Consumption (4 page)

“Looks like you folks are stuck here.”

The cop, a rotund man with a balding head and a wrinkled shirt, leaned against his car.
County Sheriff
was written in bold script along the vehicle's side.

“Yes,” said John. “I guess we are.” He was almost able to hold back the snark, was trying to, but Erma heard it just the same. She didn't really blame him. They'd been waiting for hours, and the sheriff looked like some caricature of a small-town bumbler. He stuck out his hand.

“Name's Riley,” he said. “Patrick Riley, Sheriff of Cavus.”

“We didn't expect them to send out the sheriff,” Erma said, trying to lighten the mood. “Anybody would do.”

“Oh, there's just me and my deputy, and Sam's off on another call. Besides, I'm happy to help.”

“We called Triple A,” John said. “They couldn't get hold of anyone around here.”

The sheriff laughed. “Now, that doesn't surprise me a whit. We've got the Festival this weekend, and that's about all anyone in these parts can think about.”

“Well, we just need a tow,” Erma said. “And a recommendation of a shop to take the car to. Can you help us out with that? I tried a few local companies, but…” She shrugged. “No answer.”

“I'm afraid you're in a pickle.” He looked at their stalled car. “May I?”

“Be my guest,” John said.

The sheriff ambled over, and again Erma was reminded of a character of some kind, a man better suited for a family-friendly sitcom than any actual police work. The sheriff tapped once on the hood of their car, then felt underneath, releasing the latch and lifting the hood. Ttrapped smoke steamed out as he leaned over the engine.

Beside her, John was kneeling, holding tight to a trembling Maxie's collar. She had, in some miracle, made it across the road before the semi came blaring through. When John rushed across the highway, yelling for her, she'd come trotting eagerly back to them. Whatever Erma had seen, or thought she'd seen, was gone, the field of pasture grass on the other side stretching out long and open.

“I hate to say it,” the sheriff said, “but it looks to be your radiator.”

“Okay,” said John. “What do we do about it?”

“Isn't much
you
can do. Unless you know a lot about cars.”

John shrugged. He knew absolutely nothing.

“Your best bet near here would be Wiley's.”

“Great,” said Erma, sensing the mounting tension in John. “How do we get it there?”

“I'm afraid you don't,” Riley said. “At least not now. Wiley's is closed for the weekend and on into Monday.”

“Fine,” said John. “Just get us a tow, then. Please. We'll head up to the next town over.”

“That'd be Billings, and it's an hour away. And you ain't gonna find a tow truck until Monday either. Nor a hotel room, or even a bed and breakfast. Like I said, it's Festival Weekend.”

“Fuck!” John's anger exploded, and he let go of Maxie's collar. Maxie, sensing her owner's mood, sunk to the ground, nudging at him. “That is just fucking great. The van's due back in two days. It'll be an extra three hundred at least to keep it longer.”

“John…”

Her husband ran a hand through his hair, then sunk it into Maxie's fur and rubbed it, his head slumped. Maxie's tail thumped, happy that she could grant this small relief.

“We were on our way across the country,” Erma said. “Moving.”

“I see that,” Riley said, angling his head toward the moving van.

“It's just not a great time to break down, is all. Money's a little tight.”

“Tell you what,” the sheriff said, and this time when she met his eyes she saw an intelligence there that had escaped her before. “You aren't going anywhere tonight, there's no way around that. But why don't you folks come on back with me. I think I might know just the people who can get you on the road by tomorrow evening, Sunday at the latest. What do you say?”

John raised his head and shot Erma a look. But she ignored it.

“That sounds great,” Erma said.

“We don't have a lot of money,” John interjected. “Like my wife said.”

“Don't you worry about that any,” Riley said. “The place I'm taking you, it's cheap. Dirt cheap. And really, I don't see that you've got a lot of options. You folks are in Cavus for tonight, like it or not.”

He left John and Erma to ponder this as he tied an orange flag around their car's antenna. When he was finished, he motioned for Erma to follow. “Why don't you ride with me, miss, and your husband and his fine furry friend can follow.”

Erma obliged, wondering just how much further this setback would drive her and John apart.

As she got into the police car, the sheriff paused before starting up his vehicle. “Listen,” he said. “You didn't have anybody else stop and try to help you before I got there, did you?”

“What do you mean?” asked Erma. “Like another person?”

“Like another officer, maybe?”

“No,” said Erma, surprised. “Why do you ask?”

“No reason,” said Riley. “Just thought my deputy, Sam, might have stopped, that's all.”

“He didn't,” Erma said. “Just you.”

“That's good, then,” said Riley. He started the car, then stuck a hand out the window, waving it to let John know he was going. “Now, let's get you and your husband to Cavus. It's a pretty little town. I think you're both really going to enjoy your stay there.”

