Where is the Baby? (23 page)

At last the meeting came to an end and people were either streaming over to talk to the speaker or putting the tables and chairs back in place, carrying full ashtrays to a table near the kitchen before filing out of the barn. Hay got up, saying, ‘Why don't the two of you grab seats and I'll get us some coffee.'

Faith sat quietly for a moment, then told Tally she was going to get an ashtray. ‘I really need a cigarette,' she said apologetically. ‘I'll be right back.'

After making her way through the slow-moving crowd and emptying one of the ashtrays, she got back to the table as Hay returned carrying a tray with mugs of coffee and a plate of cookies. Taking note of Faith's cigarette, he put the tray on the table, saying, ‘I've been wanting a cigarette, too. Will you be all right with both of us smoking?' he asked Tally as he sat down, prepared to pull his tobacco and papers from his pocket.

‘Smoke, you two,' she told them. ‘I really don't mind.'

‘Tell me,' Tally asked Faith, surrendering to her curiosity. ‘What will you do when you leave here?'

‘I'll be going back to school and looking for a place of my own in my free time.'

‘Aren't you a bit young for your own place?' Tally asked.

‘As far as anyone knows, I'm almost eighteen. That makes me “legal.” I'd like to be closer to school. Right now I'm spending a lot of time driving back and forth every day. I'm a sophomore at Yale, in pre-med,' she elaborated.

Hay was impressed. ‘I thought you were maybe a junior in high school.'

‘Everybody thinks that.' Faith shrugged, giving him a smile. ‘I'm used to it. But I've always wanted to be a doctor, a pediatrician specifically.' Turning to Tally, she asked, ‘I know it's kind of pushy of me, but will you tell me about prison, about what happened?'

Bemused, Hay took a drag on his cigarette, waiting to hear what Tally would say. Obviously, the two of them had engaged in some intense conversation before he'd been free to join them earlier with his dinner plate.

‘I was young and impatient once, too,' Tally said generously, offering Faith a smile, then including Hay. ‘Here's the abridged version,' she began.

‘In the spring of 'sixty-five I was working on my BA thesis at the San Francisco Art Institute, and trying to decide if I really wanted to start graduate school in the fall. I was pre-enrolled but very uncertain. My immediate plan was to head home to Nevada and take the summer at the ranch to decide on a direction because nothing appealed to me. I considered myself an emancipated woman, modern and forward-thinking. I wanted to
do
something, have some kind of career, but I didn't want to throw away the tuition money if my interest turned out to be in some area that wasn't covered at the Institute.' She took a slow breath, and said, ‘And then I met Clayton and everything changed.'

Just as he had all those years ago in reality, he stepped now into her recall: clear-eyed and smiling, with a country boy's sturdy build and unaffected manner; a perfectly beautiful young man with direct blue eyes and a well-shaped mouth, asking to borrow the salt from her table in the cafe.

She was alone. He was alone. He asked if he could share her table. She said yes. Lunch evolved into a lengthy laugh-punctuated conversation that continued on to become a rambling walk through the city with a pause for a takeout dinner of hamburgers and fries eaten on a park bench, and ended just before midnight when he escorted her back to her apartment and kissed her cheek before heading off to his boarding-house.

He was an orphan who'd been raised by his only relative, his mother's laconic unmarried Uncle Bradford who'd owned a dude ranch in central Wyoming. Deeply sensitive, aware of nuance, immensely talented and kind-hearted, Clayton was – with the inheritance from Bradford's estate – completing his degree in the photography program at the Institute that had been started by Ansel Adams.

Despite the rural upbringing that had begun for him at the age of six following his parents' death in an automobile accident, Clayton preferred shooting urban scenes, often subtly hand-tinting black-and-white images with faint colors to lend them surprising softness and warmth.

Tally loved his work; she loved him. Their feelings for each other were immediate and absolute. When he revealed that he was on a student deferment and would be inducted into the military following his graduation in June, she said, ‘We'd better get the license right away then.'

