The Mothers of Voorhisville (13 page)

When Theresa Ratcher came out of the house, the mothers—thinking she'd come for her daughter—parted. But Theresa only looked at Elli with a confused expression, then spread her arms and arched her back, her skin freckled at the throat but pure white on her breasts, which hung loosely towards her stomach. She stood there, her face upturned to the crows and the clouds and her eyes closed, until a shadow crossed the sun and came diving down. It was a baby, its gray wings pulled back, diving right for Theresa Ratcher, landing on her with arms spread like a hug. With a sob, Theresa's arms wrapped around him as he repositioned himself and began suckling. The mothers sighed. Theresa Ratcher, slowly, carefully, sank to the ground, kneeling in the dirt, smiling, and running her hand over her baby's hair, just five yards away from Elli, who keened over hers.

 

T
HE
M
OTHERS

Everyone was at the funeral. Even Pete Ratcher, his wrists and ankles tied, though none of us are sure how he got there. We suspect Raj Singh helped him, though Raj should have been helping Tamara. Tamara has no memory of that day. From the time she fell asleep on the Ratchers' couch, until after the trial, Tamara walked with open eyes, but remained in some kind of slumber. Perhaps Pete just hopped out there by himself—he hadn't been tied
to
anything, so it wouldn't have been impossible. We suppose that could have happened without any of us noticing. We were
busy.
There were two babies to bury, Ravi Singh and little Timmy Ratcher, plus all our own babies to attend to.

At that point we were still hiding the secret of the wings, which (we did not yet know) we shared, though several of us considered how much we should reveal about our own babies. If Theresa based her belief in Pete Ratcher's incestuous culpability solely on the evidence of
wings,
how much responsibility did we have for clarifying that wings weren't proof of incest? Still, we mothers—thoughtful, contemplative, responsible women—were not inclined to share our secret, even if it could save a family. Why save one family, if it would ruin our own?

 

T
AMARA

Carla Owens and Melinda Stevens fashioned caskets out of wooden crates they found in the barn, cutting the lids out of planks of wood Pete Ratcher had been using to shore up the beams.

Bridget Myer, who was such a fan of Martha Stewart that she
cried
when the homemaking diva went to prison, assembled a group of women who traipsed through the Ratchers' massive yard, picking dandelions, daisies, wild lilies, Queen Anne's lace, lilacs, and green stalks of corn for the altar—a card table covered by a white cloth and two white candles in the fake crystal candlesticks on either end.

It was just after noon. Elli Ratcher had washed off the blood and changed into a white sundress. Theresa Ratcher didn't change her clothes, though she'd put her shirt back on.

The crates were so small there was no need for pallbearers. Carla carried one to the front, set it on the altar, and Melinda carried the other. The lids were off at that point. The babies, cleaned and dressed by Shelly Tanning, Victoria Simmington, Gladiola Homely, and Margaret Satter, looked real sweet, surrounded by flowers.

Brenda Skyler, Audrey Newman, and Hannah Vorwinkski sang the opening song. They walked to the front and signaled when to start with little nods towards each other, but still didn't get it exactly right. They sang “Silent Night,” because it's hard to find funeral songs with babies in them. They hasten to point out, in defense of their controversial choice, that there is no mention of the word
Christmas
in the entire carol. Also, instead of singing the word
virgin
, they hummed.

“I'd like any of you guys to think of a better song for a baby's funeral,” Audrey says, if any of us mocks the choice. “And I don't count that Eric Clapton song. We ain't professionals, you know.”

Shreve Mahar stepped to the front of the crowd. She glanced at Elli Ratcher, who looked like a bored but polite schoolgirl at assembly, and at Tamara Singh, who wept into her open hands. Theresa Ratcher rocked her baby in her arms, humming softly. Pete Ratcher, still tied at the wrists and ankles, leaned against the apple tree, close enough to follow the proceedings but not so close as to be a part of them.

Shreve opened the book to the previously marked page and read from the Upanishads.

In the center of the castle of Brahman, our own body, there is a small shrine in the form of a lotus-flower, and within can be found a small space. We should find who dwells there, and we should want to know her.

Shreve read the passage into a stunning silence, as if even the babies were listening. When she finished, Raj Singh stepped to the front.

“We are here today,” he started, his voice breaking. He looked down at his feet, cleared his throat. “We are here. Today.” Again, his voice broke. He took a deep breath. “We are here.” He shook his head, raised his hands in a gesture of apology, and shuffled back to stand beside his weeping wife.