He flipped on his blinker, then eased onto the road, John following close behind them in the van.

It was hard to see much of the town as they entered, clouds having balled up in the early evening sky, turning it dark. Erma guessed Cavus was probably pretty; it was certainly quiet, everyone already inside by eight on a summer's night.
Country folks,
Erma thought. She was sure there were a few teenagers about, keeping themselves to the shadows, despite the town's sleepy appearance.

“It's funny how familiar a place can be,” the sheriff said to them as he drove. “Familiar and then completely strange, too. I guess that's what happens when you've been away for a while. What's that saying? You can't ever go home again?”

“Yes,” Erma said, her voice cracking.

The sheriff had told her during their conversation on the ride over that though he'd grown up in Cavus, he'd just returned a few weeks ago to take over as sheriff.

“So why do they call it ‘Cavus'?” asked John. He was in a better mood, Erma noted. Nearly cheerful.

They'd dropped the moving van off at the police station, where Riley opened up the garage and locked the van inside, free of charge. He'd also let the couple inside the empty two-room police station and led them to his office, where he pulled a bottle of Beam from his desk drawer.

“Some kind of day, huh?” he said, pouring the three of them a finger's worth and then knocking his back like a professional. John had warmed to him considerably after that, and now, whether because of Riley or the alcohol, he was more relaxed than Erma had seen him in days.

“If I've got my Latin right—”

“You'd better,” said Erma, smiling at him. “I'd hate to think all those students at Clark wasted their time on you.”

“They didn't,” said John, drawing himself up and assuming what Erma called his “professor pose.” She thought it was cute. And thinking this, she realized how long it had been since she'd allowed herself to simply admire her husband.

“Cavus,”
John said. “Latin, meaning cave. Which is why I ask, Sheriff. Why name the town that? Are there many caverns here?”

Erma studied her husband beside the portly cop, seeing the clean lines of him, the way he thrust his chin forward with each word. A ferocious man, this husband of hers. When had she stopped noticing this?

“Not many,” Riley said. “Just one, actually. There's a big cave half a mile north of town that's about a mile deep and half a mile wide. Supposedly. There's so many mines down there from the old coal factory that nobody really knows where one ends and the other begins.”

“The Romans used to worship in caves, you know,” said John. “Romulus and Remus were suckled by the wolf in Lupercal, and men and women paid homage to Diana down below.”

“Is that right? Well, no worshipping in our caves. Not unless you count worship of the almighty dollar. The new factory's built right over where the mines used to be.”

Sheriff Riley rounded a corner, driving easily, with the one-handed grace of people who've clocked a lot of time behind the wheel. “You'll be staying at my aunt Bunny's house. I've already arranged it.”

“You've been so kind,” said Erma. “Really, we can't thank you enough.”

Riley waved that away. “It's like I said, there isn't any place with room near here. Besides, my uncle Bob's really good with cars. Kind of a hobby of his. I'm having Sam tow your Honda to a buddy's garage, where my uncle and all the other old-timers who like to tinker on stuff hang out. Last I heard they were trying to rebuild a pretty hopeless Karmann Ghia that somebody'd suckered one of them into buying. Bob'll have that radiator of yours replaced in no time. He'll only charge you for the parts.”

“I feel like we're taking advantage of you,” John said.

“Not at all. Uncle Bob can't find enough things to take apart and put back together. You'll be doing him the favor, I assure you.”

Beside her, John squeezed Erma's hand. She squeezed back, pleased by this small gesture of affection.

Riley rounded a corner and pulled up to a pink ranch house, reminiscent of something from the Beaver's era, its outline visible because of the porch light that someone had left on for them. The house was tidy, like the rest of the houses in the town, its lawn green and well-manicured. “Honey?” John had her hand again and was pulling her out the door, then close into him so that he could whisper, “You're sure you're okay with this? We don't have to stay here.”

“I'm fine,” said Erma, surprised by the concern in his question. “It might even be fun. Besides, we need my car.”

“I'm all for leaving it.”

“But then how would I get you to the fish market in the mornings?” asked Erma. She'd meant it for a joke, a way to ride the tide of good cheer and get a smile from her husband, but she saw immediately that it had backfired. He turned away from her.

“I'm sure I can hitch a ride with Uncle Frank.”

Sheriff Riley led them to the front door, and Erma was amused to see that he held his hat in his hands, twisting it like a little boy. “She was always my favorite aunt,” he said, by way of explanation, giving Erma a sheepish grin. “But she could be pretty scary, too, if you crossed her. She's just ten years older than me but she seemed untouchably adult when I was a boy.”

