Blue Willow

by Deborah Smith

  The currents swirling around his family frightened Artemas. Only one place was safe from them.

  Blue Willow. For the past two years Artemas had spent his holidays and summers there, with grand, dignified Grandmother Colebrook.

  Blue Willow was a lost kingdom, with ruined outbuildings, dark forests, and overgrown fields to explore, and in the center was an enormous, echo-filled mansion perfect for a seven-year-old’s fantasies, all hidden safely in the wild, watchful mountains of Georgia. Zea MacKenzie, the housekeeper; her husband, Drew, the gardener; and Drew’s parents lived on their farm in the hollow beyond the mansion’s lake and hills, along the ancient Cherokee trail. They were poor, Grandmother said, but they were MacKenzies, and that would always make them special.

  Grandmother was special too. People whispered that when she was young she’d been something called a Ziegfeld Girl, before she became a Golddigger and married Grandfather. Grandfather had slipped and fallen out a window on Wall Street during the Depression, so to help Grandmother after he died, his sisters took Father and Uncle Charles away from her.

  They told Grandmother she could stay at Blue Willow, and they’d raise her sons for her, in New York. She’d been at Blue Willow ever since. Which was fine with Artemas, because it meant he could visit her. Grandmother said he was her Consolation Prize, and he liked the sound of that.

  But she was too old to keep up with a little boy all the time, so she turned him over to the wonderful MacKenzies. He loved them and felt loved by them in a way that made him feel frantic with guilt and confusion when he thought of his parents. Every day with the MacKenzies was an adventure. If being poor only meant that you had to live on a farm like theirs, he wanted to be their kind of poor.

  The Colebrooks were poor now, too, but in a different way. They looked rich enough, but people felt sorry for them behind their backs. That was one of the secrets he must keep, Grandmother said.

  Without money, all a Colebrook had was the Right Friends and an Important Name. Mother said that was enough, if you knew who to suck up to.

  Artemas decided to avoid learning more family secrets if he could help it.

  Mrs. MacKenzie was dusting Colebrook china and telling stories. “When Gabriel comes back to blow his horn, the Colebrooks will probably send their butler out to shoo him off, and the MacKenzies will tell him to hie his fanny away till the crops come in,” she told Artemas solemnly. “Bumfuddled by such an ornery pair of families, old Gabriel won’t remember his toot from his toenail.”

  Artemas liked the way Mrs. MacKenzie put things.

  “The MacKenzies and Colebrooks are stuck together like green on a frog’s butt,” she continued. “They’ve shared secrets and dreams for more years than you can imagine, Artie. Blue Willow is at the center of their covenant, and always will be.”

  “What’s a covenant?”

  “It’s like a circle of promises, and as long as nobody breaks the circle, everybody will be safe inside.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie gave a little gasp of pain and stopped dusting, one hand on the huge stomach straining against the fabric of her uniform and apron, the other letting the duster droop. Beams of September sunlight cast weird shadows over her through the mansions tall leaded-glass windows. Everything in the enormous upstairs gallery was in shadow except her, and several generations of Colebrooks watched from their portraits on the teak wall. Her red hair, plaited in fat braids around the crown of her head, gleamed like blood.

  She hunched over Artemas, who sat on the rug in grubby overalls, barefoot, hugging his knees as he gazed up at her, transfixed. Just a few minutes earlier she’d been telling a story about the time Grandpa MacKenzie drank too much corn liquor and threw up on the preacher. Now, Artemas thought she was going to tell another throwing-up story.

  But she shut her eyes and rocked back and forth on the heels of her sturdy work shoes, her face pinched and drained of blood. This wasn’t the beginning of a story.

  Artemas leaped up. “What’s wrong? Is the baby coming?”

  She exhaled, chuckled, and opened her eyes. “No, it’s just Mother Nature making plans for a few weeks from now.” She winked at Artemas, her blue eyes nearly the color of the blue pattern on the china plate she’d been dusting, and brushed a glistening arm over her forehead.

  Tears burned like lemon juice in his eyes. Colebrook boys never cried. They knew what they wanted and how to get it, Father said, so Artemas willed the tears back. “I won’t be here then. Grandmother’s closing Blue Willow next week. She has to come live with us, in New York.”

