The county had finally gotten around to sending a crew, charged with the task of logging what was left of a couple acres of public woodland. The area was small, just a bit of timber that had been stranded when the highway was first constructed. Now it was an obstacle to building a new I-5 on-ramp. Not an urgent job, but one that had to be done to accommodate future expansion. The crew had no interest in the timber they were clearing. They were stacking most of it along the side of the road as they worked.
"That'll make some decent firewood for winter," Mudflap told Burt. "And all you got to do is load it up and haul it home."
Mudflap had made it sound like a newfound treasure. A lot of the fir was unusable, but there were some good scraps. Burt had loaded the bed of his truck with anything that seemed worth the effort. This included a stack of old cedar shingles. Most were broken. They couldn't be used for the roof, but they were dry enough to take home for general repairs and kindling.
Ethel
On the drive home from the doctor's office, Ethel pulled over at a Chevron station and asked for a key to the women's washroom. The instant the door clicked shut behind her, the scent of industrial cleaning agent hit her nostrils and she erupted in tears.
In the shoddy mirror under a row of throbbing fluorescent lights, she looked old. The color she'd started putting on her hair had grown out an inch and a half, revealing gray roots etched above the over-saturated brown. Her glasses were round and wire-rimmed. They reinforced a quizzical expression that she disliked intensely. She kept meaning to replace the frames, but she had put it off. It seemed like a luxury. Now she could forget about new glasses. She wouldn't be able to afford them.
How had she accomplished such a ridiculous feat? That was her first question. Never mind the conversation she would have with Burt, who was now laid off from the mill ("last in, first out"), unemployed and forced to pick up handy work all over Skillute and Kelso. The only asset they had was the ratty two-bedroom house Burt inherited from his dad. It wasn't even worth fixing up to sell. It would have cost less to scrap the whole place and start over, but they would never get the chance, not in a million years. She still wondered if she had married Burt because she loved him or because it was easy to marry him and more comfortable to be with him than to be alone.
At forty-three years of age Ethel had never conceived, never had a close call or skipped a period. She was careful on the rare occasions when she needed to be.
Then one day Burt had come home with wood scraps and hardware store supplies, and announced that he was going to fix up the garage and use it as a workroom. The damn thing leaked and had mice in every corner. Cleaning it out and plugging the holes would take time, but he was determined. This was the start of a new era, he said.
Burt never got around to fixing the garage. That was the day they had opened a bottle of red wine. A storm kicked up that afternoon and kept them indoors. They spent the rest of the day at home, first in bed, then eating dinner, then back in bed. They made love three times and she wasn't careful. Maybe it was the wine, or the mood, or the sheer unlikelihood that anything would happen.
By the time she made an appointment to see a GP in Longview, she had missed two periods. When she asked the doctor if she could be menopausal, he grinned and said:
"Not until after the baby comes."
In the gas station bathroom she washed her face and hands, and dried off with paper towels. She noticed with dismay that her blouse, skirt, shoes and sweater were brown, to one degree or another: Copper, beige, khaki, and taupe.
She felt trapped inside herself. It was as if she had learned nothing about life or clothes or anything in the time she had been alive. She had gone on half expecting a startling event, a calling, a sea change, until her hair turned gray and four decades had flashed by, and she was still standing in the same spot. She tailored clothes to earn money, but ever since Constance died she had stopped taking time for herself. In her heart she had drifted back to the girl she once was, whose decent clothes were reserved for school, and who didn't know how to dress.
Her mother used to snort with laughter and say:
"Little Ethel ought to be a model. She likes to wear four shades of the same color all at once, and three of 'em go together!"
It was a line that never failed to get a laugh out of somebody. Even the truck drivers and car salesmen Shirley brought home laughed at her jokes.
Ethel was about seven when she first realized some of these men, the ones who were from other towns, had been told by Shirley that Ethel was her little sister. Sometimes her mother regarded her with the contempt of a sibling and resorted to fighting, elbows and claws, for food and TV shows and space. Then she would say:
"Little sister, what's wrong with you? Get our guest a beer. Bring another chair from the kitchen. Go buy me some Marlboros. "
Ethel slapped the mirror at the Chevron station. The impact cracked the surface and cut a thin, crimson line across her wrist.
"Shit!"
She ran a paper towel under the tap and touched it to her arm. The cut wasn't deep.
She looked in the mirror at the heavy gray and brown hair hanging over her shoulders. She studied the jagged tearstains on her cheeks, and then wiped them away. No use standing around crying about it.
She noted the late afternoon light failing outside. She wouldn't make it home before dark. Burt would wonder what happened to her. He was sweet to be concerned, but what could happen to her in Skillute? Did getting knocked-up by her husband in middle age count as a misadventure? If so, it was her first.
"Miss Knocks'll get you!" She told her reflection with a bitter laugh.
With startling clarity she could recall every moment of that day in the forest when she and her friends were little girls. She remembered the blackened jawbone protruding from the dirt, the fire and smoke, running home in the fierce rain, the face at the window, waking up coughing and staring up into the sky.