Riley rang the doorbell, and Erma could hear the polite dinging of chimes inside. The door opened almost immediately. They were expected.

“Why, Patrick Riley, how long has it been?”

“Hi, Aunt Bunny.” Erma watched as Riley continued to twist the hat. “Sorry I haven't been to visit in a while. Settling into the new job's keeping me pretty busy.”

“Well, it's good to see you.” The woman pulled her nephew into a hug, and then stepped back, offering her hand first to Erma and then to John. “Welcome.”

Erma took the moment to study the woman. Riley'd said his aunt was ten years older than he was, which would make her about sixty if Erma'd guessed the cop's age right. Bunny wore her age well. Her hair was bobbed into a short silver 'do, perfectly symmetrical, and she wore a collared shirtdress, blue and crisp. Erma thought, looking at her host, that she herself would never come close to looking as pulled together as this woman in the middle of nowhere Montana. Not if she lived to be a hundred.

“Come on in,” Bunny said. “Quit standing around like deer in the headlights.”

“Uncle Bob home?” Riley asked.

“You know he's not,” said Bunny. “Ever since he took that job with SweetHeart, I just can't seem to keep tabs on him. They've got him working all hours of the day and night.”

“Uncle Bob's an engineer,” said Riley by way of explanation. “He used to work for the army. He just switched jobs about—what now, Aunt Bunny? A month ago?”

“Two,” said Bunny. With the grace of a born hostess, she led Erma, John, and Riley to the kitchen and sat them down at a beautiful oak farm table with benches on either side. Soon, steaming mugs of coffee were in front of them. “It's been wonderful for him. I've never seen him so excited.”

“Good for Cavus, too, looks like,” said Riley. “I haven't been out there since I've been back, but I've heard the place is going great guns.”

“Yes.” Bunny nodded, looking pleased. “You know, Cavus was getting in a pretty bad way, what with all the farms being bought out and the ones left not able to keep up with the corporations. But then SweetHeart moved in and just about saved us. Why, I guess half the town has jobs with them now.”

“What do they do?” asked John. Erma watched him as he sipped his coffee, coffee that was served to him black, just the way he liked it. His face was relaxed, and Erma could see that he was having a hard time reconciling the “trash” he so enjoyed commenting on in the rest of rural middle America with this house and woman.

“Oh, no!” said Erma, jumping up and cutting Bunny off from answering John. “I forgot all about Maxie. We left the station in such a rush and I'm so used to her traveling with you…” She turned to John.

“Relax,” John said, laying a hand on her thigh.

“No need to worry, ma'am,” said Riley. “I talked to your husband about this earlier, back at the station when you were in the restroom. Right now your dog's getting itself spoiled rotten by my secretary, Anita. I called and asked her to come in and get him for the night. She's a bit of a softie, and she just lost her schnauzer about a month back. I promise you, your dog's in good hands.”

“But why…?” Erma stopped herself, not wanting to seem rude for asking why Maxie wasn't being allowed to stay with them at Bunny's house. The woman seemed to read her mind.

“I'm sorry, dear. That's my fault. I have terrible dog allergies, so I told my nephew here that I'd love to have you, but it would need to be without your furry companion.”

“No, I'm sorry,” said Erma. “I didn't mean to insinuate it was expected. It's just that Maxie's pretty much our baby.”

She saw John flinch at her choice of words and immediately regretted them.

“I understand,” said Bunny, but Erma thought she saw the woman's face tighten, then decided she must have imagined it, as with a smile Riley's aunt set a plate of fresh cookies down in front of them.
“Butterscotch!”
she said, beaming. “My dear little Patrick's favorite. Or used to be, at least.”

“Still are,” said Riley, blushing, and helping himself to two cookies at once. “Aunt Bunny, you wouldn't happen to have—”

“Right here,” said Bunny, cutting him off by setting a foaming glass of milk in front of him. “My secret is just a splash of vanilla. Anyone else?”

Erma and John both accepted, and Erma couldn't help but think, as she munched her cookie, John's hand clasped tightly in her own, there might be a chance for them after all.

But she couldn't stop thinking about the motel room. Their angry lovemaking. The words that were left unsaid between them.

Erma let John's hand drop, but when he looked over at her, concerned, she picked it up again. Everything would be okay. She was here with him now, and that was the main thing. They were facing a lot of challenges, a lot of
transformations,
but they were doing it together. That was what mattered.

Whatever else happened, they needed to hold on to each other.

John's breath came steady and even beside her, but Erma found that she was unable to sleep. Bunny had put them in the guest bedroom down the hall from her own, then as good as tucked them in, waiting until they'd washed in the attached bathroom and then coming in to turn down the sheets for them.

