Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (14 page)

“A rank stallion?” Michael asked.

“Na,” Norris said, rubbing Dijon between the eyes, “a little filly, just as sweet as sugar—but she didn't like the saddle. Course she didn't buck till I was on her back. Had a fenceful of spectators too. That's a female for you. Takes you for a ride, then leaves your ego rolling in the dust!”

They both laughed. Pete laughed too. I didn't.

It was almost noon so I went in and fixed sandwiches and a jug of tea. I brought lunch out to the men. I wasn't hungry.

Soon, Norris and Dijon were back at work. In another hour, he had her saddled and bridled. He spent another half hour getting in and out of the saddle. Finally, he rode her. Around the ring at first, then outside the pen to where we stood. Michael stroked her head. “She's ready for a trail ride,” Norris said. “We'll see y'all later.” They rode off into the afternoon sun.

“That horse is as calm as an old brood mare,” Michael said. “Sigmund Freud couldn't have done better.” Andrew flashed through my mind.

“But Michael,” I said, “don't you think she just got tired?”

“Pete says she'll be that calm tomorrow and the day after and the day after. She's learned to control her fears.”

I thought about that, learning to control emotions, through sheer exhaustion. Running in circles until your lungs are aching and your mind is spinning, and nothing seems as important as rest. Maybe choices are the paths of least resistance, not really choices at all. Then just routines. That's the thing about routines that scares me so much. They're easier to live in but they numb you to the rest of life. I wondered if Dijon was better off. Easier to handle I'm sure, but better off. After that, something was missing in Dijon, spark or spirit, an aura she had the first time I saw her. Michael said whatever it was, she was better off without it.

Thinking about Michael, now, makes my throat lump up. Haven't talked to him since before Mama's funeral. I don't even know if he's still at the ranch. I could feel his restlessness coming on before I left. He kept talking about Colorado and mountains and trees. Some days I miss him so much I hurt, other days it's as though he never existed. As though last year was something I read in a book and I've never really been away from home, from Jack, from this bedroom.

I've decided to stay here until I lose the baby or until Jack wants me out, whichever comes first. Either way it's temporary. Jack thinks I'm weak because of Mama. When he realizes I'm pregnant again, he won't be so sympathetic.

To keep busy I made a list of fix-ups for the house, kind of an “inventory.” God, I sound like Jack. He's kept the house decent but you can tell it hasn't been really cleaned in a year. The refrigerator's enough to give you morning sickness even if you're not pregnant. And other little things, like in the bathroom where the shower curtain came loose, Jack hung it back up with wire bread ties. Things I need to take care of before I have to go. Mama would be proud.

Mama didn't leave much of a will, just a note saying Daddy and Aunt Kate would take care of things. I've never even thought about a will. Nothing much to leave except Athene. Jack has one, of course. Wonder if he's changed it.

Donna has done most of the work, sifting through Mama's clothes, writing thank-you notes, taking care of Daddy. She amazes me. How she's changed this year. Or maybe I just don't have to help her with everything like I thought I did. Especially with Daddy. He seems to get a lot more comfort from her. Guess he blames me some for Mama. Donna says no, but I can feel it. Sometimes I see him looking at me like I'm foreign or an intrusion. God, it hurts when I see it in his eyes.

Aunt Kate hasn't been around either. Of course, she and Jack never have liked each other that much. Donna says Kate didn't have a new boyfriend all last year. It's kind of sad at the farm with no men at the house or horses in the barn. Today as I was leaving Donna's, Aunt Kate said she needs to talk with me. “Make it soon, Sarah,” she said. Something in her voice set me on edge. Just my nerves, I guess. I told her I'd come tonight. Haven't been out there since the night before Mama's funeral. Don't think I can see the barn, though, without thinking of Michael. I should try to get in touch with Michael. Write a letter at least telling him about Mama.

Can't sleep. Might as well get up and do that now. Footsteps. Jack.

“Have a good nap?” he asks.

“Off and on,” I say. “Is the game over?”

“No,” he says, stretching out beside me. He slides his arm underneath my neck and rolls me toward him. He kisses me. Thoughts of Michael blend into Jack. Dear God, how do I keep them apart? I'll have to ask Aunt Kate. She's had enough practice.

