Adrift in the Sound (6 page)

Lizette turned and put a toe in the water, pulled back from the heat, tried again, put both legs in the tub and settled mantis-like into the bath. Marian soaped her back, outlined the vertebrae with lather, Lizette leaned forward, arched her spine to feel the tracing. Then Marian soaped her neck and chest. Pulling a leg over the side of the tub, she scrubbed Lizette’s toes with a brush, clipped her nails, lifted her leg back over the side and lowered it into the water, signaled for the other foot.

Tugging Lizette to her feet, she soaped her shins and calves, scrubbed around her knees with a loofah. Lizette spread her thighs and Marian slipped a handful of lather between her legs, lightly tickling her clit, small and tight. Lizette let out a soft “um” and opened a little wider for the caress, relaxing her knees, lowering into the comforting touch, languorously extending her arms above her head, sliding her hands down her chest to roll her nipples in her fingertips.

“Good,” Lizette murmured. The kitchen door slammed and startled her.

Marian helped her sit down in the water before going to see who’d come into the house.

“Hey! Marian? Where the hell are you?”

Greg banged the refrigerator door, followed it up with the hissing sound of a beer bottle popping open.

“What’s up?” he said as she entered the kitchen. “You on the can?”

“No,” she whispered, sitting down at the table. Greg joined her. “Lizette’s here. I was helping her get a bath. Getting her to relax, open up. She’s in pretty bad shape. Just got out of Westside. She needs sleep.”

“The loony bin, again?” He belched, took another swig. “Chick’s a tripper, man. Can’t you get rid of her? I hate head cases.”

“Lizette’s my friend, she’s part of me,” Marian said firmly. “She needs soothing.”

“Look, the Dogs already kicked her sorry ass out, at least twice. Sandy, too … Shit.”

He got up and went to the stove. “What’s in the pot? Smells pretty good.”

“How long are you off?” Marian said as she got up, elbowed him away from the pot, filled a bowl and set it on the table. “I thought you were working on the tugs with Rocket.”

“I’m working on the
Sally B
. Rocket’s on the
Sea Wolf
.” He took a swig of beer, rotated the bottle to read the label. “I’m off for a couple of days.”

He took a spoonful of lentils, leaned back, “Rocket’s comin’ up when he gets off. He has some business with Cadillac Carl at the Dog House, but he’ll be up after that, probably tomorrow or the next day. Barge they were towing got wedged in the Ballard Locks this morning. Slowed ’em down. He’ll be awhile. But, I doubt he’s gonna be glad to see the Lizard when he gets here.”

“Did he have a thing with Lizette?” she said, alarmed, thinking about the scruffy Dogs.

“Naw. They just fooled around once in a while. You know how Rocket is, always taking care of everybody, bringing in stray cats. I heard the Dogs are the ones who threw her out.”

He reached across the table and grabbed Marian’s forearm as it rested on the table, grinned at her, lavished his ice blue eyes on her. “But, you’re not too weird for me. Kinda kinky, which is cool, know what I mean, mamma?” They brushed lips over the table.

Scraping his bowl, licking the back of the spoon, he got up and went to the refrigerator, got another beer. Marian leaned back in her chair and looked at his shape,
Thin
, she thought, noticed his black hair curling over the collar of his work shirt.
Needs a haircut
, she thought. He stood in the middle of the room and guzzled. She held herself back from going to him and wrapping him up, warming his bones, feeling him respond.
He just needs to clean up
, she thought.

“Have another bowl,” she said. “You’re getting skinny.” She got up, patted his boney behind on her way to the sink, pulled down a plastic pitcher and filled it with hot water, measuring a half cup of apple cider vinegar, dumping it in. She headed down the narrow hall to the bathroom.

“How ya doing in here?” she said as she set the pitcher on the bathroom floor, shut the door. Lizette was on her belly, long legs bent, ankles dangling in air, water barely covering her backside. “Let’s wash your hair,” she said and Lizette rolled over. “Dunk your head and get your hair wet.”

She reached for the shampoo. “OK, now lean back. Rest on my arm and lay your head back. I’ve got you. Relax.”

She cradled Lizette’s shoulders in her left arm and lathered with her right. “Close your eyes so you don’t get soap in them.”

Marian reached for a towel and wiped around Lizette’s eyes. “OK, hold your breath. Go under. I’ll wash the soap out. Ready? Under you go!”

