The Heart Beats in Secret

by Katie Munnik

  ‘Pride of place for you, my dear. You two comfy now?’

  Hans built a tower of wooden crates and he set the television on top, the picture grainy but clear enough.

  ‘Well, will you look at that?’ Rika said. ‘It works.’

  ‘You sound surprised,’ Hans said.

  ‘Well, I expected we’d be needing the radio, that’s all.’

  ‘A little bit of faith, please.’

  Bas said that they had been fiddling with it for a few days and had missed the launch itself, but managed to catch the footage later.

  ‘Every time we’ve turned it on, someone’s been talking about man’s journey to the moon.’

  I thought Jenny would raise an eyebrow at that, or more likely a fist. I’d received a letter from her at the beginning of June, postmarked Vancouver. Said she was working with an avant-garde group – she described it as ‘very confrontational’ – and was living halfway up a mountain, surrounded by raccoons and hippies. She sounded happy. She’d be watching the broadcast, too, of course. Half the world would be. I’d have to remember to send her a card about Stanley.

  ‘Cronkite is in fine form,’ Bas said. ‘He’s confessed to sweaty hands but he’s managing to keep the show on the road. I half expect him to cross himself.’

  ‘Him and all of NASA,’ said Rika.

  ‘Do you think astronauts are prayerful types?’ Annie asked.

  ‘Anyone who launches folk into space hoping that they will collide safely with an orbiting rock better be. Fourteen minutes to go. Clever how they make the numbers flick down like that, isn’t it?’

  ‘Big bucks for animators,’ said Hans. ‘Not bad modelling, is it? You could almost believe the real thing looked like that.’

  Marie said she thought it looked like a lightning bug.

  ‘Why’s it Apollo, anyway?’ Rika asked. ‘Isn’t he a sun god? What about Artemis? That would have been more appropriate, I think. Protector of the moon. And childbirth, too, I think – wasn’t she?’

  ‘Your kind of woman,’ Bas said. ‘Or maybe we should call you Artemis.’

  ‘Hush it. I want to hear what they’re saying.’

  Beeping and faraway voices making official sounds and comments. Cronkite cut through with a laugh. They say it’s better than the simulator. That’s consoling.

  Altitude now 2100 feet, still looking very good.

  Four and a half minutes left in this era.

  I nuzzled my nose into the warmth of Stanley’s scalp as the lightning-bug ship shuddered on the screen, the numbers closing in. It looked like something from a kids’ programme, something half made. There should be music in the background, someone ready to dance. My parents would be watching this, too. Or listening to it. Maybe they would go along to the hotel or down to Drem to be with Muriel and Andrew. I wondered if there was a television at the manse.

  Correction on that velocity. Now reading 760 feet per second.

  That’s pretty slow for space flying.

  It is. It’s as slow as man’s ever flown in space.

  It sure is.

  5200 feet. Less than a mile from the moon’s surface.

  We’re go.

  2000 feet. Into the egg.

  ‘What did he just say?’ Marie asked.

  ‘Shhh!’ Everyone focused on the numbers counting down, but Stanley startled at the sound, his small eyes opening, blinking, alert.

  ‘It’s okay, little buddy,’ I whispered to him. ‘We’ll be quiet together, okay?’ I traced the softness of his cheek with my finger, and his mouth opened. I tried again to nurse, but he turned away sleepily.

  On the floor, Soleil sucked on the corner of a pillow, his mother resting her hand gently on his head. The screen flickered, the voices continued, and everyone held their breath, listening to the numbers until the words appeared on the screen:

  LUNAR MODULE HAS LANDED ON MOON.

  Hans was the first to cheer, then the room erupted but Bas clapped his hands, and everyone stilled to hear Cronkite say, ‘Man on the moon’.

  ‘We copy you down, Eagle,’ a Houston voice declared.

  And a voice from the moon answered, ‘Houston? Tranquility Base here. The Eagle has landed.’

  I held Stanley in my arms as everyone hollered and shook hands, hugging, some crying, all eyes shining, the same thing over and over in this new world, and my baby’s eyes were galaxy deep and my heart filled with plain, old-fashioned wonder, the noise of people believing, unbelieving, and I held Stanley.