  Mrs. MacKenzie, who was always laughing and teasing, looked sad for the first time. She bent down quickly and kissed his forehead. He threw his strong, suntanned little arms around her neck and hugged her, and she held him protectively. “You’re too serious for your age, too full of worry. Let’s talk about something happy.” She grinned at him. “Drew says when his daddy was young, he made moonshine all the time. And your grandpa bought truck-loads of it for the parties here. Once, when Fred Astaire was visiting—” She broke off with another sharp gasp. “Lord,” she said, and cupped her stomach with trembling hands.

  Artemas watched closely. “Did Fred Stare throw up on somebody too?” Then he realized the story had stopped again. Tendrils of fear ran through him. “Is the baby doing something wrong?”

  “Oh, I don’t think anything’s happening. It’s a little early—” She gave a strangled yelp. Stepping back and frowning, she studied the dark stain spreading on the threadbare Oriental rug. Artemas, horrified, saw streams of water trickling down her hose and over her sturdy lace-up shoes. Why was she peeing on the rug?

  Her rasping breath cut into his embarrassment like a knife. Holding her belly, she staggered to a chaise longue and sat down heavily, straddling one corner. The hem of her uniform sagged between her knees, hiding the source of the terrifying mystery from Artemas’s dazed scrutiny. Strange fluids gushed over the velvet upholstery and trickled down one of the chaise’s gilded legs. It was a Louis Quinze, whatever that meant. He knew, at least, that people shouldn’t pee on it.

  “I guess I figured wrong,” she said, trying to smile at Artemas. “Go on now, and tell somebody to call Mr. MacKenzie inside. I’m having my baby.”

  Relief made Artemas’s legs weak. Babies! Now he understood! He knew about female creatures having babies because for the past two summers Mr. and Mrs. MacKenzie had let him watch cows and cats and even a hog give birth.

  “Ill get help!” he shouted, and ran to the staircase at the far end of the gallery. He barely touched the steps down two flights to the entrance hall. Running from room to room in the vast main level, he yelled for the butler and the last remaining maid. Minutes ticked by with awful speed. All the big clocks began to chime the half hour. He ducked through a door in the library and hurried down steep narrow stairs to the basement level. His feet echoed eerily on the old tile floor as he searched the laundry rooms and then the row of kitchens, bakeries, and pantries, all sitting empty and quiet.

  He threw a stool under the intercom on one wall. Punching buttons, he yelled, “She’s having the baby! Come upstairs to the big gallery! Mrs. MacKenzie is having the baby! Get Mr. MacKenzie! Help!” There were so few servants left, and Grandmother had gone out for a drive in her pony cart. Suddenly he remembered that the servants had the afternoon off. They had gone down to Atlanta to shop.

  Frantic, he raced to the service elevator, a huge, groaning monster like a jail cell on a pulley. He rode it upstairs and galloped through a maze of hallways to the gallery.

  Mrs. MacKenzie was crying on the chaise, her head thrown back, her hands clawing at the cushions. His knees wanted to collapse, but he made himself go to her. “I can’t find anybody! What should I do?”

  She panted. “You go outdoors and look for Mr. MacKenzie. I’ll be all right.”

  “No, I can’t leave you, I can’t.”

  She shuddered and dug her hands into the chaise, her body heaving. “Shit!” she said cheerfully. Art
emas was not about to leave her side, held by love and the fear that something terrible would happen if he left.

  Mrs. MacKenzie relaxed as if collapsing inward, caught her breath, and grasped his quivering, outstretched hand in both of hers. “This isn’t like you watching old Bossy have her calf. You go on now, you hear?”

  “I can help. Please, I’m not scared.” His teeth chattered, but he stepped closer. “There’s nobody else around. I’m not scared, I swear.”

  “Go on, I said. Mind me!”

  She groaned and pushed herself upward on the chaise, until she was propped on the backrest. Dust motes burst into the air as her elbows pumped the old cushions. Her knees drew up spasmodically, and her dress hem slid down to her thighs. Artemas wanted to look away, but he couldn’t. Her hose and garter belt and white panties were soaked in pinkish water, and her stomach bulged as if it would pop like a balloon.

  “Is the baby coming out?” he asked, frantically patting one of her knees.

  Mrs. MacKenzie gave a choked laugh. “Like a freight train through Atlanta!”

  “I’ll help! I helped with the hog! Please, please, tell me what to do!”