AUNT KATE

God Almighty, I wish Vivienne had taught Donna how to cook! Don't think I can take many more of these Sunday dinners. Last week it was chicken still red at the bone. And today, roast you could patch a tire with. Bless her heart, she's trying. I shouldn't complain. I'm not doing the cooking. Of course I never claimed to be a cook. I gave up on being domestic after James said my corn-bread, hurled just right, could drop a buck at forty yards. Or was it John? I always get those two confused.

Vivienne left other things undone too. Like with Sarah. She should have told her. There are secrets you take to your grave and secrets you don't. Joe knows but won't admit it. Now it falls on me.

Maybe she'll come after dark. It'll be easier. Some poet called the moon and candles “liars.” But to me they just soften the truth a little, give it a glow, make even tragedy somehow beautiful. Besides, the moon means different things to different people. If it were a really bright moon, Sarah would be talking about the colors and the clouds around it and how she wished she could catch it and pull it to her heart. Donna, on the other hand, would be looking for the face of Elvis.

God, those girls are different, yet so close. I guess Vivienne and I were as close as Donna and Sarah, maybe closer. And we told each other everything. That is, she told me everything and I told her most everything. Some things even a sister couldn't forgive. Now I have to deal with Sarah. I owe it to Vivienne. I'll settle up tonight.

I feel so alone in this old house. Vivienne always said it held me longer than any man could. She was right in a way. But I'm all that's left. Me and the farm. I haven't felt this alone since Papa died. Of course, Vivienne used to say he died the same day Mama did, not on the outside but inside for sure. She was right again. Dear Jesus, I miss her.

Guess I lost her the day she married Joe. But they lived here a while and it was like we were still growing up together, taking care of each other. When Joe got them a house, Vivienne didn't want to go. I tried to convince him they'd need help with the baby coming and all, that they could save money and I could baby-sit. But Joe was too proud, damn him. Said, “Us Crawfords take care of our own.”

I begged Papa to stop them. “She's only seventeen!” I cried. I was sixteen at the time and felt a lot older, but I thought age might appeal to Papa. “Only seventeen!” I cried, “Don't let Joe take her!”

Papa opened his eyes wide, wider than he had in years. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Katie,” he said, “that's how old your mother was when I married her and brought her here to live with me.” Then he broke down and cried. We sobbed in each other's arms, for the living and the dead.

Papa died himself in less than a year, this time on the outside too. I never felt so lonely, so deserted, like everyone I ever loved had left me. I can still see Papa laid out in the front room. I had his casket set in the corner away from the sunlight. People said things like “He looks so peaceful” and “He's with God now.” He didn't look peaceful to me, just paler. As for being with God, I knew he'd rather be with Mama. I got drunk. First time in my life. Papa kept a bottle at the store. Kept it behind the counter in the center of a big ball of twine. He never drank at home but Viv and I knew about it. The night after the funeral, I went straight to the store, stuck my hand in that twine ball and pulled out a flat bottle of Jack Daniel's. It was half full and twice as much as I needed. I took it to the barn, crawled up in the hay loft, and proceeded to swallow, gag, swallow, gag, and then just swallow until I couldn't feel anything. It helped.

But the next day I felt everything—the hair follicles in my scalp, that little thing that hangs down from the back of my mouth and grates against my tongue, the space between my eyeballs. And it all hurt, one big throbbing pain. That's when I met Pat. Patrick Martin Shields. Don't know why I remember his middle name. Maybe because he was my first, actually my second. I was at the drugstore with my head down on the counter. Doc Evatt, the druggist, was scooping ice cream. I was waiting for him to finish so I could ask him for something for my head. Pat took the stool beside me. Doc Evatt was slow, real slow, and Pat started twisting back and forth on his stool, back and forth, back and forth, driving me crazy.

“Could you stop that?” I said, not lifting my head.

“What's your problem?” he said, somewhere between defensive and sympathetic.

“My head!”

He quit twisting. “Too much Jack Daniel's?” he said.

He was kidding, but at the time I thought he was psychic.