  After that, some drifted back to the tents and some decided to stay up for Armstrong’s walk. I went outside, and, over the lake, the moon looked sturdy and reassuring. Stars were reflected on the dark water and down by the village someone set off fireworks, a few bright ladders climbing up to heaven, echoing off the quiet hills. In my arms, Stanley slept, and I didn’t want to wake him, even if everything was beautiful.

  Each night, I took Stanley outside and showed him the moon. I liked to watch the darks of his eyes open in the half-light, the pale of his face soft like a moth’s wing. He was so small in my arms, such a tiny weight, but my arms ached from holding him, and my breasts from nursing. I was tired and didn’t sleep, but I was happy. Stilled with happiness with this sleeping baby in my arms. Rika taught me how to alternate sides for nursing, and Marie made me a bracelet of braided cloth that I could switch between my wrists when I was too tired to remember which breast he’d emptied last. I felt full, heavy with milk, dulled and happy. Rika weighed him and told me it was natural he’d lose weight in his first fortnight. She held him and measured him, took notes and I thanked her. She wanted me to sleep and I tried and when he woke, Stanley watched us with wide, grey eyes.

  In the mornings, I sat by the lake holding Stanley and watching geese fill the sky. A hundred vee-ed together over our heads, even a thousand or more, and I heard in their voices the end of summer arriving and winter drawing close. My childhood had echoed with wintering sandbar geese, their voices loud behind every silence and stillness only coming with their departure in the spring.

  But these northern hills knew a quieter cold. This wild-goose song was just passing through. A pilgrim refrain caught on the wind, a stranger’s song gone back into the world.

  An August afternoon and Rika told me she wanted to take Stanley into town. She stood with her back to me, changing his nappy. Her hair hung down her back and her feet were bare.

  ‘The doctor should have a look at him. He might have suggestions for getting his weight up a little more.’

  ‘You worried?’

  ‘A little. You know that. He’s kinda small still, and sleepy. And he’s not soaking his nappies as much as I would like. Best to consult, I think.’

  Hans said he’d drive if we liked, and Marie wanted to come, too. She sat beside me in the backseat, the morning already sticky and humid and we sat on pillowcases so our legs wouldn’t stick to the vinyl seats. I lay Stanley on my lap, his clothes undone so he’d be cool, and I think he liked the bumps along the way because he smiled up at me, a sweet, milk-soft, reassuring smile like everything was fine and perfect and lovely. The radio played the White Album, the organ’s drone matching the hot and hazy day, and Marie pointed out a field of dandelions out of the window, a pick-up truck parked in the long grass, a horse lying down.

  Marie wanted to buy some things in town, so she said that she and Hans would meet us later, when we were done at the surgery. They crossed the road together and Marie turned and waved, a split grin on her face like it was a holiday at the seaside. But the fan in the surgery ticked as it turned, and the nurse was only a kid in a tight white skirt and glasses, a tiny crucifix at her neck. I wondered if she liked the Beatles, her job, the doctor behind his closed door. When it was Stanley’s turn, she looked surprised that Rika was coming in too, but the doctor smiled, and she withdrew.

  ‘My friend,’ he said, and Rika smiled. ‘How are the woodland babies? You are looking well, yourself. Not overworked on your own?’

  �
��Not on my own. There are lots of folk to help out. This is Felicity – she’s a nurse herself. And this is Stanley. We’re finding he’s a sleepy baby and thought it wise to get another set of eyes on him to be on the safe side.’

  He nodded, and I lay Stanley down on the bed.

  ‘A foundling? He has the look of an orphanage baby.’

  ‘No,’ Rika said. ‘And not a difficult birth. But we’ve noticed low pulse amplitude and low pressure at times.’

  ‘Perhaps mauvaise alimentation? You have checked his mouth? No obvious cleft?’

  ‘No, all seems to be well. He simply isn’t fattening.’ She asked what he would suggest.

  ‘Supplemental formula is the best approach. And a little water in the afternoon so that the heat does not trouble him.’ He took his glasses off and polished them on a handkerchief. Without them, the skin around his eyes looked bruised and weakened. ‘Keep him close and come back when you need to. It should be possible to turn poor feeding around.’

  Outside the surgery, I asked Rika if she thought that was really the answer – that I was doing it wrong. She smiled and said she didn’t think so.