  “Me and the hog ought to be grateful, I guess. This is not for a little boy to see. But you’re no ordinary little boy, I figure.” Grunting and pushing herself upright, she wailed softly. “Stand up by my head, and don’t watch.”

  A little relieved at that idea, he moved close to her and turned his head toward the gallery of his ancestors. A dozen Colebrook men and women watched from tall portraits in gilt frames. He tried to concentrate on them. MacKenzie and Colebrook, sharing again, part of the circle, chasing Gabriel back to heaven …

  The raw sound of ripping cloth made him jump. He turned and watched Mrs. MacKenzie tear her panties from between her legs. The heat of embarrassment seared his face for a second, then faded in a rush of curiosity.

  “It looks just like Bossy’s place, but smaller,” he said in awe.

  Mrs. MacKenzie chortled at his comment, then moaned and cried out “Drew!” as if her husband were there. Artemas’s heart thudded painfully in his chest. She struggled to reach over her huge belly again, gasping and sweating, her face unrecognizable with lines of pain.

  “Come here, Artie,” she commanded. “You’ve gotta make sure the baby doesn’t slide off the couch.”

  The very idea of a baby bouncing onto the floor made him lurch around to the end of the chaise, his hands splayed out in readiness. His legs nearly collapsed when he saw the gory opening between Mrs. MacKenzie’s legs fill with the dome of the baby’s head. Sheer willpower pushed him forward as Mrs. MacKenzie dug her thick black shoes into the chaise and threw her head back. In one convulsive shove she slid the baby into his quivering hands.

  Warm. She was warm, soft, and covered in sticky blood. A fibrous cord led from her navel back inside Mrs. MacKenzie. Life pulsed through her. Holding her was like holding a beating heart, his heart, because it expanded with sheer wonder at the sight of her. Her eyes were squinted shut. Her arms and legs quivered and seemed to reach toward him. She had a funny, puckered frown on her face. She opened her mouth and wailed for a moment.

  He had saved her from bouncing on the floor. He had done something worthwhile, something that made all his shame and family secrets seem unimportant. If he could do this, he could do anything, save everyone and everything who depended on him. He loved her, and he would never be the same.

  “I’ve got her!” he said loudly, and repeated it several times. Tears slid down his face. “I did it! I caught her! She’s gooey and funny-looking! Isn’t she great?”

  “Artie, hold her up, hold her up so I can see if she’s all right.” Mrs. MacKenzie took long, hoarse breaths of relief. Trembling with worry over every movement, he lifted the baby higher.

  Mrs. MacKenzie’s eyes gleamed with pleasure. “Look at her, oh look,” she crooned. Artie put her in Mrs. MacKenzie’s outstretched hands and sat down limply on the bloody chaise. Mrs. MacKenzie laid the baby across one thigh and sat up gingerly, pulling her dress down over her private parts and the long umbilical cord. “Artie, you did just fine,” she said, smiling wearily at him. “I tell you what, you’re one brave little man. And I’ll promise you this—you’ll never see a first baby born that fast again. I bet I set a record.”

  He stared fixedly at the baby. She opened her eyes. “She’s looking right at me! Hello, little girl.” His lungs were bellows, and he wanted to shout with excitement. He knew he’d never forget this moment. “What’s her name?” he whispered.

  “I don’t know. It’s bad luck to name a baby before it comes.” They sat in silence for a moment, while Mrs. MacKenzie rubbed the baby dry with the hem of her white cotton slip. Motherly tenderness radiated from her hands and eyes. For a heart-stopping second Artemas wondered if she might bend down and lick the baby, the way animals did. But she only lifted her to her chest, dragging the bloody cord, and cuddled her. The baby mewled softly against the mounds of Mrs. MacKenzie’s breasts. Her dried hair was a lighter red than her mother’s.

  “What do you think her name ought to be?” Mrs. MacKenzie asked.

  Artemas, transfixed, almost said “Carrot,” then kicked himself for being so stupid. He thought immediately of the flower bulbs he had helped Mr. MacKenzie plant in one of the gardens that morning. On the burlap sack that held them was a color picture of the flowers in bloom, and he’d never seen anything like their soft orangy red until now.

  “Lily,” he blurted.

  “Lily. Lily.” The baby mewled again. “I think she likes that.” Mrs. MacKenzie looked at him thoughtfully. “Lilies are strong and pretty. They endure. Lily. Yes sir, I like that a lot. I bet Mr. MacKenzie will too.”

