Miss Jane (29 page)

Dr. Thompson and Finicker arrived together, with two young men to help remove her mother from the field.

“Do you want Finicker to take her on to his place?” the doctor asked, to which Jane, after a moment's hesitation, said yes. Funerals in homes were becoming a thing of the past in some quarters and the thought of having her mother's funeral there, in her own home where she had so often been so unhappy, just seemed too dreary. Finicker's men carried her mother on a gurney out to his long funeral car. She stopped them before they closed the door, reached in and pressed a penny onto each of her mother's shrunken, shriveled eyelids. The men looked at her in something like muted astonishment. Then she stepped back and watched them drive her mother away into eternity, vested with her toll to the other side.

Worm

T
hen she was indeed alone, though Dr. Thompson still visited often. She made her own occasional visits to her tenants, to check in. She put in her garden. One day in July she stood beside the tomato row in a mild state of wonder, watching a doomed tomato worm eat her best plant. The worm's fat, segmented body was studded with the rows of pure white cocoons that had grown from wasp eggs laid under its skin. They looked like embedded teardrop pearls or beautiful tiny onion bulbs growing from its bright green skin. Inside the cocoons, wasp larvae sucked away the worm's soft tissue as casually as a child drawing malt through a straw. The worm seemed entirely unperturbed. No doubt a tomato worm is born expecting this particular method of slow death, a part of the pattern of its making somehow, something its brain or nerve center, whatever it has, is naturally conditioned to recognize and accept. Just as a person hardly registers, until near the end, the long slow decadence of death.

She bent over to dab sweat from her brow with the hem of her skirt. It was July-hot, but a bearable breeze lilted through the clearing where their house and barn and outbuildings had stood
since long before her birth, a breeze hinting at something more from the large cumulus that seemed to grow by the minute, a towering mountain of billowing white to the south, its center like tarnished silver.

She heard what sounded like the doctor's pickup coming down the main road, then its wheels bumbling across the bridge over the creek, beyond the trees between there and the house. Its engine churned it up the hill. She knelt and used her thumb and forefinger to pluck the worm from the leaf of the tomato plant—rolled it into her long narrow palm and cupped it there, feeling its weird little stumpy legs work against the tender skin, tickling, an odd stimulation. She snapped off the leaf stem where it had been dining and carried it to the edge of the yard, set it down, let the worm grapple back onto it. It set to eating again right away. For the worm, this stem and leaf were the whole world. Some bird would snatch it up directly. She walked quickly toward the house as the doctor's pickup appeared around the corner of their long drive, a thin drift of red dust rising behind it. In the room she'd slept in growing up, she dabbed a bit of her best perfume onto her wrists, her neck, and dropped her soiled undergarment into a pail she kept covered in the corner, sprinkling in a bit of her cheaper perfume before replacing the lid. Washed herself with water and soap from the basin on the back porch and went back outside.

The blue pickup was parked there in front of the house. The doctor got out then, fanning himself with his hat. He spoke to her and joined her on the front porch, and she fetched them both glasses of sweet tea with chips of ice. A flicker sang its hard staccato song from a high limb in her mother's beloved
apple tree, singing against the softening light of the hot afternoon. The doctor sipped his tea, rocking, that closed-down expression on his noble but slightly birdlike face, eyes narrowed above his beak.

“You might as well tell me what it is on your mind,” she finally said.

He looked at her as if he'd been interrupted in thought, as if he'd been alone there on the porch with those thoughts. Not atypical. He smiled. He was a kindly man. Then he took on a serious look as if the thought in his mind had indeed become about her. He took a sip of his tea, ice chips tinkling against the glass, and set it down.

“All right.”

And he told her. He'd kept up with things, through his friend in Baltimore. There'd been a lot of progress since she was a little girl. He thought it was time they asked another specialist to examine her.

“The very best, so that you can know without doubt whether or not it's possible to correct your condition. Or to do anything about it.”

“With surgery.”

“Yes.”

He said the work being done in Baltimore was remarkable. New developments every year. He didn't think anyone in the country would be able to examine her with greater certainty than the men there.

“It may still not be possible yet. It may still be too complicated. You've been through this before. But they've made great advances in the last ten years, and I think the emotional risk is worth it. I think we should be aggressive. And if they cannot correct it
now, they may at least know enough to give you a good idea of when they might.”

He spoke his words in a serious manner but still, as always, with the kind of gentle thoughtfulness that was his hallmark as a man and a doctor. His keen eyes in the squint they took on when he was talking seriously. As if he'd got a mote in his eye.

Her father's eyes had seemed so haunted, there near the end. For years had, really.

She peered at the doctor a moment, then looked away, feeling strangely perturbed and not bothering to hide it.

“No doubt expensive,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Of course, now you have the money from your father's insurance policy.”

She looked up.

“Did you speak to him about this?”

“I mentioned, years ago, when you were born, that he might put something away toward the possibility.”

“Recently, I mean.”

“I did tell him, when he asked a couple of years before his death—while you were living in town—that I thought the odds were getting better.”

After a moment of looking at him as if he'd said something incomprehensible, she stood up and walked to the edge of the porch.

“What are you saying?”

“Just what I'm saying.”

“About my father, I mean, and the insurance policy.”

“Just that I believe he would have wanted you to use the money for this, if you wanted.”

She turned to face him. He looked down, took out his pocketknife and a little piece of wood he was carving on. Trying to cut back on the pipe-smoking.

“I believe it's what he had in mind,” he said.

“Had in mind,” she said.

