Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (15 page)

“Maybe one,” Sarah says.

“Take it into the front room,” I say. I watch her walk. She looks so much like Vivienne did at her age, not her features but the way the light plays off her face, the way she moves. Sarah sits on the sofa. I sit beside her and feel awkward as hell. I think about Papa laid out in the corner. Wonder if he's with Mama. Sarah's watching me, waiting. I'm not ready so I say, “See that mantelpiece? It was made the same year you were born.”

“Pretty old, huh?” she says, smiling.

“No, not to me. It doesn't seem all that long ago. It's made of walnut.”

“What?” Sarah says.

“The mantel,” I say. I get up and run my hand across it. Dust particles twist in the air. “Walnut,” I say rubbing my hands together, “hand-hewn.”

Sarah takes a sip of her beer. “Who made it?” she asks.

“A carpenter. He was living with me here when you were born. Still pretty, isn't it? He said this walnut should last forever.”

Sarah nods. She takes a deeper pull on the beer. “No offense, Aunt Kate, but reckon how many boyfriends you've had?”

“If I think really hard,” I say, counting on my fingers, “I could tell you. I'd have to go from room to room, though, to make sure.”

“How do you keep them apart?”

“They all made something or fixed something or left something in the house,” I say, “all craftsmen—artists in a way.” Sarah looks serious, too serious. I try to lighten her up. “You're not trying to break my record, are you?”

She smiles. “Not hardly, Aunt Kate. For me, two is one too many.” Then she stares into space as though she might cry. Too soon, I think.

“But damn, Sarah,” I say, slapping her on the leg, “a veterinarian! Why didn't I think of that? I never got beyond the house!” She's back with me. We drink together.

“One time while you were gone,” I say, “when I was feeling especially mean, I told old Joe, looks like he'd be proud to have a ‘doctor' in the family. Really pissed him off. But what pissed him off even worse was when Donna spoke right up and said, ‘We do have a doctor in the family—Andrew Webster, Ph.D.' Joe said, ‘doctor, like hell,' and retreated to his garden.”

I'm laughing by now and I get Sarah started. We both laugh till we hurt, just like I've seen her and Donna do hundreds of times, just like Viv and I used to do. A laugh between sisters.

I go for another beer. When I come back, Sarah's standing by the mantelpiece, rubbing it as though she's appreciating it for the first time. “Aunt Kate,” she says, “didn't you love any of them?”

“I love the house,” I say, popping the fresh can. “They're all a part, so in that way, I love them. But, by then my heart was already gone.”

“To the mantelpiece man?” Sarah asks.

My hands shakes. A little stream of beer rolls down my arm. “Before that,” I say. I'm as ready now as I'll ever be, I think. “Sit down, Sarah.” I take her arm and guide her back to the sofa, “That's what I want to talk to you about.”

“Your first love?” she says, staring into my eyes.

“That and Vivienne's first love.”

“Mama's?” Sarah asks. She takes a long pull on her beer. The last of the can, I know, by the grimace on her face.

“Viv and I depended on each other. We had to. After Mama died early and Papa stayed so busy at the store. We had the farm but Papa did better in selling. He loved that store, its shelves and rows and bins. And he had everything—string, fireball jawbreakers, nails, sweet feed, cloth, pencils, Blue-Horse paper. You ever had a fireball, Sarah?”

She shakes her head. “Then you don't know what you're missing. They're hot as hell, turn your tongue red then white, and make your stomach ache. We loved them. Kind of like smoking for a kid. God, I need a cigarette. You mind?” Sarah shakes her head. I know she's lying but I light one anyway. I suck in hard. The smoke feels good, so good I don't want to breathe out. But I have to. I take a second drag.

“Papa had everything all bottled or stacked, organized and counted. He said nature couldn't mess up his store like it could crops and people. So he stayed in the store more and more after Mama died.” I finish off my second beer. “This stuff goes straight through you,” I say, “be back in a minute.”

When I come back, Sarah's holding two fresh cans. She hands me one and pops the other one for herself.

