by Haven Kimmel
“Thanks, but I should get these groceries home.”
“Okay,” Hazel said, turning as if to close the door. “You know…” She turned back. “You could just go out there. It wouldn’t hurt anything or anyone, and maybe it would be best if you, well, told her that you’d seen Peter—”
“Hazel, stop,” Claudia said, holding up her hand. “I’m not driving out there.”
Hazel leaned in over the passenger seat. “He is not your rival, Claudia. You absolutely must make that clear to yourself. He. Is. Not. Your. Rival.”
Claudia took a deep breath, glanced in the rearview mirror. “There’s someone coming, I need to get out of the street.”
“There’s no one coming. Do you remember where he lives?”
“Of course I do, and I’m not going out there. If he isn’t my rival, who is?”
Hazel threw up her hands with relief, as if someone had finally given the right answer to a vexing test question. “That’s the point! No one is! You have no rival! Please think about it, Claudia.”
“I have thought about it,” Claudia said, refusing to meet Hazel’s eye. If Peter wasn’t her rival, why had he stolen her happiness, and why was he careless with it? What could it mean that she’d seen him twice now after not seeing him for months, the first time carrying suitcases out to his white car late at night (she’d just happened to be driving by, it was an accident, really, Oliver was feverish and wouldn’t sleep, so she’d done what mothers have done since the invention of the automobile—she strapped him in the car and turned up the radio and before she knew it, she was on One Oak Road). They were going somewhere, she’d thought at first; but why was the cabin so dark? Maybe they were leaving very early in the morning. But where could Rebekah go that required so many suitcases, as pregnant as she was? The next morning Peter’s car was still there; Rebekah’s, too. And then two days after that, Claudia had gone to Sears for new tires, and while wandering through the store with Oliver she’d heard Peter’s voice. She turned a corner into Sporting Goods and saw him talking on the phone, his back to her. She couldn’t make out the words, but could tell he was upset. With his free hand he rubbed the back of his neck, then leaned against the wall as if he were dizzy.
“There is something you’re not—” Hazel straightened up, looked at the blue sky, squinted. “Where are the sane people is what I want to know. Claudia, look at me. Don’t you feel this heaviness in the air? It isn’t just summer, it isn’t barometric pressure or anything like that, it’s…”
“What? What is it, then?”
“It’s change, Dim. There is wild change afoot, and you must be brave enough not only to endure it, but to embrace it, to make it your own. I thought,” Hazel said, “I thought you were the most courageous person I’d ever known. I trusted you with a baby and a dog and a pregnant woman.”
“Listen,” Claudia said, leaning toward Hazel, “I have risen to every challenge before me, and for you to suggest otherwise is both cruel and a lie, and you are not the author of a story called Claudia, so please back away from this car before I say something I regret.”
Hazel’s face gave nothing away until just before she closed the passenger door. It was then Claudia saw, just fleeting, Hazel’s look of supreme satisfaction. Hazel turned quickly and walked toward her house.
Claudia drove away in such anger she actually left the top layer of her new tires on the street, and from the backseat Oliver clapped and said, “Wheeee!”
1971
In the fifteen acres that separated the house and the road, thousands of dandelions had come up in the bright green grass. Hazel was grateful that her mother was too practical and busy to care about such things as dandelion eradication, which was a popular pastime in Indiana. The ideal Hoosier lawn was rolled into a perfect horizontal plane, and there was grass. Nothing else. The grass was kept quite short and nothing was ever done on the lawn, like dining or croquet. Exhibit only, no touching.
Hazel walked down the lane to the mailbox. Mercury zipped in and out of the grass, chasing imaginary mice. It was one of those days she could barely keep from singing; just standing in a landscape so infused with color, so radiant and warm, felt transcendent. There was no possibility of harm. For the moment, all that was unseen remained so, and let her be.
She had been too early for the mail; no matter. It only meant she would get to go check again, later. She turned left on the old county road and headed for the barn. The apple trees in the small orchard, gnarled and gargoyle-ish as they were, still blossomed and produced fruit, imagine the luck. Mercury dashed under an abandoned flatbed wagon, peered out at Hazel as if they were playing hide-and-seek.
She reached the barn and slid the door open on the rust, just a foot or so, enough to poke her head in.
A dream. It hit her as a physical sensation, and she recoiled. She had been in the barn with a crowd of people; the barn was dark but there seemed to be a spotlight on the drama: a black horse had fallen into a hole in the floor the size of a grave. It had fallen on its back and it was thrashing, panicked. No one, it seemed, had any idea what to do. The Night Mare. Wait, wait, that hadn’t been a dream. Hazel pressed her hand against her eyes. There had been a crowd, too, gathered around the fire ring, throwing art into a tall fire. Maybe it had been a dream.
