Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (3 page)

Sarah did her best to fix up the inside of Unit #17. We had this tiny bedroom with a double bed that touched three walls. Sarah always slept by the window so she could see out. One night I came home, and there she was—barefooted, jeans, India blouse that never looked ironed, all wrapped up in a rainbow. She'd gotten this huge rainbow poster from the Dixie store—she was still working there at the time—some fruit punch advertisement, no, 7UP ad, I think. She cut out the rainbow and was about to glue it to the wall, the one at the foot of the bed. I helped her and it really looked nice, but I asked her why she didn't put it on the opposite wall, above the bedstead. That seemed the logical place to me.

“I thought about that, it hanging over our heads,” she said, “but I'd rather see it when I wake up.” She back-flopped onto the bed and rested her feet against the wall. “Now, I can touch it with my toes!” I jumped on top of her and we dedicated the new rainbow then and there.

We stayed at Mimosa two years. Guess the rainbow is still in Unit #17 if the trailer's standing. Sarah wanted to take it with us but she couldn't get it off the wall without ripping it. She did tear one end a little, but glued it back. “I'll have to leave it for the next couple,” she said, “so they can touch the rainbow when they make love.”

I learned a lot those first two years at Whittaker's. I read every bit of literature that came out—motors, wheelbase, structural advantages on each model. I'd always thumbed through
Consumer Report
and
Consumer Guide
, but I started studying them until I could out quote customers who came in with the latest issue. I could even tell them which loafbread they ought to be eating. It paid off. I got return customers. They'd be back to trade before their twenty-four months finance was up. These days, return customers tend to wait longer, three or four years. But back then, I had buyers like Dr. Sams. He'd trade in his Cadillac as soon as the new-car smell wore off.

I earned enough to get us out of the trailer and into an apartment complex, a town house. The guy who owned the place was a friend of Kate's, probably more than a friend. He offered us half rent if Sarah would collect the other tenants' rent and field their complaints, call the plumber, stuff like that. Sarah jumped at the chance. She got to meet all the tenants and she was really good at handling complaints. Except for one, I remember. Pairs of apartments were like mirrors so the bedrooms butted up against each other and the dividing wall was cracker thin. The bedrooms were practically touching. The couple in #21 enjoyed romping around and shouting obscenities at each other while they made love. The couple in #22, however, didn't quite see it as a turn-on and beat on the wall the whole time. They both called Sarah and complained about each other. Sarah mentioned it to Donna. Donna told Andrew. At the very next Sunday dinner he spoke up.

“Sarah,” he said, “Donna tells me you're having trouble with two couples at your apartments,” he touched his collar, “over sexual expression.”

Donna looked down fast and started rounding up her English peas. Sarah turned her head toward Andrew and kind of shook it. But Andrew didn't seem to notice.

“Everyone has a right,” he said, reaching across Donna Jean for the rolls, “to sexual arousal by preference.”

All the women turned beet red, except for Kate. Finally, Joe spoke up, “Lonita and Thomas just got back from Disney World.”

“Had a wonderful time,” Mrs. Crawford chimed in, “Lonita said the ride with dolls and boats was her favorite. She said ‘It's a Little World.'”

“It's a Small World,” Andrew said.

“Ain't it though,” Mr. Crawford said, “but Thomas said Sea World was better.”

Andrew rolled his eyes and went on, “My point is, it's harmful to restrict one's method of coupling, whether it's shouting obscenities or banging on the wall. It kills creativity.”

Mrs. Crawford jumped up, mumbled something about dessert, and shot toward the kitchen.

“Vivienne, we don't need no pie yet,” Mr. Crawford said, not looking up.

Mrs. Crawford slammed it on the table. “It's here in case anybody gets finished fast,” she called over her shoulder and headed back into the kitchen.

“For God's sake!” Kate said, reaching for the pie, “just buy them some earplugs! Vivienne, got any ice cream to go on this pie?”

Times at the apartment and even at Mimosa were mostly good. Until the babies. But that was after we moved into a house over on Oak Street. Sarah was working for Dr. Sams by then. Front office stuff—keeping the books, making appointments, telling people they'd have to wait. It didn't pay that well but we got our medical care free. Which was good considering the problems Sarah had with the babies.