“But, see, we still had the farm to think about.” I open my can and take a swallow. “So Papa rented out parcels of land and hired on tenant farmers to take care of things out here. Vivienne and I managed the house on our own. She cooked, I cleaned, we both did school work and we both read a lot. Mostly classics back then. Our mother had quite a collection—Shakespeare's plays, the
Illiad
and the
Odyssey
, Dickens' novels, a pioneer book or two by James Fenimore Cooper—mostly fiction. Of course, at that age you read everything like it's God's truth. And we stayed out of trouble until …” I look over at Papa's corner and wonder if he's listening.

“Until?” Sarah says. She's on the edge of the sofa, breathing in my smoke.

I shift the ashtray, “Until the summer Samuel Harrison and his family came to live at the farm. I was sixteen at the time, Viv was seventeen. Samuel Harrison had a son, named David, the same age as Vivienne. And a daughter, Opal, about four, I think.” I wipe the sweat from the can and take a pull. “He told Papa that his first wife died in childbirth. You can just bet that got to Papa. And Samuel said his second wife went back home to her parents after Opal was born. Papa said a man like that would work hard to keep his mind off his sadness. Papa was right. He just didn't realize what Samuel Harrison would work hard at.” I light another cigarette and blow the smoke away from Sarah, toward Papa's corner. Sarah doesn't seem to notice. She's staring into my eyes.

I take another long drag then continue, “Viv and I hung around the Harrison household at first to play with Opal. We pretended she was our little sister, made a big fuss over her. She had sky-blue eyes and the reddest hair I've ever seen. Vivienne made Opal a dress, buttercup yellow, and embroidered little daisies all over the collar. We'd put Opal on Tar Baby, that was our pony's name, and lead her around the barn like a princess. Had her looking like Shirley Temple. I used to think about little Opal everytime Viv got Donna all dolled up for those recitals. Remember how Donna looked? Remember that poodle costume?”

Sarah nods. “Go on about Opal,” she says.

“Opal wasn't the problem. What happened is your mother started spending more time with David than she did Opal. David looked like his father, only younger of course, handsome and just busting out of his jeans, like he was outgrowing everything he put on. Only his hands didn't go with the rest of him. They were artist hands, long fingers, smooth nails, knuckles not yet knotted with work. A little young for my taste, but not Vivienne's.” Sarah's eyes widen. She takes a long drink.

“David told her about places he'd worked. Pennsylvania with its big red barns, Georgia with black dirt and tobacco farms, Kentucky's blue grass that wasn't really blue. Viv hung on his every word. Every night she'd repeat them to me. David said he hoped his family would go out West, get their own place and raise whatever they raise out there. Just so it was theirs and nobody else's.

“Vivienne and David fell for each other faster than star-crossed lovers. She was so pretty and hungry for the world. He was handsome and had seen a good part of it, even if it was from tenant shacks. I'm sure Papa and even Samuel Harrison would have put an end to it, early on, if they had known then. But Papa was busy with the store and Samuel was busy with me.”

Sarah reached for a cigarette, touched her belly with her other hand, then slipped the cigarette back in the pack.

“I can still see Samuel Harrison. God, Sarah, he was handsome, so masculine. Eyes greener than summer grass. Moustache thickest at the corners of his mouth. Dark hair curling around his ears. Arms shiny brown from the sun.” I still get a rush just thinking about him.

Sarah touches me on the knee. “Go on,” she says.

“I always wondered why he went for me instead of your mother. She was prettier. Maybe pretty didn't matter and I just looked more willing. Hell! I was for him.” I stop to pull on my beer. It's empty. Sarah goes for another one. I can still feel Samuel Harrison, tall and dark, pulling me up the ladder into the hayloft. Straw pricking my neck as he kissed me up one side and down the other. Whispering love words the whole time.

Sarah hands me the beer. It's already popped. “Go on,” she says again.

“It was good, too Goddamn good for a sixteen-year-old farm girl.” I take a drink. It's cold all the way down. “Because, Sarah, it never was that way again. Memories of him haunted me, came between me and every other lover I had, like a fog rolling in so thick I couldn't even see the face in front of me.”

“Tell me about Mama,” Sarah says. Her voice sounds tight, urgent.

“While I was in the hayloft making love with Samuel Harrison, Vivienne and David were in the back room of the tenant house doing the same.” Sarah reaches for a cigarette again. This time she doesn't put it back. “Samuel caught them. They left the next day.” Sarah's trying to light up but her hand is shaking too hard. I think about stopping here, letting her calm down, but I want to get this done. I light the cigarette for her. She inhales. “I don't think they would have left,” I say, watching her closely, “if they'd known about Vivienne.” Sarah exhales, then gulps for air like she's drowning. “You okay?” I ask her.

