Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (7 page)

She got a pack of needles, a tray of ice, and started numbing. Nancy Lou told her the needle had to be boiling hot to react properly with the cold lobe. But by the time Sarah had a pan of water bubbling, the feeling was back in her ears so she started again. Then the needle would cool off and she'd have to reheat the water. She was down to her last ice cube when she got the two together. Nancy Lou put ink dots on Sarah's ears, like tiny blue moles, and Sarah gave the needle a shove. I swear to you, I heard it crunch. They say I didn't because I had my face in a pillow but I did and I gagged.

Sarah didn't cry but she said it hurt bad and she just started holding onto Nancy Lou and shaking, trying to get the pain out of her mind. She shook so hard she knocked Nancy Lou's earrings clean off. I say “off” not “out” because that's when we discovered Nancy Lou had glued a bead to the front of each earlobe. I think if Sarah's ear wasn't hurting so bad she'd have pierced Nancy Lou's for real.

Sarah kept her earlobe hidden except for dousing it in alcohol every night until it grew back. I couldn't believe it but she still wanted pierced ears. She finally asked Mama. And Mama surprised us both by saying “yes,” if Dr. Sams did it. Sarah came home swinging these big loops and saying it hardly hurt at all this time. I didn't want mine pierced though. I was afraid of scar tissue. There was a girl in school whose smallpox shot ate up her arm. The last time I saw her, the scar was moving up her neck. I didn't want an earlobe to do that or come out looking like a squash. No thank you.

So I didn't tell anybody else that Sarah was coming home. I figured that was a lot more painful than sticking a needle through her lobe. And she might change her mind. But I suppose I should have told Jack.

He just walked in. Wouldn't have seen him except for his height. Saw the top half of his head. Hair needs a good cut. It's waved out here and poking out there like he washed it and went to bed with it wet. He worked his way in right smack behind Sarah. I don't think she knows he's there. I'd tell her if she'd look this way. I'd point or cut my eyes or something but she's staring straight off into space.

I haven't seen Jack since I showed him Sarah's first few letters. He said they were forged. They weren't, because Andrew had already checked them out. I ran into Joanne again at the Dixie store and she said Jack was doing better. I didn't ask how she knew. And you can't believe everything she says, anyway. She believes that stuff she reads in her checkout line. Some of it may be true, like flying saucers. I mean, who knows? But she believes freaky stuff like Elvis's face sighted on moon. Still I guess I could have called Jack or invited him back to Sunday dinner. I asked Andrew and he said we should just play it by ear, like I do the piano.

Anyway, I sent Andrew to get Sarah at the airport. That was the day before Mama died. While he was gone I baked a double recipe of fudge-turtle brownies. What you do is make brownie batter and then use a whole bag of vanilla caramels in a middle layer. And when it bakes and you cut it in squares, the warm caramel runs out like tiny legs so that each piece looks like a little brown turtle. Like I tell Andrew, you have to use your imagination. He never can see the turtle. He sees other things like mud puddles and lumps of coal but never a turtle. Even when I point out the head and legs and tiny little tail, he still can't see it. He's alway worrying about cholesterol too and says I shouldn't make desserts. But I had to do something waiting on Sarah and worrying about Mama. It was Mama's recipe. She used to make a pan of fudge-turtle brownies every time we were going on vacation. Sarah and I would sit in the back seat and sneak them out of an old cookie tin that said “Imported for your good taste,” until our fingers were stickier than our mouths.

Andrew said Sarah didn't say much on the trip home from the airport except how was Mama and me and the twins, and she talked about new buildings along the interstate. He brought her here to our house. She wanted to go straight to the hospital but he thought she should see me first. He was right, of course.

I have to tell you I didn't know how I was going to act. I mean since Sarah left and Mama started shrinking, I had to do everything for her and Daddy. Get the groceries, do the laundry, cook Sunday dinner. Like I didn't have a life of my own. And here was Sarah off having the time of her life with some mystery man. I haven't had a soul to talk to except Andrew and he's not the best listener. For the first time in my life I was mad at Sarah, really mad. I planned not to hug her or anything. Just sit her down, offer her some tea, and tell her what I thought. I must have eaten four fudge turtles planning my speech. But when I saw Sarah all I could do was hug her and cry and hug her some more. I missed her so much.