  Artemas thought his chest would burst with happiness. “You mean you’ll name her that? Really?”

  “Really. Lily MacKenzie. Because you’re a special boy, and you helped bring her into the world. See? We MacKenzies and Colebrooks are stuck together like glue. Been that way for one hundred and twenty years. Probably’ll be that way forever.”

  Artemas reached out gently and touched one of the baby’s outflung hands. The tiny fingers curled around his. He sighed. Everything was all right. There would always be MacKenzies and Colebrooks here at Blue Willow, and it would always be a place to love. Lily MacKenzie owned him, heart and soul.

  The long black car brought him to the MacKenzie farm on the last day. He was dressed in a black jacket, linen shirt, tie, knee-length gray shorts, white socks, and stiff black shoes. His black hair had been brushed by the nanny until his head hurt. He had promised himself he would not cry. He was important now. He had to be strong.

  The farm sat in a big hollow surrounded by forested hills. If he had been allowed, he would have climbed them one more time to look at Victory Mountain, miles away His ancestors had owned the land all the way to that mountain, but Grandmother had to sell that part to the state, for a park. Now, instead of enclosing a kingdom, the Blue Willow estate enclosed only thirty square miles. It was still more land than Artemas could imagine.

  The driver opened the car door, and Artemas got out slowly. The MacKenzies were waiting for him on the porch of their farmhouse—Mr. MacKenzie, tall and strong, one arm ending in a nifty metal hook, his tanned face and brown hair making him the same color as a long stretch of earth. Grandfather and Grandmother MacKenzie, both old and hunched but full of great stories about bears and wildcats and Colebrooks, and Mrs. Mackenzie, holding Lily

  Artemas measured his step across the sandy yard, stepping with dignity past the flower beds and under the big oaks, ignoring the fat yellow dog licking his hand and the purring cats coming out to meet him. Inside he was an empty ache.

  The thick grove of willows along the creek moved gracefully, waving good-bye to him. Their history was tied up in the mysterious circle of MacKenzies and Colebrooks. There was even a huge willow in the park at the estates entrance, given to his family by the MacKenzies. That was his tree. He thought he’d die if h
e never got to climb it again.

  “How do, Artie,” Mr. MacKenzie said kindly, then came down the porch steps and scooped Artemas up in his good arm. Startled, Artemas choked up, hating the way his lower lip trembled. Drew MacKenzie was the opposite of his own father. Without the least embarrassment he gave Artemas a deep hug and kissed him on the forehead. “You be good now, you hear? You grow up to be the kind of man your grandmother wants you to be, all right?”

  The store of confusion and heartbreak and shame inside his chest burst up through Artemass throat and couldn’t be contained any longer. He said brokenly, “Grandmother says it’s all up to me. But I try to make things better, and I never can. I try and try until it hurts so much I can’t breathe. I know I can fix things some way. But how can I figure it out by myself?”

  He heard Mrs. MacKenzie make a soft sound, like a cat searching for its kittens. “You helped bring Lily into the world. You caught her and kept her from fallin’. If you care that way for everybody who needs you, you won’t go far wrong.”

  Artemas pondered that clear-cut idea and clung to it. “Catch people and keep them from falling. I can do that.”

  Mr. MacKenzie patted his leg approvingly. “Always do what’s right, not just what’s easiest. Listen to the wise voice inside you. Don’t ever stop listenin’, and it’ll tell you exactly.”

  Artemas nodded, gripping one of the suspenders that kept the old brown trousers from sliding down Mr. MacKenzie’s long legs. “I’ll miss you,” he finally managed.

  Mr. MacKenzie nodded, swallowed again, and carried him up to the porch. He set him down in front of the grandfolks. Their warm, gnarled hands patted Artemas as if he were a beloved puppy, and Grandmother MacKenzie said a prayer for his future. Then he went to Zea MacKenzie and Lily.

  His chest was tight with memories—all the days and nights he’d spent here with Mrs. MacKenzie, wearing soft overalls and going barefoot, eating fresh peaches and homemade ice cream, working in the fields, playing with the animals. She knelt down in front of him, her big blue eyes full of tears, and swept him to her while she cradled Lily in her other arm. The baby, dressed in a diaper and tiny white T-shirt, seemed to look straight at him.