Passing Through Midnight (7 page)

Fletcher, on the other hand, gave new meaning to the word
mess. His room looked more like a toxic waste dump, and it had a
similar odor—though she suspected the smell was from dirty
socks and sweaty clothes.

Alarming, however, was the fact that there were no
hamsters in the cage.

"Give me a break. They are not dead," he said, using his
arms to forklift heaps of books and clothes and newspapers
and… stuff off the elaborate network of plastic tubing that
the rodents were free to run in. His indignant response to her
suggestion that they could have died and gone to heaven some time ago
was almost comical. "They're here somewhere."

"How many months has it been since you've seen them?" she
asked, looking around the room with a smirk on her face.

"I fed 'em this morning," he muttered, beginning to look
concerned. "They were both… Here they are! Oh, wow."

"What?" She started to climb over mountains of debris,
craning her neck to see what had caught his interest.

"Babies."

"What?"

"They've got babies."

"Neat! How many? Let me see," was Baxter's response.

Dorie, when she was close enough to see the tiny, naked,
black-eyed, slimy-looking little things they were calling babies,
merely curled her upper lip and backed away. The boys laughed at her.

The boys were careful to re-cover the vermin and leave
them in darkness when they were called to dinner.

"That's Uncle Matt's room, and this one is Dad's," Baxter
said, gesturing vaguely as he passed the rooms on his way down to the
kitchen.

Dorie glanced into each room as she followed. Matthew's
room looked cozy and full of mementos, lots of pictures on the walls.

And Gil's… well, she didn't see much of Gil's
room. A rocking chair, a big bed with a patchwork quilt, dark
furniture—somehow his bedroom was too intimate a thing to
see; to take in too many details. It was like seeing his underwear,
knowing they were his and that he'd worn them and then feeling
embarrassed by the pictures that came into her head. Then feeling
even
more
embarrassed knowing that male underwear and bedrooms
were perfectly normal things and nothing to be embarrassed about!

Anyway, it was a very quick glance, and she'd hurried away
feeling extremely self-conscious.

"Are you all right? You look a little flushed," Gil asked,
studying her once again as she entered the kitchen. "Don't let these
guys run you ragged now. You tell them when you're tired and when to
back off."

"I'm fine. The boys are fine too," she said, awkward with
his concern for her well-being.

"I hope you like plain food," Matthew said, his voice a
gentle rumble. "We eat a lot, but we don't eat fancy."

"It looks wonderful," she said, surveying a small mountain
of mashed potatoes, a pond of peas, a cavern of carrots, steaming
rolls, and a heaping pile of thick juicy steaks. Next to a can of soup
it was a royal feast.

A place had been set for her between Baxter and Gil. Heads
lowered and hands joined, Matthew announced that it was Fletcher's turn
to say the blessing.

Good bread, good meat… was tolerated once, then
a more solemn prayer was offered.

Gil picked up the platter of meat and offered it first to
Dorie, who promptly took the plate and offered it right back to him.
Then she held it for Baxter.

"Aren't you going to have any?" he asked, his wide blue
eyes questioning. The boy had a scattering of freckles across his nose
and cheekbones that Dorie was hopelessly in love with.

"I don't eat red meat," she told him simply.

He frowned. "What color meat do you eat?"

She laughed. "White mostly. And fish."

"White meat?" He couldn't seem to picture it.

"Like chicken and turkey?"

"How come?" Clearly, she was sicker than he thought.

"Dorie's a vegetarian," Gil surmised, casually passing her
the carrots.

They knew the word, but it was plain they'd never seen one
before. Both boys seemed fascinated that she appeared entirely normal.
They sat wide-eyed and motionless as she filled her plate with nothing
but vegetables and a roll. Apparently, vegetarians were rare and not
particularly appreciated in Kansas—it being a beef state and
all. However, it was finally agreed upon among the men that Dorie would
be tolerated… so long as she showed no other freakish
tendencies.

"We're going to Disneyland, not this summer but next
summer, maybe," Baxter announced. "Have you ever been to Disneyland?"

"Not yet. I bet it would be a lot of fun, though. What do
you want to see first?"