“Now, I'm going to leave a light on in the hallway,” she'd said, “but don't you hesitate to wake me up if you need anything.”

Erma rolled over, staring at the blank landscape of her husband's back, and tried, unsuccessfully again, to clear her mind. She reached out a hand to touch him, to wake him, then thought better of it, and pulled it back.

Being here, back in small-town America, was, in a way, like going home. And tonight Erma felt all her childish fears returning to haunt her.

She'd been fourteen when her mother took her to have the abortion.

Now, at thirty, the memory sprang fully formed. The starched and worn sheets of this stranger's bed felt so like the ones of her childhood that if she closed her eyes, it was as if no time had passed at all. She could smell the lilacs coming through the windows, feel her mother's cold hand against her forehead as she urged Erma out of bed.

And then it
was
her mother, not John, there beside her. Twila Brown, with her harsh smoker's laugh, and tight, closely spaced eyes staring straight ahead at the road, refusing to meet her daughter's.

Erma had never told anyone about that morning, not even John.

There were picketers outside the Wichita clinic when they arrived, and she and her mom had walked through them, hands clasped tightly together.

Her mother had kept her head up and her eyes facing firmly forward. Most people left them alone, but a woman with dreadlocks and dead eyes stepped forward, waving a sign.

“This,” she yelled, shoving the sign at them, “
this
is what you're flushing away, man.”

On the cardboard a bloody mess of flesh assaulted Erma, the head and arms of an unformed creature that looked like a tadpole lying dead and in pieces on a white-gloved hand.

“Keep walking,” Erma's mother commanded.

Once inside the clinic, the glass doors shut the protesters' voices out, though not the sight of their ugly signs. Sitting in the waiting room Erma tried to lose herself in the months-old magazines. Some were parenting-themed, issues with bright, smiling babies on their covers, happy, correctly aged mothers there, too, and these Erma hastily bypassed, seeking comfort instead in the news publications, their large, bright photos of war and explosions.

“Ms. Brown? We're ready for you.”

The nurse was a short African American woman with curls cut close to her skull. She did not offer a smile as Erma and her mother rose from the plastic-padded bench. Beside them, a mousy-haired teenager with an acne-riddled face scowled at them for no reason. The girl's belly was flat, and Erma wondered if she was here to prevent a pregnancy or end one, the two services a place like this offered.

She and her mother had had to drive overnight to get here in time for the appointment. They'd left Erma's father at home, drunk and asleep on the couch.

“Are we going to tell him?” Erma asked her mom as they left the house.

Twila didn't bother answering. “Bring a sweater,” she'd said. “Them places are cold.”

The steps from the waiting room to the area where the procedure would take place were few, but Erma counted each of them in her mind, dragging her feet.

Inside the room, the nurse asked Erma and her mother to be seated. A doctor's examination table with its thin paper covering and worn cotton gown waited like a reprimand in the room's center.

“It's protocol that we go over a few medical questions. Make sure you understand the procedure.” The nurse peered down at her clipboard, then back up at the two women. “Anyone explain any of this to you?”

“Yes,” said Erma's mom. “You ain't got to go through it all again.”

Erma's mom took her hand, squeezed it. In the harsh light of the clinic's room, Erma saw for the first time what the nurse must see—how much the two of them looked alike. Erma's mother's features were a thicker, more muted version of Erma's own. Her mom's hair a shade lighter, the nose wider and with more freckles, the legs and thighs thicker. But whether it was time or genetics that had done these things, Erma couldn't know.

“Let's get on with it,” Erma's mom said, and pulled her damp hand out of her daughter's grip.

The nurse started to speak, but Erma's mom cut her off. “You know why we're doing this?” she asked Erma, her face open and hard.

“Yes,” Erma said, and she wished then that she could break through that mask her mother wore, scratch it away and see if there was anything left, anything tender behind it. “I do.”

“Why?” her mother asked.

“Because he won't understand. It'll just make him mad. Complicate things.”

How else could Erma put it into words? How could she describe the animal that emerged from her father that was and was not him, the hurt that the creature could do and had done with fists and tongue, the shrieking, laughing countenance that this beast-father wore. The terror that it had planted in her as a girl and then watered with each unpredictable emergence.

But such a thing did not need explaining to Twila Brown. “Yes.” Erma's mom nodded. “And that ain't any kind of a life for a child to grow up in. You of all people should know that.”

Erma hardly remembered what happened after that. When they emerged, some hour and a half later, her mother standing straight as a steel beam, the nurse who'd admitted them checked them out, taking their payment in cash.

“You know you can't drive after that,” the nurse said.

“It's all right,” Erma's mother said. “That's why I brought my daughter. She's going to drive me home.”