Purely as a formality, because she so rarely saw them, she'd phoned to invite her parents to the ceremony. As Tally had anticipated, her father initially sounded pleased for her and said he was willing but, his tone changing and voice dropping to a near-whisper, admitted that he had to turn the matter over to her mother, who immediately came on the line, angry. ‘We have an
important
luncheon booked that day! You can't seriously expect us to change our plans on such short notice! This is
so
typical of you, Natalie. You never think of
anyone
but
yourself
!'

When she called him, Warren exclaimed, ‘What wonderful news! I'll call Alexis right now. We will be there, Tally!'

In keeping with her status as an emancipated woman, she chose to keep her own name. Clayton didn't mind. She was nineteen. He was twenty-one. Eighteen days after they met, they went downtown to City Hall and got married. Warren and Alexis happily witnessed the ceremony, then insisted on taking the newlyweds to lunch at The Top of The Mark.

The next day a courier delivered an envelope that contained a check for ten thousand dollars along with a note that said, ‘I am sorry we couldn't be there. I wish you both every happiness. Love, Dad.'

Surprised and touched, she wrote a thank-you note and sent it to his office where she knew he'd actually receive it. Anything sent to the house would be intercepted by Ivory who was likely, first, to raise hell with her husband for daring to send any sort of gift to their daughter without consulting her and, second, she would destroy the note. In doing all this, it would never have occurred to her that she'd confirmed Tally's receipt of her father's gift. It was safer to circumvent her mother altogether and deal directly with her father who, every now and then, revealed a functioning heart – something her mother did not possess.

Their honeymoon was a long weekend at the ranch. Clayton fell in love with the place. ‘It feels familiar, like home,' he declared, quickly deciding that next to the porch with its panoramic view, his favorite spot was a wide tree trunk by the river where he was content to sit with a book, looking up every now and then to watch the river water rushing past.

Alba and Joe Seven Moons took to Clayton on sight and, at Tally's insistence, sat down with them to the standing rib roast celebration dinner that Alba prepared.

When they returned to the city, Clayton moved into her quaint apartment on Potrero Hill. They worked slavishly to complete their theses, his on the effects of sunlight on the urban landscape in photography, and hers on the issue of what forms might legitimately be considered contemporary art.

After defending their papers, they returned to the ranch to spend their final week together before he was to report for duty. He didn't want to go but believed it was the honorable thing to do. One defended one's country, his great-uncle had told him. During the war, Clayton's dad had been a private in the army, based in Italy, and Uncle Bradford had been a captain in the navy, seeing action in the Pacific.

‘It's only a year-long deployment,' Clayton assured her. ‘Then it'll be behind us.'

That one year lasted forever, her longing for him initially relieved by his frequent letters. But they came less and less often until his last one arrived three months before he was discharged. The long silence worried her.

A year later, a haggard stranger came back. Thin to the point of emaciation, his pants were held up by a length of rope. His fair glossy curls had given way to a buzz cut so short that in sunlight he looked bald. His complexion was ashen, dry; his cheeks and somehow faded eyes were sunken. His nails were bitten to the quick, blood-rimmed, and he chewed on his fingers constantly, unable to hold a conversation of any length. He clung to her as if she was all that stood between him and a terrifying descent into frigid darkness.

A month after he returned, he gathered all his prints and negatives and built a bonfire in back of the house. He couldn't be persuaded to save any of his work. Jaw clenched, eyes narrowed, he stood chewing on a forefinger, watching until the fire burned to ash. Tally stayed to one side, trying to understand what was happening, able only to believe that what he'd experienced in Viet Nam had been too dreadful to tolerate. His very being had been altered by the experience.

She thought he might rally when her pregnancy was confirmed. But he shook his head. ‘It's a mistake,' he told her, anxious and fearful. ‘This isn't a world fit for children. You should get rid of it while you can,' he said with frightful solemnity.

‘I
want
this baby,' she said quietly, wounded. ‘And once you meet him or her, you'll want the baby, too.'

‘No! It's a mistake,' he said again.

She tried to get help for him, arranging appointments Clayton refused to keep. ‘Please let me help you,' she asked repeatedly.

He just shook his head and walked off to the river's edge where he'd sit unmoving for hours simply staring at the water. He no longer read or listened to music. He just sat, looking out but, in reality, gazing inward.