Lizette sputtered when she came up for air. Water ran off the end of her nose. Marian gently wiped it away. “Lean back some more. I’m going to give you a vinegar rinse. It’ll make your hair shiny.”

She poured the solution from the pitcher, slowly covering Lizette’s head from forehead to the nape of her neck. Sensing a presence, Marian glanced over her shoulder as she held Lizette. Greg was standing in the doorway, big-eyed, leering.

“Get the hell out of here, pervert!” Marian said it with enough force to cause Greg to smartly shut the bathroom door.

She helped Lizette out of the tub and toweled her off, handed her a second towel for her hair. Digging in the canvas bag, Marian found only bits of cloth and paper, some bright colored scarves, a heavy sweater and a picture frame, a stack of sketch books. “Don’t you have anything to sleep in?”

Lizette shrugged and Marian pushed up from the floor and headed to her father’s bedroom, mostly undisturbed since his death more than a year ago. She flipped on the overhead light where she’d nursed him to the end and pulled a soft flannel shirt from a hanger in his closet. She dug some thermal underwear bottoms out of his dresser drawer, held them up to check the size and decided they’d have to do. In the bathroom, she helped Lizette pull the oversized clothes on and bent her at the waist to finish drying her hair. The temperature outside had dropped toward freezing. Marian wanted her bundled up.

“Where are you sleeping tonight?”

“In the cabin,” Lizette said.

“I thought so.” Marian frowned. “There’s no heat down there. No wood. It’s musty, closed up since you left last October. Probably varmints in there now, too. You can sleep here if you want. It’s warm. Greg won’t mind.”

“I just want to be alone,” Lizette said flatly. “I’ve had a lot of people lately.”

“OK. Get some rest.” Marian stroked Lizette’s cheek and she offered her a weak smile. “I’ll check on you, but I’m making rounds in the morning. Looking in on my mothers. Should have some births in a few weeks. Want anything from town? Greg wants beer and smokes. I’ll pick them up while I’m out.”

Lizette shook her head and gathered her bag from the bathroom floor, hugged Marian, smirked at Greg as she passed through the kitchen, grabbed the flashlight from the hook by the back door and headed out.

EIGHT

SETTING HER BAG ON THE CABIN’S NARROW PORCH
, Lizette felt along the top of the window frame, found the padlock key, popped the lock and threw the hasp, pushed the door open, shined the flashlight around. The room was the same as she’d left it last fall. She’d sensed the beast of winter panting hoarfrost in the night and fled to Seattle, sick of her work and the self-imposed confinement.

She saw her large canvases were still tipped against the wall, the way she’d left them, their faces turned modestly from view. Paints and brushes lay scattered on the rickety bookshelf in the corner. She ran her hand across the rough plank table, rubbed the gritty dust between her fingertips, smelled them, breathed the particulates of home, sneezed. She wiped her eyes and arranged candles in rusted jar lids. She lit them with a wooden match, coaxed the seared wicks to catch fire. The dull yellow light cast a circle around the table, but didn’t penetrate into the corners of the room.

Along the opposite wall, a narrow camp cot sagged under the slight weight of a faded mattress. The cabin’s big windows faced a small cove. The wood-burning stove, its door gaping open, stood cold in the corner. She went to the alcove where sheepherders had once stowed gear—boots and jackets, shears and combs for skirting wool—and pulled a big plastic bag from the back. Untying it, she tugged out her sleeping bag, freed a pillow from the bottom, its case delicately edged with Mrs. Cutler’s feather-stitched embroidery. She arranged them on the cot, blew out the candles, and lay down.

In the quarter moon’s dim light, Lizette looked through the window panes set floor to ceiling, to the inlet where the Salish Sea lapped the beach below the cabin. She scanned the meadow that sloped to the sand and, in the faint moonlight, saw woodland star flowers peeking through the salt grass. She turned on the cot, heard the springs creak, and relaxed into the peace and privacy.

When she woke, it was light outside. A water jug and tube of rice cakes were on the floor beside the cot. On the table she saw a jar of peanut butter and a bear-shaped plastic bottle of honey.
Marian
, she thought, and got up to pee in the porcelain chamber pot by the door. She nibbled at a rice cake, got back into bed, stretched the sleeping bag over her cold shoulders. She slept on the razor’s edge of a black pit, unconsciously checking twitches that would send her over the precipice and into convulsive free fall.