Wish Daddy would be quiet. There's something about a man crying too sad for words. I pressed his suit, but I swear, it looks like he's been rolling around in it. Dear Lord, I'm tired. Too tired to cry. I feel as tired as Mama looked right before. I can't believe she's gone. Wonder if strokes are hereditary. I'd better get some rest. I'm going to get that makeover I've been promising myself, I don't care what it costs. That and about a week of doing as little as possible. Andrew will have to look after the girls. Tenure or no tenure, he'll have to spend some time at home for a change. Look at Sarah. Pale as a ghost. It must run in the family.

ANDREW

A dozen-cake funeral, maybe more. Donna can tell you exactly. And will. That and who brought what dish and what's special about each recipe and where she last tasted it. Food is as important as lineage around here.

Yesterday Donna was running around making sure everybody who came by got a wedge of cake or hot biscuit or cold tea. And last night after the funeral home, she insisted on pulling it all back out “just in case” she said. She was right. Enough people came by to polish off another cake. You can bet, as soon as this is over today the food will come back out for hungry mourners.

Not that I'm making light of the occasion. But I'm not sure food didn't have something to do with Vivienne's condition. All that canning and freezing and cooking and jumping up during meals to bring in more eventually wore her out. Not that Sarah's escapade didn't contribute to it.

Sarah's feeling it too. She's hanging on to the back of that pew like the floor might fall away.

When Donna asked me to meet Sarah at the airport, she made some excuse for not going herself. But I know why she wanted me to go. I'm a good listener. She knew I'd be able to talk with Sarah on a nonthreatening level, without the bonds of kinship to raise the emotional pitch. I was the best choice. Donna's smart that way. She acts a little addled at times but that's a persona, you understand, a role her family has always expected of her and therefore she performs for them. Unconscious, maybe, but a role nevertheless. Hell, all of them have these roles.

Take Sunday dinner. It's a ritual. At least it was before Sarah's departure and Vivienne's stroke. This is the way it went. Joe would start it by asking the blessing—“Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies. Amen.” Sometimes he asked Jack to bless it and Jack said the same thing. I would have varied it a little, made it reflect the weather or the situation of one of the family members or something about world peace, for God's sake! But that would break the ritual. Donna always asked, “Mama, does it matter where we sit?” and Vivienne always answered “no,” and then we all sat where we always sat—Joe at the head, Vivienne at the end closest to the kitchen, Donna and I on one side, Jack and Sarah on the other. When Kate was there she wedged a chair in anywhere she wanted to and nobody complained. She's the only one who could break the ritual but that's her role too. The ritual-breaker.

Joe would start the meat while the rest of us grabbed whatever bowl or platter was in front of us. After everything went around, Joe would storm his food with a layer of salt so thick it left a grainy white halo on the table around his plate. I've tried to warn him about high sodium intake, but he pretends he doesn't hear me. That's part of his persona—he's hard of hearing when he doesn't want to listen.

Then conversations would start, the women usually talking about this aunt or that cousin or when Donna and Sarah were growing up. Joe always dominated the men's conversation with some gardening advice or questions for Jack about the price on something he wanted to buy—like a yard tractor or a lawn mower. All conversations would go on simultaneously. It was maddening. Joe would be saying something and Donna would turn to me with the tail end of some gossip she'd just heard. Then Vivienne would ask me right in the middle of both if I needed more ice. I wanted to jump up, I don't know how many times, and scream, “Hell no! I don't need anything but some sanity around here!”

Of course, I wouldn't do that to Vivienne. She was a nice lady, pretty for her age, but so busy. I never saw her sit through an entire meal.

The idea of her lying still in that casket is mind-boggling. I don't believe I've ever seen her still for more than five seconds at a time.

When we were first married, I told Donna her mother's busyness was an escape mechanism. Donna said, “Escape from what? Mama's always been busy.” I guess it's hard to see personality disorders in your own parents, but I could sure see it in Vivienne. Up and down, pouring tea, getting more hot rolls, bringing in dessert.