I know it was worse for her, at least the miscarrying part, but they were my babies too, and I cried after each one, not where she could see me but she knew. The first one about scared us both to death. Sarah didn't just come right out and tell me she was pregnant that first time. What she did was put this little blue rattler in my lunch. When I opened up the bag, there it was, no note or anything, just that little rattler. At first I thought I had the wrong lunch but everything else looked like the usual, a ham and mustard sandwich, a little bag of chips, a cookie, a paper napkin with XXX inked in one corner.

I was still holding the rattler when the phone rang. “How's your lunch, Jack?” she said and burst into giggles. It hit me like a new Mercedes. “You're pregnant!” I shouted. I dropped the receiver, ran through the showroom yelling, “She's pregnant!” and drove straight home to hold her. That was Sarah. She could never come right out and tell you something. She had to make it dramatic or mysterious.

She wasn't much over three months when she lost the first one. We'd already told all the Crawfords and my father, Tommy, too. Sarah had asked Dr. Sams if sex was okay and he said I probably couldn't shake the baby loose with a stick of dynamite. I remember that's what he said because I liked the comparison. Sarah said being pregnant made her feel sexy so we kept making love like always. But the night she miscarried, she said it didn't feel right. I quit right then. But it was too late. She rolled away from me, pulled her knees up tight against her abdomen, and started crying, “It hurts, Jack! It hurts so bad!” I slipped up close behind her and put my arms around her. That's when I felt the blood, cold and wet, covering my thighs. I threw back the sheet and saw a red pool, growing each time she cried out. I wrapped her in the bed spread and took her straight to the hospital. But they couldn't do anything.

Dr. Sams came by the next day. He said it was nature's way of getting rid of defects—those were his words—and we were probably lucky. I'm no psychology expert like Andrew, but even I know that's not the thing to tell a grieving woman. Whether it's true or not. I told Sarah I was going for some coffee. Then I went out in the hall, put my face against the concrete wall, and cried like I was six years old again. When I came back, she looked like her mind was somewhere else but I could tell she'd been crying too. We never cried together.

That was the first one and probably the hardest I guess. After that we knew what to expect. Sarah would put old sheets on the bed as soon as she found out she was pregnant. I never looked for a rattler in my lunch again, just old sheets. That and no sex. One time she went six months. Now that I think about it, I guess that one was the hardest to take. After that, I didn't want to try again. But Sarah would beg. “I'll make it to seven months next time,” she'd say. I can't remember how many she lost after that. I'm good with numbers, but I kind of lost track.

I finally went under the knife and put a stop to it. Lovemaking wasn't much for a while. Sarah was willing enough, just not eager. Any man knows the difference, but I got by. That was years ago, five to be exact. If that was why she left, she'd have taken off five years ago, wouldn't she?

Maybe a regular doctor wouldn't be so hard to take or an actor like when the Carradine brothers were filming a movie over in Clayton. Or a good-looking jeweler, if there is such a thing. He could have lured her away with rings and bracelets. Sarah loved opals and gold loops and etched-out pins. But a horse doctor! I can't make sense of it.

What really gets me is the way she was in bed with me those last weeks. Every night if I wanted. She acted like she did twenty years ago when we couldn't get enough of each other. Just the same. That's why I still think that horse doctor may have doped her. That's the only way she'd have left me. You hear about horse tranquilizers all the time. Hell, he may still be drugging her and that's why she hasn't come home. Or maybe he's got her addicted and she's physically dependent on the bastard. I know that's only a slim chance, about a two-to-four percent chance, but I can't blame her completely. At least not hate her. I mean, how would you feel if you hated someone for a whole year and then found out they'd been drugged?