She looked out over the yard, at the work shed, the now-empty hog pen and its ramshackle fencing, the pasture sloping down to the cattle pond, no cattle there in the midday sun. Hardly seeing it all, really.

“Jane,” he said. “You're a hearty person, your condition has no real effect on that. You have no unhealthy habits that I know of. It is likely that you will outlive your sister and brothers, and be alone one day. Without family, if you were able to live a less restricted life—” He stopped there.

Jane said quietly, “This has come to feel pretty normal for me.”

It had come over her, some sense of what it would be like to be truly alone. Her mother had become someone who seemed barely there, anyway. The doctor was fading a bit, no denying it now. She felt a heaviness, an almost fluid infusion of a palpable isolation. She would always be the odd one, the one with the secret. Who hurried from company without a word, returned a while later as if nothing were unusual about it. Who had taken to wearing several slips beneath her skirts, and a bit of perfume, in a ridiculously vain attempt to mask the fact of her body, her embarrassment.

But did it matter, really, anymore? She had now lived nearly eight years since moving to town, since giving herself up to the truth of what her life would be. A year out here with her mother, alone, and half a year alone since her death. And she intended to stay. She was not unhappy, she wouldn't put that word to it.
In fact she would not know how, even at her young age of just ­twenty-four years, to start over. To become someone else entirely. But she took an oblique tack.

“Even if they could make it work, you know I cannot pay. I know my father left that money to me but it seems right that I would manage it, in case others need it in a bad time. For something practical.”

The doctor looked away and took a deep breath as if to calm himself. His right hand shook a bit and he placed his left hand there to still it. He closed his pocket knife and put it away in his vest pocket.

“I'll pay,” he said.

“No.”

“I will,” he said. “You understand, Jane. You have always been more than just a patient, to me. Lett and I had no children. I have no one to leave anything to, when I go. I have no one in my life, not here anyway. And no close family left, no one I even really know among them anymore. If you would let me at least do this for you, I would feel as if I have someone in this world who might see me as more than an affable stranger.”

“You've never been a stranger.”

She looked at him. She thought that indeed he might love her, in some way. The love of one human being for another, which does not demand classification or mode.

“He did it on purpose, didn't he?” she said. “I've thought so, ever since the day.”

The doctor looked straight out over the yard, stone-faced.

She said, “You know yourself what can be done and what can't. Don't you? If you just own up to it. You want me to see these people because they're the best experts, but you have been talking to
them, corresponding with them, all of my life. You would know if they were able to fix me. Has your doctor friend in Baltimore actually given you some kind of confirmation?”

“What if they were at least able to repair the incontinence?”

“Has your friend actually suggested good odds on that? The man in Memphis said the way I'm made makes that highly unlikely. Has that changed?” Then she said more softly, “What are the odds, Ed? I think you want to believe it, but I think in your heart you either suspect or know that at this point they still cannot. What would be the point, if we're honest?”

He looked startled, emotion in his face. Then looked away.

She thought of her father and her mind felt inflamed with unchecked emotions. She looked out to where she'd left the tomato worm. It was gone, leaf, stem, and all.

“I don't want to make your life more complicated,” he said. “I thought, possibly, just the opposite, in the long run.”

“Well,” she said after a moment, as if to the yard, or to the strangely ravished, vanished worm, the billowing sky, the somewhere-feasting little wild bird—probably the flicker that was gone now from the apple tree, silent.

“Well,” she said. “It's not complicated.”

They were quiet then in the still of the afternoon. The storm that had threatened seemed to have lost its strength and moved away. And then the doctor got back into his truck and left. She watched him drive off in a late afternoon light that seemed flickering, like the clickety light in a motion picture, color draining as if it, too, were in black-and-white, controlled by a steady hand turning a handle to keep the world in motion, by and by.

What the doctor had said to her, about caring for her. Some
part of her was trying to absorb it, to understand how he had always helped her to feel less alone in the world. Less strange.

Dear Ellis,

I presented Miss Jane Chisolm w/ new possibility of at least marginal surgical repair to her condition. She is skeptical, and unwilling to bother without a greater degree of certainty on our parts. No more exploratory action, I'm afraid. She does have a good measure of her parents' obstinacy, in addition to her own very independent nature. I offered to pay for it, myself. I cannot abide the idea of not at least trying. Finding out what can or cannot be done. Perhaps it is selfish, but I cannot abide such stubbornness, damned country stubbornness, when there is absolutely no practical reason not to seek the medical certainty, and every reason to move ahead should it be possible to do so.

I did not and never have even brought up the idea of colostomy. Personally, I wouldn't see it as enough improvement, especially considering the risks for infection, etc. All things considered, she's been very lucky in that way.

She believes her father caused his own death, w/ purpose. It would be impossible to know, of course, given his condition and habits. Beyond the philosophical sense, of course. How much this may have to do with her decision, I couldn't say. If I had to guess, I'd say it's a powerful influence.

Such quiet in this house in the evenings, with my Lett gone now almost twenty-two years. I have not and I suppose will never entirely surrender my grief. My peacocks, now so numerous, are a comfort though they are at least half-wild and sometimes their calls and cries bring up a feeling of loneliness as much as comfort. A strange beauty. Sometimes I wonder should I get a dog, maybe, and
wonder why the hell I never did, especially after Lett died. I suppose it makes no sense to avoid it now simply because I'd most likely outlive it. But I probably won't go to the trouble, at this age. Janie Chisolm would take it in, I believe, but I wouldn't want anyone to be beholden.