  ‘But we’ll keep a closer eye. And ear with the stethoscope, too, and weigh his diapers, I think. It’s good to know the facts.’

  There was a gate at the end of the path to the church and Hans stood there, shielding his eyes from the sun. He told us that Marie had gone inside to pray.

  ‘She likes to, whenever we come into town. Usually it’s open. Sometimes, there are ladies around doing flowers or ironing cloths, but she has it to herself today.’

  ‘Do you think anyone would mind if I slipped inside to nurse Stanley?’

  ‘Make yourself at home.’

  Rika stayed outside with Hans, saying she’d warn me if a priest appeared. I found Marie sitting near the front with her hands folded over her belly, her face tilted towards the ceiling, but her eyes were closed. I sat down softly a few rows back and settled to nurse. Stanley seemed to know what he was doing. I relaxed and felt the milk let down, his mouth soon showing wet and milky against my skin. Maybe he didn’t nurse long enough. That might be the problem. He’d soon turn his face away and I’d encourage him with the other side. But there was always milk. He must be getting what he needed. Perhaps he’d perk up when the cooler weather came. Right now, I thought he looked content. A quiet soul, small as a loaf of bread, his hair the colour of wheat.

  Marie stood up and came towards me.

  ‘I was praying about names, you know.’

  ‘And did you hear any answers?’

  ‘No, not yet. But it will come. I’m not worried.’

  I thought she might ask me then about Stanley’s name, and I would have told her, but she didn’t. She just stood there smiling and looking around at the church. The arc of the ceiling, the peeling white paint. I’d expected more ornamentation – gilt, candles, saints, that kind of thing – but this church was simple. Not modern like the Oratory, but small, old-fashioned and simple. On a small table near the door, someone had placed a vase of wild flowers. They looked fresh, as though they’d been set there that morning, and the cornflowers a Marian blue. In the kirk at home, the stained-glass-window Mary wore blue, too. She knelt on the ground with her cloak pooling around her, her son lying in its folds and when I was small, I used to think she was the lady of Aberlady and that she was buried in our kirk. She was only mentioned at Christmas, but from the Sunday school bench, I could see a marble carving on an ancient lady in a pleated bonnet, her eyes closed, her veined hands pale and folded peacefully on her breast. She had a mother’s strong face and all the grace of one favoured by God. It must be her, I thought, though I didn’t ask, and no one thought to tell me who she really was.

  Marie circled the church, examining everything, and I looked down at Stanley. He’d fallen asleep again with his small mouth open. I could feel his gentle breath against my bare skin, and see his fair hair sweaty on his little forehead, shining.

  ‘Here,’ Marie said, holding out two closed hands towards me. ‘I have gifts for each of you.’

  She opened her left hand and offered me a cornflower blossom, which I took and set against Stanley’s thin blanket.

  ‘And for the little one, something that lasts longer.’ Her left hand was empty, but wet and she laid it against the soft paleness of his hair. ‘Holy water. A blessing for your baby. May he be righteous and devout.’ She laughed as she spoke, then made the sign of the cross with her thumb on his forehead. ‘He is a little lamb, isn’t he?’

  Stanley lived that half-summer, and half September, too. The morning I woke and found him cold, I didn’t cry, just closed my eyes and wished only that I could contain him again. I wanted to hide him, to take him inside the still-soft folds of my belly and give him whatever strength he hadn’t found the first time. Instead, I had to give him to the earth. Bas dug a small grave under the white pines. I told him that I didn’t want a coffin.

  ‘That’s okay, right? I don’t have to. He’ll be safe enough.’

  ‘Yes, of course. Just like the ancients. Held in the arms of the planet.’

  Rika said these things happen. Sometimes souls slip away and we can’t see why. Liver difficulties, perhaps, or a defect in his heart. It was hard to know for sure. Sometimes, there isn’t a reason.

  We buried Stanley in the evening, wrapped in his blanket, his head and his feet bare. Marie helped me arrange cornflowers around him, their blue encircling him, while high above us, geese filled the sky, calling, wild and free.