Ethel had long since stopped believing in either gods or monsters. She was now convinced that what she had seen was a hallucination, born out of fear. That was a little girl's fear. As she grew up she learned to be afraid of real things, actual things, like wild animals and women who hated their children.
She looked into her bloodshot eyes in the gas station mirror and said: "Not like my mother. I am not like my mother. I'm not."
How could she be? She had none of her mother's pretty looks, her mean streak, or her hillbilly glamour. Her mother had hitched a ride west, across the state, and teased her way into a dead-end marriage in Skillute. A former stripper, a thin blonde known for narrow, chiseled blue eyes and a cruel sense of humor. She had slim hips, pretty ankles, and crooked front teeth. She was popular with married men and hated by their wives. Everywhere she went other women recoiled from her. Not that she took the blame for their broken marriages.
"If she had done what a wife ought to do, and put out once in a while, he wouldn't have gone with me in the first place. Crazy bitch!"
Shirley had died and Constance had raised Ethel with kindness and generosity, and not grudgingly. She had never lost her temper, never put her needs ahead of Ethel's. Yet something was missing, and in the absence she remembered only Shirley.
Shirley seemed to be with her, taunting her more as the years went by, and especially since Constance had passed away. Sometimes Ethel was haunted by the words her mother had spoken a few days before she died.
"When you have babies, if anybody marries you, then you see if you're any better of a mom than I am. You'll see how it is."
Ethel didn't want to see. The last thing she wanted was to feel her mother sneaking back to life from some place buried inside her.
Once Ethel had chased a neighbor's cat with the garden hose, when no one was looking. She hadn't meant to do it. The cat climbed into their yard several times a week and relieved itself under the rose bushes. Constance paid Ethel to clean up the droppings. On this particular day, though, she was tired and ready for supper. She let out a heavy
sigh when she spotted the tabby hopping from the fence to the lawn to do its usual business. Then she picked up the hose, turned the water on full blast, and hit the cat with a shocking spray just as it started to poop. The cat sprang up in the air and tore across the grass with Ethel in pursuit, blasting it two, three, four, five more times and soaking the tabby's fur. It never came back to their yard, and later Ethel felt a wave of shame when she remembered the terror in its eyes and its indignation at being soaked with water and forced to flee. Yet in that moment, while she was breathing heavily and chasing the animal, she had laughed triumphantly.
More than anything, Ethel did not want to know what she would do to a child that provoked her. Yet, now, after all her years of caution, here she was.
She could ask Marietta for help. Surely Marietta knew how, or at least she knew someone, maybe a friend of her late aunt, someone who could do away with the child. She couldn't imagine asking her doctor for advice. The way he had smirked at her after the examination, his smug derision seemed to seal her fate. Yet if she wanted she could drive to Portland and go to a clinic. No one had to know.
She looked at her reflection and knew that she was going to keep the baby. Not out of love. She realized this wasn't love. It was pride and vanity, and something more. Standing before the mirror in the gas station Ethel had this wild thought: She could have a baby, if she wanted one.
The fact surprised her and she held onto it, turning it this way and that in the light. She decided she enjoyed being like other women in this regard. She had never felt normal before; ordinary and drab, yes, but not normal. Now she did, and she found it comforting. She could have a child, and no one could stop her. In fact, no one would dream of telling her not to do it. She felt a little surge of power for the second time in her life, and she liked it.
There wasn't much going on in Skillute that month. The news of Ethel's pregnancy traveled like a flash flood along the two branches of the nameless road where she and Burt lived. Everyone had an opinion on the subject:
Ethel was past a decent age for motherhood and Burt was no saint and they both ought to know better.
A baby was a blessing no matter what. However damaged or disabled and however much of a burden the child might turn out to be, it came from the Lord and it deserved to be tolerated.
Nothing good would come of it. Ethel would pay the price. The strain might ruin her health. Might even kill her. Anything could happen.
The baby was doomed. It would never grow to full term. And if it did, it would be sickly and miserable all of its days.
The whole thing was vanity, showing off like a high school girl who's knocked up, looking for sympathy and gifts and to be the center of attention. Except Ethel wasn't a girl. This baby wasn't her fault, exactly, but it made her look like a foolish, old woman.
A few others expressed a backhanded hope that things would turn out all right. Then they all waited for the next round of news, which couldn't come soon enough.
Ethel gave birth to a baby girl whose eyes and lips and skin were so remarkably fine, several nosy people speculated about whether Burt could be the real father. Ethel was a good person and all, but she wasn't known for her physical attributes. How did two such homely people come to make a perfect child?
It was an easy birth, which surprised Ethel. The infant was delivered in record time without a mark on her. She didn't cry, and only fussed when she wanted something. She slept soundly in her crib, which she seemed to prefer to being held, and she wore an expression of perfect calm.
She was blond. When she opened her eyes, they were as blue as the sky. That was normal, the nurses told Ethel. The color might change. They were wrong. The baby had bright blue eyes, and from the start she appeared to watch the people around her with great concentration. She didn't tremble with effort when she moved her hands and feet. From early on, much earlier than anyone expected, she lay perfectly still and simply reached out toward whatever she wanted.