She took a deep breath and leaned through the opening in the barn door. There was Edie, sprawled out on a full-size mattress placed directly on the dirt floor. She was still in her clothes from the day before, half wrapped in an old comforter, and sound asleep. Beside her was her new boyfriend, Charlie, a thin, handsome criminal type, probably not smart enough to pile rocks, and currently homeless. Albert had put his foot down, said Charlie could sleep in the barn and shower once a day in the basement. Edie had replied, “Because we’re all so brainwashed by Procter and Gamble to believe we have to shower every day.” Hazel shook her head. Edie was amusing in her way, but life was about to pick her up in its jaws and shake her like a rag doll, shake her until she was boneless and pliable, even though she was in love. In loooove. Hazel closed the barn door, walked back to the house.
There was a note on her desk in reception in Caroline’s hand, Call Finney. Hazel dialed the number of the diner and one of the other waitresses answered, this one the Kentucky-bred toothless woman named Shug who worshiped Mac Davis and said her dream in life was to see him in a pair of ‘tight white pants.’
“Shug, it’s Hazel. Is Finney around?”
“Hey, Hay-zel,” she said, drawing out the first syllable the length of a city block. “She’s here but she ain’t in good shape. I’ll see can she come to the phone.”
No one answered for a long time. Finney was in bad shape. That could mean any number of things…no, actually, it could mean only one thing. Finally, after a few minutes, Finney picked up the phone, said hello in a voice thick with tears, ragged from smoking and crying. “Can you come over here?”
“I’m on my way.” Hazel walked back into reception to tell her mother she needed to leave; Caroline wouldn’t have cared. The schedule was light today, probably because of the fine weather, and anything Hazel did, Caroline could do just as well. Instead, Hazel ran into her father, who was stepping out of his examination room.
Albert was balding—only a silver fringe of hair was left. He was monkish in other ways, too: in his faith in his cause; his discipline; his belief that it was his own constancy and dedication that bound the chaotic elements of the world. He was tan from golfing with his peers, and he was immaculate in every element of presentation: his clothes, his glasses, his hands. He wrote with a Mont Blanc pen, wore leather shoes from a village in the north of Italy that custom-made them for him from a model of his foot he’d had cast when he was there.
“Hazel, good—I need you to look up Horace Greg—”
“I’m sorry, I can’t. I just came back to tell Caroline I have to run out for a moment.”
“Run out where, during the working day?”
“There’s a crisis.”
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“Oh, a crisis. I assume it is of the emotional rather than the natural-disaster variety. An emotional emergency that requires you to attend to it immediately. I assume this would be your friend ‘Lucy’ again.” Albert’s voice never changed. He never sounded sarcastic or angry, which made him all the more formidable.
“Actually, it appears Lucy’s appendix has burst.”
“You’ve used that one already.”
“Alas, she was born with two.”
“What are you, thirty years old now?” Albert turned and walked away, his face finally giving way to derision, and Hazel grabbed her keys and left. Albert could not get to her with anything short of a loaded gun.
“Sixty-two,” she called after her father. “But thanks.”
Finney was sitting at a table in the corner of the diner, a worn-out round one that didn’t match the rest of the restaurant’s furniture. The table was reserved for the staff; they ate there, read the paper during breaks. Finn was just sitting, a coffee cup in front of her, a cigarette burning in the already overflowing ashtray. Hazel sat down across from her.
Finn’s mouth was swollen from crying, her lips chapped, and her nose was red. Her eyes were as swollen as if she’d been stung by a bee. Her hair was dry and brittle, the cut shapeless. When she picked up the cigarette her hands were trembling, and Hazel saw that her fingernails had been stripped or chewed away.
But then there was her collarbone, the delicate cross-tie above her ribs, and the white hollow of her throat. They were pristine, the bones of the perfect girl she had been. Those were the things Hazel wanted to save, those hidden places that were still so fine they seemed virtuous. He had not destroyed them yet. Hazel believed—some part of her believed—that if he could be made gone, and oh more than once had she imagined putting a gun to his head, Finney would be reborn. She would shake the ash off her wings and begin anew.
“I’m pregnant.” Finney said it dispassionately, her eyes never leaving Hazel’s face.
Hazel slowly closed her eyes. “You said you were careful.”
“I was. I was careful.”
“So there’ll be a star in the east on the blessed day?”
“Don’t, Hazel, please—”
“I’m sorry. I’m sorry, it’s a shock. That’s all.”
“Imagine how it feels from where I’m sitting.”
“How far along?”
“Twelve weeks.”