  12

  SEPTEMBER PASSED AND THE WOODS BEGAN TO EMPTY. The folk in the tenting field had packed up, and Annie was back in the city. Bethanne and Ember moved west to live with her sister. I moved into the farmhouse, and Marie made me a rag rug for my floor. Rika sat with me but never suggested anything other than rest or a cup of tea. And the days kept passing.

  Across the lake, the leaves turned red and gold, and Marie told me that every morning, she found the beginnings of ice. First on puddles along the path from their cabin to the farmhouse and then in a gentle ring around the lake itself. Bas said he thought that there might be an early snow. I was glad to be sleeping in the farmhouse now. I woke up early most days, still uncomfortable with milk. Rika said it took time to dry up completely and I should be patient. Walking helped a bit, but better was coming back to the house afterwards, seeing the smoke rising from the chimney and knowing that Bas would have the coffee ready.

  I thought it was a blessing when Marie’s labour came on quickly. All afternoon, we’d been slicing the first of our apples in the farmhouse kitchen and threading them on strings to dry. Marie kept popping the rings in her mouth.

  ‘They’re so sweet,’ she said, crunching. ‘Tempting.’

  She thought the first cramps were just too much fruit, and headed up the stairs to the bathroom, hollering that she’d be down in a minute. Rika sent me down to the birthing house to fetch a kit.

  ‘Just in case,’ she said, checking her watch. ‘Take my cardigan if you like. It will be getting chilly out there now.’

  The loons were on the lake, silent and lovely. Evening shadowed the hills, but the lake held its own light, the silhouetted birds tattooed on the surface. They’d be heading south soon, following the geese. Yesterday Rika had told me again that I could stay as long as I liked, that she could use my help, but I wasn’t sure. Maybe I’d work again in Montreal, or head west. Nothing quite fitted, but I would need to decide.

  When I came back to the farmhouse, Rika was rubbing Marie’s back.

  ‘Where’s Hans?’ she asked. ‘Can you find him? And do you know if we have any booze? Ask Bas about the wine coolers, maybe? We might want to slow this down a bit. Feels a little too fast for my liking.’

  Marie knelt beside a chair, her elbows on the seat and her hair hanging down so I couldn’t see her face.

  ‘Is she all right?’

  ‘Right as rain and working. This feels like it will be a fast one and that can be
hard the first time through. We’ve had the waters while you were away and they’re clear, but I want to slow it all down if I can.’

  Marie moaned, a low drawn-out sound nothing like her voice.

  ‘There, that’s right,’ said Rika. ‘Make it a song. Can you look up now? Find my eyes? I want to see how you’re doing.’ Then softly, to me, she said, ‘I need Hans. And Bas. I need help.’

  ‘I’ll find them. They’ll be out at the new cabin.’

  ‘We need phones out here. We need something.’

  ‘I’ll be fast. I’ll run.’

  Rika wrapped her arms around the girl and tried to pull her to her feet. ‘Let’s get you lying down, love. I’ll prop you up with pillows, and you’ll just relax and try to breathe real slow. Slow as you can, okay? And Felicity? You go fast.’

  ‘I will,’ I said, but I paused for a moment at the door. ‘Lunette? Il n’y a rien à craindre. Le bébé arrive.’

  She looked up, her face pale and her eyes not seeing, but she tried to smile. ‘Oui. J’espère.’

  I left the farmhouse again, and the evening was darker now. I couldn’t see the roots or the stones along the path so I picked up my feet as I ran. Out at the new site, the men were sitting down by the lake, the half-built house a shadow behind them, the smoke from their cigarettes drifting out over the water.

  ‘Bas.’ My voice sounded rough.

  ‘Hey, Felicity.’

  ‘Rika needs you.’

  ‘Is it time?’ Hans asked. ‘Marie’s started?’ He smiled as he spoke, and I wished he wouldn’t.

  ‘Yeah, but it’s going too fast. Rika said she needs help.’

  Then they were on their feet and running, and I ran, too, but couldn’t keep up. My body felt loose and aching, my breasts heavy and useless. I crossed my arms in front of them and kept running. By the time I reached the farmhouse, they were both inside, Hans kneeling beside Marie, stroking her hair and Bas speaking quietly with Rika.

  ‘No, I don’t think so,’ she said. ‘It’s going fast. She’d only deliver on the way. But I think I want the doctor in the village to know. Just in case we need him.’