"Mystery Mountain. Space Mountain. Rocky Mountain
Railroad. The Matterhorn. But not Small World. The tree house. The
pirates. And I wanna go on the roller coasters. Why don't you come with
us?"

"Well, I'd like to," she said, laughing at his
breathlessness and feeling uneasy with his open and absolute acceptance
of her. "But I don't know where I'll be next summer."

"You could write to us and tell us where you are, and then
we could come get you," he said, full of plans and possibilities.

She could see Gil's dilemma in wanting to be as honest as
possible with Baxter without crushing his gifts for loving and giving.
She glanced at him now for guidance; he was watching her with interest.

"Tell you what, Bax," she said, using the short form of
his name as a sign of affection. "Let's play it by ear for now. Next
summer is a long time away, and lots of things can happen."

"I know. I'll be seven then," he said, as if it were
equivalent to old age. "Can I be excused?"

"Yes," Gil said. "Have you finished your chores?"

"Almost."

"No TV till they're finished."

"I know," he said, dashing through the kitchen door.
Seconds later they heard the back door slam closed.

"How about you, Fletch? Homework and chores done?"

"Yep," he said, leaning back and getting comfortable in
his chair, ready for some adult conversation.

"Good. Then you can help Matthew with these dishes."

An instant argument formed in his expression. He glanced
briefly at Dorie, then at the unmistakable warning in his father's
eyes, and quickly decided not to make a fuss in front of the dinner
guest—though he didn't clear the table with what could be
called a gracious attitude either.

Gil and Dorie retired to a big pine-paneled family room at
the back of the house. A red felt pool table was the focal point of the
room, with a big screen TV and plenty of comfortable seating on the far
end. There were shelves of books and trophies and souvenirs and family
pictures all over the walls.

"Do you play?" Gil asked, motioning to the pool table.

Decisions, decisions. Life seemed to be one little
decision after another. Go right or left? Buy it now or wait for a
sale? Vegetable soup or chicken noodle? Tell him Grampa Devries had a
billiards table and took inordinate pride in the skills he'd taught
her… or not?

"I have played," she said, rubbing her palms together and
then cracking her knuckles—in her mind.

"You rack."

She set up a nice tight triangle of balls, and he
patiently switched the eight ball for the cue ball. After a fairly
decent scatter, he started around the table announcing the pockets and
shooting at striped balls. He was good. But she was better. After his
third ball, he missed, and it was her turn. She missed the "little red
one" and punched in another striped ball for him.

They played two such games, with Dorie looking more and
more pathetic before Fletcher finished helping with the dishes and
arrived to give her some much-needed advice—which she might
have pretended to take had it been delivered with any degree of
humility. As it was, his cocky and incredibly superior teenage attitude
amused her and put him at the top of her patsy list.

Matthew joined them shortly and after a brief gathering of
facts at the pool table, was more inclined toward television.

"Where's Bax?" Gil asked absently, studying his next shot
as if Dorie were playing like Minnesota Fats. He took his pool game
seriously, which, of course, made the temptation to squeeze him all the
more juicy.

"He forgot his cow," Matthew muttered, studying the
TV
Guide
through a pair of tortoiseshell glasses.

Gil squatted to put the table at eye level, and Dorie
followed his movements with her eyes. There was an innate grace in the
way he moved that appealed to her. He was very much at home in his
body, unself-conscious, taking for granted that it would do anything
he wanted it to do. He didn't seem to know or care that his shoulders
were broad and strong looking, or that his jeans fit him in a very
nice… very nice way. Did he know that his fingers were long
and his hands looked gentle and powerful at the same time? Would he
even guess that Dorie wanted him to touch her? That his arms had the
allure of an electromagnet to a gamma ray? Or was she the furthest
thing from his mind?

"Dad! Dad!" Baxter was screaming, loud and urgent.

Gil dropped the pool stick immediately. Matthew was on his
feet, and Fletcher was already heading for the kitchen.

"Dad! Emily's down. Come quick!" The panic in the boy's
voice sent a quake of fear through Dorie. Her instinct was to hide. To
protect herself. To run.

Baxter stood breathless and flushed in the doorway. His
eyes were wide, but not with fear. With excitement. And he was smiling.