She tried to comfort him, tried to get him to talk. Nothing worked. The gifted, sensitive man she'd known was in hiding or perhaps gone forever. Nothing she said or did had any effect. He was fretful, jittery. He'd lost the ability to smile. He couldn't eat more than a bite or two of anything. He had nightmares that caused him to cry out, startling both of them into wakefulness. He wept without warning, inconsolable. She'd gaze into his eyes, searching, but unable to find him. She had no idea who this person was but she couldn't give up trying to retrieve the man she loved who had to be still somewhere inside him.

When she returned late one afternoon from her regular monthly trip to Carson City for a check-up with her obstetrician, she found the driveway crowded with emergency and police vehicles. Her heartbeat turned chaotic, her mouth went dry. Alba had been keeping a watch out for her and came running to steer her away from the house. ‘Don't go in,' Alba warned her. ‘Come with me, Tally, please come with me.'

But of course she went in, entering in time to see the paramedics cutting Clay down from the center beam in the living room. The coroner, the sheriff and several deputies stood by, watching. They were terribly gentle with him, lowering his weight into the body bag on the waiting stretcher, zipping closed the lurid black container before bearing him away. The coroner was holding Tally's hand but she didn't notice until she turned to watch the paramedics directing the stretcher out to the ambulance, when the warmth of the hand enclosing hers penetrated the chill that gripped her. She couldn't speak, couldn't think.

She was twenty-one years old, six months pregnant, a widow.

Ten weeks later, Anna was born. And for the first time since Clayton died, Tally felt warm. Alba and Joe fussed, insisting on babysitting Anna the first night home so Tally could get some rest. Seeing the baby in Joe's strong brown arms was comforting. As she lay down to nap, Tally couldn't help thinking things were beginning to look a bit brighter.

Anna was easy, a jolly baby who loved to eat, loved to sleep, loved being cuddled and sung to. She had thick dark curls and chubby limbs and her eyes quickly turned the familiar crystal blue of her father's eyes; she splashed happily with excited energy while being bathed in the kitchen sink. She made giddy noises as her hands smacked at the water. Alba stood by with a towel, ready to receive the baby for the nightly ritual of cooing and cuddling and then a feeding with her mother before bed.

Then one morning five months into her motherhood, Tally got up and went to get Anna for her morning feed. She looked into the crib to see that the baby lay motionless. Her skin was cool. Tally couldn't breathe, and held the baby, trying to think what to do. She felt her mind starting to melt.

The same paramedics came again and so did one of the deputies. Anna couldn't be revived. The assistant district attorney arrived, as did the coroner, and they talked quietly with the paramedics while Tally clutched the baby, trying to will her awake, trying to infuse her body with vital warmth.

‘I'm so sorry,' the young lawyer said consolingly, a hand touching lightly to her shoulder.

‘So very, very sorry,' the coroner said.

Then they went on their way.

Joe and Alba gazed on in shock as Tally begged the paramedics to explain what had happened to Anna, to explain how she could just go to sleep and not wake up again. The older of the two EMTs, Paiute-Shoshone like Alba and Joe, with a much lived-in face, said softly, ‘It happens sometimes. It just happens, and there's no explanation.'

Tally couldn't absorb that and continued rocking the baby in her arms until, finally, Alba convinced her to let the paramedics take Anna. ‘You'll see her later,' Alba said.

‘She'll still be dead,' Tally replied, noticing the depth of the wrinkles surrounding Alba's eyes. She realized she had no idea how old the woman was. In her late sixties, maybe her late seventies? She looked ancient. Why had Tally never really looked at her before?

Alba eased the baby out of Tally's arms and surrendered her to the older paramedic, then held Tally gently, securely, while Joe went with the men out to the ambulance.

It was over. Dead husband. Dead baby.

But no. It was an election year and the district attorney wanted to make a case out of Anna's death. So despite the assistant district attorney's angry argument that there
was
no case, that according to the paramedics and the coroner, there was no evidence of any physical harm to the baby, the DA charged Tally with second-degree murder. A murder trial would make the district attorney the center of attention, especially if she tried the case herself. It would ensure her re-election.