She fought it off, but the memory roared in, flattened her on the cot. The Twisted Owl. Men in dark clothes. Smoky haze. She’d looked for Fisher, tried to find him sitting in with the band. In her head, Marvin Gaye blasted “Let’s Get It On” from the juke box. She felt hungry. She fought for unconsciousness, tried to submerge, searched for a blank canvas, sleep, couldn’t find it.

He touched her thigh, gestured for a dance, clutched her to him. Smelled of grease and sweat. She’d gagged and felt his hands slip below her waistband. Peeking over his shoulder, she saw a man watching them. He caught her eye, leered, pushed toward her in the crowd, she pulled away from her chubby partner, looked for the door. Her mind slipped into a blank place.

Then snatches of angry yelling gripped her in her sleep.
Stabbed! Bleeding! Damn! Call an ambulance!”
She felt crushed as the crowd rushed the door. The chubby guy turned her loose and moved away. She slid to the side wall and threaded her way to the window, found a spot that looked onto the street. A man lay on the ground in the rain, his legs twisted, blood from his belly running thin across the wet sidewalk. Another man staggered to the window, leaned against the glass and braced his hand against the surface, blood leaking through his fingers, smearing the window in front of her. She touched the glass, momentarily fascinated with the carnal, translucent hue, then turned and pushed back through the bodies clogging the tavern’s front door.

She went to her table, fished her canvas bag out from under it, and ran for the rear door, paused to listen, catch her breath before turning the knob. The door swung into the alley, in her dream the step down felt like falling from a high ledge. She looked over her shoulder, then up and down the alley to make sure it was clear. She decided to take the long way to the next street, avoid the commotion. Sirens, getting closer, screaming. The buildings looked slimy. Boarded up windows and metal doors stared blindly into the narrow darkness. She floated toward the streetlight at the end, rain sparkling in the glow.

He shoved her from behind, wedged her into a doorway, black overcoat dropping around her, hand clamped over her mouth. He snapped her head back, put his head beside her cheek, breath smelling like rotten fish. He ripped down her loose jeans, spread her legs with his knees. She flashed on his sure moves, knew he’d done this before, screamed “
Help!”
into his thick, calloused fingers. He pulled her sideways, hit her open-handed, full force on the side of her face, stunned her silent, shoved her chest against the metal door. She shook it off, turned, put her arms up to fight. A jab to her side. A bone snap took her breath away. Flattened against the door, hips pulled out, head banging steel, he ripped her. Something, anvil-heavy, swung against her head, in her dream she sank beneath the water.

Cold, greasy moss on cracked pavement against her cheek. A wad of chewing gum by her nose. She puked, tried to get up. Before she blacked out, she watched a dog lapping her vomit, then felt it licking her bare thighs, its tongue warm and comforting.

Her own screaming and crying startled her awake in the dark. Sweating, heart pounding, she got up from the cot and lit a candle with shaky hands, drank some water and went to her large canvases and turned their faces to the flickering light. The sounds in her head slowly quieted and her hands steadied. The hard, greenish fluorescent light of the hospital faded from her mind, the probing questions stopped.

She put her big canvas on a rickety easel, saw the empty places in her painting that cried for color—vermilion, ochre and verdant greens, azure. Tree branches tapped impatient fingers on the cabin’s roof as she cried and rummaged through her bag, she found the pill bottle Dr. Finch gave her at the hospital, poured water into a chipped mug. She fished out a powdery pill, threw it back, took a swig from the mug, swallowed, then blew out the candle and got back in bed, shivering.

In the echoing well of sleep, Lizette heard, “You’ve been out for days.” Marian stood over her. Stretching, Lizette mumbled, opened her eyes and hoisted herself onto an elbow.

“I brought chamomile tea and scrambled duck eggs,” Marian said, motioning to a plate and thermos on the table. “Wake up before they get cold. I want to do Sun Salutations with you. This yoga teacher came to town a few weeks ago and gave some classes at the Grange Hall. I want to show you some of his asanas. They’re really far out.”

Unzipping the sleeping bag, Lizette put her feet on the floor and looked resentfully at the bleary figure moving too quickly around the cabin, plaid shirt, tights and high-top work boots, wild hair.

“Give me a break. I just woke up.”

“Did you take your medication?” Marian said, twirling slowly toward Lizette. “Let me see the bottle.” Lizette stood and yawned.

Marian grabbed her own wrist and arched her arm overhead, stretching to the left, doing the same on the other side, folding forward, pulling her head to her knees. She straightened and took the pill bottle Lizette offered, went to the windows to read the label.