Ethel named her Connie Sara, after her aunt and Burt's mother. The baby's name was the only tribute she could afford. She felt that she owed Constance something even now; a nod, a gesture.
When the baby was born Burt was overcome with relief and joy. He had spent months drumming up odd jobs and applying for full-time work. He hadn't yet managed to find anything steady, but he had saved enough money so the hospital bill only set them back a few months. The first time he looked into his newborn daughter's eyes he said he didn't care how hard he had to work, it was all worth it.
In awe and in honor of his baby girl he got stinking drunk the night of her birth. With Mudflap's help he collected a batch of the leftover cedar shingles lying in his garage, nailed them together two at a time and tagged them with the words "Connie Sara Way" in white paint. Then the two men marched around late into the night, nailing the signs to tree trunks and fence posts up and down the unnamed road in a small but raucous celebration.
The gesture was a source of amusement to most people, who expected Burt to pull down the signs once he sobered up. But he never took them down, although plenty of people complained.
The New Mother
The baby didn't like Ethel's milk, so Ethel stopped breastfeeding and put her on formula. She wasn't interested when people tried to get her attention with baby talk or toys. The stuffed animals in her crib lay untouched.
On the advice of parenting experts from books and TV, Ethel took care not to over-stimulate her with too much eye contact, but she found that Connie Sara didn't grow either tired or over-stimulated. She didn't fuss or whimper. In fact she would sometimes watch Ethel's face so intently that Ethel grew uncomfortable and finally turned away.
This was embarrassing enough, and she couldn't explain it. She wondered about it, and soon it got worse. She found she couldn't make herself turn and look at the baby again, once she had turned away. Sometimes she had to wait for more than an hour for Burt to come home. Then she would sneak out of the room and return, breaking whatever delicate tension she felt was between the baby and herself, and starting over.
She had never been superstitious, so she felt ashamed every time she found herself unable to look. She tried, and tried, but the thought that she might turn her head or re-enter the baby's room and find her still staring, still making eye contact, still waiting for her, made Ethel feel sick to her stomach.
She was sure it was a case of nerves. The doctor had warned her: postpartum reactions were difficult to predict in a woman her age especially if she had never given birth before. This particular symptom would surely fade away with time if she didn't make too much of it.
Marietta and Beverly
Beverly bought gifts for the baby. First she offered toys. When the baby showed no interest in playthings she switched to beautifully made clothes and booties.
Marietta was home sick with a cold when Connie Sara was born. She came to visit a week later but she didn't stay long. She said she was still a bit under the weather and ought to rest up. In fact she had been feeling poorly for a while, generally slowing down. She was now reconsidering her son and daughter-in-law's offer, to have her move in with them.
"Henry's right across the road and over one house," Ethel said.
"That's right."
"Why does he want you to move now?"
"Oh, he's been trying to talk me into it for a while. He doesn't like me living by myself any more."
"We'll be neighbors," said Ethel. "And Beverly's only a couple of miles away. Isn't that funny?"
Marietta smiled. She promised to visit again soon.
Beverly and Marietta held their tongues on the subject of Ethel's baby until they met for lunch at Jessup's a couple of weeks later. Both noted that Ethel had seemed at first exhilarated by motherhood, then weary. This reverse in the usual order of things caused concern between her friends.
Beverly glanced around to make sure they were far enough from the other diners not to be overheard. Then she said:
"This is the reason women don't have bab
ies at our age. Thank goodness."
"My aunt knew quite a few women who had babies when they were over forty. It's not that uncommon. I don't think age is the reason Ethel acts the way she does."
This drew Beverly's full attention. She leaned forward in the booth and rested both elbows on the table between them.
"What do you think it is, then?"
Marietta sipped her coffee. She looked at Beverly, and said nothing.
"Come on," said Beverly. "What's on your mind?"
She waited. And waited.
"Do you remember Ethel's mother?" Marietta asked.
"No. Wait. Didn't she make Ethel go outside and stand in the rain one time? What am I thinking of?"
"We were sleeping over at Ethel's house. We only did that twice, and that was the last time."
"That's right!" Beverly said. "I remember. She came home drunk!"
"And woke us up."
"Ethel's dad. Where was he?"
"Working. He was always working."
"That's right. I used to think Ethel made him up. Like an invisible friend."
Marietta considered this.
"Might as well have," she said.
Both women were silent for a minute. Then Beverly asked, again:
"What is it you think is bothering Ethel? If it isn't just being tired."
"My aunt knew Shirley," Marietta said. "She came to our house. She was one of the women Aunt Delphine helped."
"She was pregnant?"
Marietta nodded.
"Nobody else knew?" Beverly asked.
"No. The reason I say this is, I remember Shirley very well. And what I remember is how she would look at me with those ice cold eyes of hers."
Beverly caught herself staring and snapped out of it. She grinned.
Knock Knock Page 9