"Come quick, Dad," he shouted, doing a little dance of
anticipation. "Emily's down. She's ready."

The three men left the room, seeming to understand and
knowing what to do.

"Emily? The dog?" she asked, confused and a little dazed
by the commotion. "Is something wrong with the dog?"

"No. Come quick and see," Baxter told her.

Emily. Emily… "The cat? Is something wrong with
the cat?" she asked, following him through the kitchen and out the back
door.

"No, no. Emily's a cow."

"Emily's a cow too? Baxter, everything on this farm is
named Emily."

"Not if we're going to eat it. We don't name things we're
going to eat. Or if we're going to sell'em. Or if they aren't ours."

Okay. That made sense, but… "But why have you
named everything Emily?" she asked, following his hurried lead to the
barn.

"So I don't forget."

Unfortunately, that made sense too.

"What happens if you're calling the dog, and the cat comes
instead?"

"Cats don't come," he said, as if she were the most
foolish person he'd ever encountered. "Neither do cows or hamsters or
pigs."

"The pig is Emily, too, huh?"

" 'Course."

Of course.

It was then she heard the lowing. The mooing of a cow that
was certainly not out of place, but it had a distinct inflection that
was familiar to her. Deep and mournful. Slowly, over and over it
assaulted her ears. It sent chills up her spine. The bright light,
squared in the barn door, was inviting and warm looking, and Baxter ran
in. She hesitated at the threshold.

Beyond the barnyard smell and the scent of clean fresh hay
came the subtle, sickening odor of suffering, terror, and high anxiety.
There was a brief flash of recognition in her mind that the sounds and
smells were coming from an animal, not a human, but it didn't seem to
make any difference to her nervous system.

The sound was too familiar. Fear and pain. The smell
conjured up a thousand pictures. For a moment the cry of anguish seemed
to be coming from her throat, the scent of misery clinging to her body.

"Come on, Dorie." Baxter was back. He was pulling on her
hand.

"No. I think maybe…" she said, stepping into
the barn.

"See. Emily's having a baby. A calf. It's my project."

His project? She would have liked to have gone back to the
house and discussed this project with him, but he was pulling her
closer and closer to a wooden stall. A very bright light hung from a
cord, draped over one of the rafters like a makeshift Star of David
shining down on the blessed event. Through the slats of wood she saw
the cow thrash and heard it moo long, low, and woeful.

Suddenly, after weeks of simple aching and weakness, there
was a deep throbbing pain in her left leg. It wouldn't bear weight. Her
head was aching to the point of blurring her vision. Then it passed.
Baxter drew her up next to the stall, then stepped around Fletcher to
join his father and Matthew, who were kneeling in the hay beside poor
Emily.

As the cow lowed and tried to roll backward, nausea swept
through Dorie like a tornado. She heard the cry of metal bending, glass
shattering, tires screaming. She grabbed hold of the wooden plank and
closed her eyes to ward off the dizziness. She could feel all the blood
draining from her face.

"This is it. Okay, Em, hang on. It's almost over," she
heard Gil say softly.

The calm in his voice opened Dorie's eyes. Gil had half a
calf lying across his bent knees. His clothes were soaked with a little
blood and more amniotic fluid than she'd ever seen in her life.
Everything went to slow motion. The bright light dimmed to something
closer to the glow of a candle. The calf was out and lying in the hay,
dripping wet and coated with vernix. Matthew, at the head of the cow,
said something that sounded as if he were talking underwater. Baxter
turned his head sooo slooowly, and he beamed a proud smile at her.

"Daa-ad." It was Fletcher's voice, low and distorted
beside her.

Gil looked up from the calf, his eyes gravitating from his
son's face to Dorie's. He frowned, looked perplexed and then worried as
he got sluggishly to his feet.

She held to the plank of wood in front of her until she
felt Gil's arms around her. She remembered them, gently supporting,
strong and trustworthy. She unclamped her fingers and turned to him.
Fletcher was gone, and it was just the two of them. Just Gil. Worried.
Confused. Holding her. Her heart was beating too hard and too slow, she
could feel every single beat; hear it under the fuzzy ringing in her
ears.