevish and didn’t have any suggestions about a name. Said he’d leave it up to me. I thought about the ordeal this baby had went through and decided he needed a strong name. Like Samson in the Bible. Samson, I liked that. I’d call him Sam.

I was the opposite of strong. I had lost a lot of blood and was too weak to do much of anythin, let alone take care of four kids without help. So Mama said I should come back to her house and she would watch the kids. Raymond come by the first couple of Sabbaths and took Rosalie and Bubby to church. But after that he stopped comin around.

It was a month before I felt strong enough to go home, and by then I’d got myself all balled up inside tryin to decide if I wanted to. I couldn’t stop thinkin about how spineless Raymond was. About all his excuses, the things he wouldn’t do ’cause of his conscience, the way we lived, and the way we would keep on livin.

And it really bothered me that he called what happened an accident. He didn’t mean to push me, but at least he could own up to doin it, not go around sayin, “Veda had an accident.” What if somethin like that happened again? What if I got hurt even worse? My kids needed me. And they needed food and clothes and a decent place to live. Needed that ever bit as much as they needed Raymond’s Christlike example.

When we got married, he promised to take care of me, but it seemed like the only one he was takin care of was himself. And he wasn’t even doin a decent job of that. If he wasn’t willin to take responsibility for me and for his children, I would have to. It was a hard decision. One minute I was thinkin of him as a selfservin sonofabitch, and the next I was tellin myself it wasn’t fair to deprive the kids of their father. I was scared to death. But in the long run, stayin with him seemed riskier than leavin.

I might of lost my nerve if Raymond hadn’t helped me make up my mind. It was a Sunday night and I had the kids bedded down on Mama’s davenport. I was readin em a story and nursin Sam, when Raymond showed up.

“Where’ve you been?” I asked. “Were you workin overtime?”

“They gave me a week’s vacation.”

“Oh?”

He lowered his head and reached for Rosalie.

“So why didn’t you come down and see the kids?”

“I went to see Mother.”

“Is she sick?”

“No, I just—”

“And you didn’t tell me you were goin?”

“No, I—”

“How long did you stay?”

He said he spent a couple of days in Salem and then his brother Norman drove em over to the coast for the rest of the week.