“How can you tell?” I asked, lifting my head a little to get a look. I forgot my headache, at least temporarily, and stared into the bluest eyes I'd ever seen. His hair was reddish, more copper than red. Both hands rested on the counter. His hands looked rough but he had long, slender fingers. My mouth must have fallen open because he reached over and lifted my chin.

“I can tell by the eyes,” he said, looking straight into mine. “The eyes never lie.”

He swiveled back on his stool and sat there until Doc Evatt came over. He said something to Doc, then left.

“What you need, Katie?” Doc asked.

“Something for a headache,” I said, staring at the door, “who was that?”

“Patrick Shields,” Doc said, putting his hand to my forehead, “one heck of a carpenter. Don't think you've got a fever. Probably just one of those female headaches.”

“How do you know?” I asked, still thinking about those blue eyes.

“Just guessing,” Doc said taking his hand away. “Most women, you know, once a month.”

I looked at Doc. “Not that!” I said, “How do you know he's a carpenter?”

“Just moved into town,” Doc said, “a month or so ago. Came in here looking for work. Put a sign up by the door.” Doc handed me a soda. “He's making some cabinets for the wife.”

I stuck in a straw. “Whose wife?” I asked.

“My wife,” Doc said, “cabinets for us.”

I took a long pull on the straw. “Does he have a wife?” I tried to sound casual.

“Katie McMahan!” Doc shouted, looking over the edge of his glasses, “you're not thinking … He's got you by twenty years, at least.”

“Oh, no,” I lied. “I just have some things around the house that need fixing. You know Papa never was good with tools.” I slipped off the stool. “My head's better,” I said, “thanks for the soda.” I headed for the door. On the way out I pulled the tack out of Patrick Shield's “Carpenter for Hire” sign, rolled the stiff paper as tight as I could, and slipped it under my shirt. It felt good.

I made contact with Pat Shields all right. After the first week, he quit charging. Just moved in and made the prettiest oak cabinets you ever saw. They're still hanging in the kitchen. So rich that when the sun hits them, they turn the whole room gold. Like right now, at sunset. I've refinished them a few times and every time I do, I get to missing Patrick Martin Shields all over again.

But it wasn't love. Just a need in me. That rush you get at first, like your heart's jumping out of your chest, and you get warm all over and dizzy just thinking about him. That's what I wanted. It blocked out everything else. But it always faded. Guess that's when real love should take over. It just didn't for me. After a while, they'd leave. I'd feel let down, so let down I'd get drunk. Then I'd go on a housecleaning binge. Vivienne said the only time I had a clean house was in between boyfriends. Pretty soon I'd discover something that needed fixing or some job I'd want done. And before I could think straight I'd end up with another boyfriend.

James, or maybe John, came after Pat. He was a roofer. Then Richard. A stone mason. I really did like him. He laid out a patio in field rock. We gathered up all these old rocks, a whole truck bed full. He set all the stones out on the grass. I can see him now. “Each one is special,” he said. He'd lift each stone and hold it toward the sun like some savage, worshiping a sun-god. Then he fit them together like a mosaic that only he knew the pattern. I think about him every time I step on the patio, lifting those stones with the sun shooting off in a hundred directions.

“Oh Kate,” I ask myself out loud, “why couldn't you love just one? Let just one stay and have your heart?”

“Who you talking to, Aunt Kate?” Sarah's voice comes from behind me.

“Goddamn! Sarah! You scared the shit out of me!”

“Door was open,” she says, laying a hand on my shoulder. “What's got you so jumpy?”

I pat her hand, half in apology. Her fingers are long and thin. “Just a little on edge,” I say. “May have been the roast beef.” We both laugh. It's good to hear her laugh. It reminds me of Vivienne's laugh, years ago.

“See you haven't fixed the driveway,” Sarah says, tracing bumps in the air with her hand.

“Haven't felt the need,” I say. “Vivienne used to say I didn't get anything repaired unless I was horny.”

“Mama never said ‘horny' in her life. She didn't even know the meaning of the word.”

“What she said was unless I needed a man. But don't be so sure what she knew and didn't know.” I open the refrigerator. “Get you a beer?”