Another thing. Sarah loved to write letters. Cousins, friends, people from the Mimosa days, she'd send them these long letters telling them I'd earned us a trip to Hawaii at the car lot or that I'd made a big sale like the July 4th Sell-a-thon. Sometimes she'd have me sign the letters. And she'd write me notes and put them in my lunch bag, back when I was still taking my lunch. One time she put a note in my sandwich, right between the ham and cheese, and I ate it. It was little, I guess, and I never saw it, or tasted it either. Don't know what it said. Maybe she was kidding when she told me I ate it. She'd say things like that sometimes. I never knew for sure. But the point is, if she was leaving she would have written me a letter telling me where she was going and why. Then she would have signed it XXX. Other people just don't know her like I do. That's why I still think she may have been drugged and kidnapped or wifenapped, if there is such a word.

I hired a detective. The Crawfords don't know that. They just gave up right away, but not me. Took him a week to find her, $100 a day plus travel expenses. Then he watched her another three days, his meter still running. And you know what he told me? Said Sarah looked “quite comfortable” and “there of her own volition.” Fuck volition! I started not to pay him. I know her better than some stranger who watches her three days. I know her better than her own sister for that matter. Donna Jean showed me some letters Sarah might have written but that doesn't mean he didn't make her say things. If she'd had her “own volition” she'd have left me a letter. I know.

Of course, there's a chance that the letter got lost. I've torn up the house looking for it. The kitchen, anyway. She always left stuff like that on the refrigerator under one of those little fruit magnets. We have six. I even moved the refrigerator out from the wall—a Whirlpool, fourteen years old and still running—took off the front vent and vacuumed the coils and all under it. It was a mess, too. Looked like a couple of furry animals had gotten under there and died. A bunch of dust, I tell you. Guess Sarah hadn't cleaned it out in a while. That's not like her. She's so neat she even washes out the dog's bowl before she feeds him. Says he's our only child.

Bilo, that's our dog, came riding up with Sarah about three years ago. Four years now that she's been gone. She went out for groceries at Bi-Lo and came back with a dog. She said he was running around the parking lot about to get run over. She had the bag boy load him with the rest of the stuff. And that's the way I first saw him, wedged between a bag of charcoal and a jug of Clorox. This little two-toned dog, yellow and brown, not much to look at. But Sarah wanted to keep him so I gave in.

Bilo was already grown. The veterinarian, a small-animal vet not a wife-stealing horse jerk, said Bilo was about four years old and had probably roamed most of his life. Sarah used to say she wished he could talk so he could tell her where he'd been. The funny thing is, the last few weeks I'd hear her saying things like, “Do you miss roaming, Puppy?” or “Bilo, what's out there?” Or sometimes she'd whisper stuff to him that I couldn't hear. I can't see Sarah leaving Bilo. She was crazy about the dog. I guess that vet didn't mess with small animals, just horses and other men's wives.

Maybe I should have noticed about her talking to Bilo, but everybody talks to their dog, don't they? I even talk to Bilo now. Who else do I have? At first Donna Jean kept asking me did I notice Sarah doing anything strange before she disappeared. I told her not anything stranger than usual. I mean the whole Crawford clan is wired a little loosely, some more than a little.

I haven't seen any of them except Donna Jean since this thing with Sarah happened. Last time I was over there was for Sunday dinner. Joe was talking about special powers people who were close to nature had, like himself.

“What's your sixth sense?” Andrew asked, opening his napkin.

“It's not a sixth sense,” Joe said, “it's one of my five.” He reached for the corn. “Grew it myself.”

“So what is it?” Andrew asked.

“Corn, Silver Queen variety,” Joe said, reaching for the butter.

“I mean the extra power,” Andrew said. He was starting to fidget like he always does when he talks to Joe over two minutes.

“Snakes,” Joe said. He cut a pat of butter and rubbed it against the corn.

“What about snakes?”

“I already buttered the corn,” Vivienne said, frowning at Joe. She looked at Andrew. “Joe can smell snakes.”

“Smell snakes?” Andrew's brows shot up and his napkin slipped off his lap.

Joe nodded.

“Where do you go to smell snakes?” Andrew reached for his napkin, not taking his eyes off Joe.

“The garden.”

“How do they smell?”

“Musty, damp. Kind of like old bread,” Joe said, rolling his corn against shrinking butter. “That's how black snakes smell. Rat snakes smell dryer.”