The lithium dosage was mild.
Maybe not too deep into her mania
, Marian thought,
or whatever the hell it is that makes her go crazy. Maybe I can help straighten her out, get her back to work.
She looked around at the canvases and it struck her that she hadn’t heard Lizette laugh in a long time. She flipped through her memory but couldn’t conjure the sound.

“Poland built me a platform on the beach,” Marian said and turned back to Lizette. “It’s a few feet off the sand so it stays dry. Great for yoga. Wind blowing from the water helps with breath.” She pinched her nostrils and exhaled noisily through her open mouth.

Setting a wooden fruit box on end, Lizette scooted it up to the table and, elbows propped, she began to eat, ignoring Marian. The eggs had gone cold, but she shoveled. Marian dropped onto the wobbly wooden stool on the opposite side.

“Where’s Poland?” Lizette asked and watched Marian wrap her short legs around the stool’s nicked and paint-splattered legs.

Still sits up straight
, Lizette thought.
Like a kid reminded at the dinner table. She hasn’t changed, still a goody two shoes, looking down on everyone, thinking she can fix them and tell them what to do
.

“Poland’s up in the east pasture,” Marian said, getting up to look out the window. “The lambs are dropping. He says my father would have wanted us to keep running sheep so we keep a small flock. I told him it’s too much work. Market prices are lousy right now.”

Pulling up onto her toes, stretching and scanning the water’s surface, Marian said, “Looks like an orca’s hunting in the strait. I see a dorsal fin.”

Turning back to Lizette, she babbled on, “One of the ewes pro-lapsed this morning while lambing. Greg went up to the pasture with our new dog Tucker to catch her and put her in the jug for safekeeping. I’ll take a look later. We may have to bottle feed a few of the babies. You up for that?”

Lizette looked at her, head aching, indifferent.

“You used to like that job. And we need to bake bread. We’re completely out, nothing in the freezer.” Marian got up to pace. “It’s cold in here. I’ll have Poland bring down some stove wood.”

“What’s today?” Lizette said, staring into the plate, pushing at the food scraps with a bent fork, and feeling overwhelmed.

“Thursday.”

“When did I get here?”

“Tuesday.” Marian looked perplexed. “You’ve been asleep for two days. It’s the middle of March. You’ve been gone about six months. What did you go through at the hospital this time? You seem totally out of it.”

“Well.” Lizette held her head in her hands and wrapped her fingers around her skull, picked her words before she spoke, skirting what really happened to avoid Marian’s horrified response and inevitable probing. She couldn’t talk about it now, maybe never.

“This skinny old woman, must have been seventy. She was in the room next to mine. She kept yelling in Swedish, said she was having a baby. She took off her hospital gown and got on her bed and pulled up her knees. Like this.”

Lizette went to the cot and lay on her back, pulled her knees to her chest in a tuck, stretched out, stared at the cabin’s soot-covered ceiling.

“The nurses didn’t know what she was saying. I could understand a little because she talked like my grandmother. She rocked back and forth, like this, and pushed. It went on all night. Panting. Grunting. Wailing. When it was finally born she balled up her hospital gown and rocked it as if it was a baby, singing lullabies and stuff.”

Lizette got up and went to the chamber pot, squatted, peed. Marian turned her back, looking out at the water.

“Thank God she didn’t think it was twins.” Lizette said. Marian snorted, shook her head in wonder.

Lizette got back in bed and continued in a flat tone, propping her head in her hand.

“This other woman started screaming she was on fire. It went on all morning. She started right after breakfast. She was in the day room. They were watching cartoons on TV and she just went off. Finally they got some male orderlies and a couple of nurses and carried her to the shower room. She was kicking and screaming. They put her on the tile floor and turned on the cold water. That put the fire out. She stopped yelling, just lay there and slept until after lunch.”

“Were you in a private room?” Marian said, studying Lizette for damage, gathering her hair into a pony tail with both hands and wrapping a rubber band around the bunch. She stepped closer and examined Lizette’s skin and long neck, looking for puffiness, lymph node swellings, trying to assess the physical impact of the hospital stay, making metal notes like she was charting a patient.

“Yes, the whole time … well, not at first,” Lizette paused to collect her memory. “I was by myself, then they brought this young one in, hair all black and curly, standing on end. She lay on the bed on the other side of the room. Put her face to the wall. That was OK with me. I fell asleep reading. When I woke up she was standing over the toilet bowl dangling dental floss with a tiny safety pin tied to the end.”