She nods. “Go on,” Sarah whispers. That same look she used to get as a teenager. When she got upset at home, she'd come over to the farm and crawl up in the barn loft. I'd leave her alone to cry or scream or cuss or whatever made her feel better. Then she'd come looking for me and I'd hand her a cigarette. Sometimes she wouldn't even tell me what was wrong. We'd just sit together smoking and talking about a beautiful sunset or horseback-riding or a good book until she was ready to go home.

“But,” I say, “at any rate the Harrisons did leave. And there was Joe Crawford who'd been hanging around Vivienne since grade school. They got married fast with Joe still amazed at his good fortune.” Sarah stares into space. Her cigarette rolls off her fingertips. I retrieve it, grind it in the ash tray, then take both my hands and turn her face toward me. “When you came along, Joe made a big to-do over being a father. At the time I thought he must have a room-temperature IQ. Now I realize he knew. But he never let on.” I let go. Sarah's face collapses into her own hands. I put my arms around her shoulders, hold her close and just let her cry.

The phone rings. I leave Sarah to answer. “It's Jack,” I say. Sarah shakes her head. “She can't come to the phone. No, Jack, she's fine. She's in the bathroom.” I roll my eyes at Sarah. “After-while. Just ice tea. Okay, Jack, I promise.” I hang up. Poor Jack, I think to myself, he lives in a world of balance and absolutes. I don't think he knows there's a whole other world. Shadows, longings, passions he doesn't feel, at least I don't think so. But Sarah does. I can see it in those Harrison eyes.

She's quit crying. “Jack wanted to know if you're feeling all right. I said you were. Are you?”

She nods.

“Want to stay here? You know you don't have to go back to Jack.”

Sarah smiles and pats me on the arm. “I'll go home, at least for the night. I need to lie down.”

I walk her to the car. The moon is full or almost, I can't tell the difference when it's this bright. We both cast long shadows.

Sarah turns to me. The moon illuminates her face. “Did you ever hear from them, Aunt Kate, either one?”

I lift my arm out from my body, watch its shadow streak across the driveway. “No,” I say, “and I never told Vivienne about me and Samuel. I figured their leaving had as much to do with me as it did her. She might not have forgiven me.” I look for forgiveness in Sarah's eyes but they are somewhere else.

“I didn't come out unscathed. I used up my womanhood loving and hating Samuel for what he'd done to me in that musty hayloft. Now, I realize he was just a big horny farmer, scraping for a living, and desperately missing his wives. But for me, he became a Romantic hero, not the Harlequin kind, but the noble savage of Byron and Shelley and Coleridge's poetry. I'll bet that's what your veterinarian is to you, some kind of hero.”

“Maybe so,” she says. She opens the car door. Her shadow folds, collapses.

“Still,” I say, more to myself than to Sarah, “if I could trade hindsight for illusion, I don't think I would. What a tedious life it would have been, married to some mechanic or teacher or mortician, going to choir practice on Wednesday, playing bingo on Friday.”

“Maybe so,” Sarah says again, but her mind is somewhere else. She cranks the engine. I watch her drive away.

“Rest in peace, Vivienne!” I shout to the moon. I won't and Sarah has a long way to go.

PART IV

BIRTH

ANDREW

Donna looks upset.

“I got here as soon as I could,” I tell her. She glares at me, then back across the waiting room at Jack.

“Is Sarah all right?” I ask.

“SHE is,” Donna says in a loud whisper, “but that sorry husband of hers.” She flips her hand in his direction like she's trying to shake off something nasty. “He called me ‘Prima Donna Dingbat.'”

“What on earth for?” I say, thinking of several possibilites.

“Because I didn't call him.”

“You didn't?”

Donna looks me in the face, her eyes full of sincerity. “I was at Sarah's when she went into labor, so I drove over here just as fast as I could and got her admitted. He SHOULD be grateful.” She catches her breath. “And I would have called him, but after I called you and Aunt Kate and Daddy and Holly's Hair and Then Some—I had to cancel my appointment—I ran out of quarters.”