Dessert. That's another food fettish. If you don't want dessert, you'd better say you're highly allergic to it and your throat will close up if you eat a single bite. If you say, “No thank you,” they'll say, “Oh, have some.” If you hesitate for a second, they take that as “Yes, I'd love a huge serving.” If you say, “No” another time, they think you mean “Just a medium piece, please.” And if you don't eat all of it, you'll get, “What's wrong? Don't you like it?” After months of this, Joe finally told me, “I know your problem. You're allergic to natural foods like sugar and honey and cream. What'd they feed you up there, anyhow?” I realize by now I have a role too, that bastard of a son-in-law from Massachusetts.

Donna's role at Sunday dinner was to keep some banter going and to say things like “Mama, the rice isn't sticky, it's just fine,” or “Daddy, these tomatoes are so sweet and juicy! Did you grow them?” Sarah's role at first was to laugh occasionally and turn her eyes to Jack. But the last few years that changed. She didn't have much to say, as if she were ill at ease half the time. At one point I almost felt a kinship, but her uneasiness was different. Just before she left, she would sit through the entire dinner without a word. I couldn't believe that no one else noticed it. Too busy in their own roles, maybe.

Then there's Jack. You'd have thought he was blood kin the way Joe used to treat him. He's smart, I'll admit. But it's all in sales. I never could put him and Sarah together. She's better suited to a musician or mime or circus performer or obviously a large-animal veterinarian, than to a rotarian president.

Donna says Jack will be here, but I haven't seen him. She doesn't miss a face. This place is packed, but she'll go through who's here and what they're wearing and where they're sitting. I wonder if Jack will sit with the family, if he comes.

I've not seen him in a year or more. He and Sarah used to come over every week. Jack beat me on “The Price Is Right” a time or two, but I took him on “Jeopardy” every time unless they had a car category like Autos of the '50s. That's what we used to do when Sarah and Jack came over. Donna and Sarah would go to the kitchen and talk or take care of the twins, while Jack and I played gameshows. They quit coming over. Donna said she thought Jack was too busy at the car lot. I thought he might just be tired of my beating him at Jeopardy. But I guess he was busy. And to be honest, he's done well. From salesman to head man. But the thing that gets me is, while he was talking his way up the dealership ladder and getting more money at every rung, I was paying out money and working my ass off to get a Ph.D. Seven years, it took me, mainly because I taught a full load the whole time. Three classes every semester, and one each session of summer school, too.

The whole time Donna was after me to let her have a baby. “Just one,” she'd say, “just one.” Then she'd hang all over me and kiss my neck and rub against me. We couldn't afford a hamster much less a baby. But I promised her the day I got my hands on that sheepskin that said “Andrew Webster, Ph.D.” she could throw her pills out the window. She did. And I had her pumped up within a month. Even I couldn't believe I'd get her pregnant so fast. Joe and Vivienne seemed happy and upset at the same time, maybe because of Sarah's miscarriages. I tried to tell Jack and Sarah to go to a specialist, but Sarah seemed to think if she tried harder she could have one, and Jack, I think, had lost interest by then.

Donna's “just one” came out two. I helped deliver them. I never saw so much blood and mess. Being a doctor of psychology doesn't really prepare you. It was a long time before I wanted to make love again. Of course, Donna was in no condition for a while. But even after she was, I kept dreaming those coiled up umbilical cords were wrapped around my throat. Not exactly an erotic dream. I finally got over it. Now I have that dream only once or twice a year.

I feel it in here though, as if I'm drowning in a sea of females. Kate and Sarah and Donna and the twins all sucking the air right out of my lungs.

I named one of the twins Charlotte after my mother, and Donna named the other one Scarlet because she said “It rhymes.” That's they way they talk and hear around here. Donna can't hear the difference between “pen” and “pin.” None of them can. They're not too particular about getting the right pronunciation of a word as long as they understand each other. But some words they're really picky about, especially if they consider them to be signs of manners.