He did not notice how Elli Ratcher had snapped awake at his words. In the confused seconds after Raj's departure, she stepped forward, turned, and faced the mothers, glowing in the sun. “We are here today!” she said, in an excited voice. “That's it, isn't it? We are here! We are here!” She was quite giddy, as if she had only just discovered herself in her life. Eventually, Shreve escorted her back to stand beside Theresa. There was an uncomfortable period of uncertainty before everyone realized the funeral was over. Several mothers noticed flies gathering near the babies in their little wooden crates on the card table, and Shreve brushed them away.

Raj Singh spoke quietly to Theresa, then walked to Pete Ratcher and began to untie him. The mothers protested, but Theresa said, “He's not going to hurt anyone. They're going to dig the graves.” Raj and Pete went into the barn together and came out with shovels. They walked over to the apple tree and began digging, as the mothers drifted back to the house.

 

T
HE
M
OTHERS

We came to the Ratcher farm because of the rumors about a winged baby. We were determined not to leave that strange and unhappy place without some information. Tamara Singh was a wreck, and nobody could get anything out of her. She lay upstairs in Elli's bedroom while her husband and Pete Ratcher dug two tiny graves beneath the apple tree.

Elli was also of little use. “We are here,” she kept repeating, her eyes wide.

“Grieving,” some of us said. “Nuts,” said others.

We did not mean it as judgment. We held our babies close and shuddered to guess how we would behave, should something so terrible happen to us.

“Her baby didn't just
die
,” Emily said. “He was
murdered
by her own
father
.”

It was a long day. We drifted in and out of conversations and emotions while the two men continued digging. We felt horrible for the mothers of the dead babies. We really did. But, also, we were there on a mission.

 

T
AMARA

When it was revealed that Elli and Theresa Ratcher's babies had been seen flying, the mothers (after dismissing Elli, with her “We are here” glassy-eyed uselessness) turned to Theresa. “Yes. So what?” she said to anyone who dared ask outright, did her baby
fly
? By Theresa's reasoning, this was no longer the point.

The mothers, most of whom had carried their heavy secrets for months, confided in Theresa Ratcher. By seven o'clock, the house was a riot of noisy babies; the plumbing just barely keeping up with the women's needs; the hot kitchen cluttered with fresh-baked casseroles, frozen pizza, and dishes in a constant state of being washed.

Finally, Theresa Ratcher called for everyone's attention. The mothers hushed the ornery babies, who, irritated from confinement, would not be hushed, and tried to listen to what Theresa was saying.

“You are all telling me the same thing.
All
the babies have wings.”

At first, the mothers were horrified. Misunderstanding, they thought Theresa was not revealing a universal truth, but the deep secret they had confided in her. It was only after a few moments that someone realized what she'd said. “
All
the babies have wings?”

The mothers looked at each other. Nodding. Slowly smiling. Yes, it was true. There was a murmur, which quickly escalated into a babble of excitement, not funereal at all.

Theresa Ratcher opened her arms and Matthew broke free, diving and swooping overhead.

Soon babies were flying throughout the rooms, gleefully darting around each other. Some of the mothers, cut by babies' wings, drifted in a confused stupor, “awakening” (for lack of a better term) to the shock of a houseful of flying babies, but other mothers had grown so adept at avoiding the wings that they were able to explain what had occurred.

“All of them?” the stunned mothers asked.

“Yes. All.”

Pete Ratcher and Raj Singh dug beneath the apple tree, the white blossoms only recently swallowed into tiny, bitter apples. They worked, accompanied by the buzzing of flies and bees, in mutual silence, until, just as the sun was leaning on the horizon, babies began flying out of the house. Both Pete and Raj stopped digging. “What can it mean?” Raj asked.

“It means the devil's come to Voorhisville,” Pete replied, though Theresa and Elli both later said he was not a religious man.

Inside the house, Theresa once more quieted the women. “We have to make some decisions about how we're going to proceed,” she said. “I mean, all of us sharing this secret.”

Elli finally broke her spell of repeating “We are here” to cry, “My dad killed my baby!”

“We'll call the police.” Cathy reached for her cell phone.

“Wait!” Shreve said. “What's going to happen if we call the police? They're going to want to see the body, right? And if they see the body, they're going to see the wings.”