“Twelve weeks? Finn, how long have you known? That’s barely enough time for an—”
“Shhh!” Finney looked around desperately. “If anyone here heard you say that, we’d end up in jail.”
“What, then? When do you want to—”
“He says I can’t.”
“You can’t. He tells you you can’t. This is what I’m hearing you say.”
Finney stared at the tabletop.
“I think I can imagine all the reasons why,” Hazel said, spitting out every word as if drawing toxins from a snakebite. “Don’t even tell me his ‘moral’ position. I’ll run screaming into traffic.”
“Actually, there’s a reason you don’t know.” Finney wiped her face with a shredded napkin. “He wants me to give the baby to him. And to her.”
For a moment Hazel couldn’t speak. “I’m sorry,” she said. “My mind just ceased functioning.”
“Yeah, well,” Finney sighed, “join the club.”
“Where is he going to say the baby came from?” Hazel whispered as an older couple walked past them to pay their bill. “A bulrush basket?”
“He’s already told her the truth. He told her last week, as soon as I found out.”
He had told her, his helpmate, the sinless one, but Finney had waited a week to tell Hazel.
“And what does she say?”
“He said at first she was suicidal and threatened to leave him. She threatened all sorts of things. He told her to do what she needed to do, he wouldn’t protect himself.”
“A bit late for protection, yes?”
Finney ignored her. “She gradually calmed down. She’s a very practical woman—”
“No kidding.”
“—and now she’s pleased. She’s looking forward to it. A baby is a baby, she said to him, and they will never have another chance.”
“Have you made up your mind?”
Finney’s face contorted as she tried to keep from sobbing, “I don’t know what to do. I am just completely lost.”
Hazel’s own eyes filled with tears, and all of her anger dissipated. This was Finn, after all. “What If,” she said, smiling across the table at her friend, “you found yourself pregnant and didn’t know what to do?”
Finney looked down at the table, shaking her head. “I guess I would protect what remained to me. I’d make a plan, and then I’d make a plan B.”
It only took one phone call, one conversation over coffee, and three days. Hazel and Finney met Jim Hank at the courthouse, Finn in a long flowered dress, Jim in his one good suit, Hazel in a green silk cocktail dress she’d found in the attic. Finney and Jim were married by a trollish little man who dressed like Elvis Presley and called them by the wrong names. Hazel had remembered flowers for both of them, and all the elements of the something old / something new business. Finney remembered nothing but the necessary papers. And as they walked out the front door of the courthouse, Hazel reached into her bag and showered them with confetti, all of the perfect little circles left behind by the three-hole punch on her desk. She’d been saving them for years without knowing why.
There were five bottles of champagne in the refrigerator at Jim Hank’s apartment, and there was a cake from the local bakery on his counter. While making the arrangements the three had been careful not to mention Finney’s parents, who were already heartsick by what felt like the loss of their only child. Finney would tell them she was married, she assured Hazel, as soon as she could figure out how.
She promised Hazel, too, that within the week she would decide about the baby, and Hazel had promised in return to honor her decision, regardless. All of those vows had been difficult to make but would be far harder to uphold, and both of them knew it.
In Jim Hank’s spotless, bright apartment, Hazel opened the champagne as Jim put on music. He had eclectic taste. They listened to Sarah Vaughan, followed by The Association, Duke Ellington, the Beatles, and the Bee Gees. Hazel and Jim got rip-roaring drunk, the drunkest by far Hazel had ever been. Finney drank just one glass of champagne, watching the other two with amusement. Hazel and Jim Hank cut the cake drunk, they danced drunk, for a bizarre thirty minutes they played charades drunk, until Hazel realized she simply couldn’t remember who or what she was supposed to pretend to be no matter how many times she looked at her little slip of paper with the words written on it.
Hours passed, or maybe no time at all, Jim and Hazel laughing until Hazel had to lie down, and suddenly Finney stood up and said she had to go home. Hazel and Jim looked at each other, neither able to focus well; both knew why she was leaving. But there would be no recrimination on this, their wedding day, so they kissed her on the cheek and let her go. She slipped out the door, and as intoxicated as they were, they could see she was relieved.
The arm of the record player dropped onto a new album: Julie London. “I love this record!” Hazel said, not quite certain it was true.
“So do I,” Jim said solemnly. “Hey, Hazey! Can I carry you across the threshold?”
“Yes, yes, what a splendid idea.”
They stumbled out into the hallway and Jim swept her up into his arms as if she weighed nothing. “I wouldn’t have been able to do this with Finney near so easily. That girl is tall.”
“Not near so easily,” Hazel agreed.
They hummed the bridal march as they stepped through the door, just as a song Hazel was sure she liked began to play. “I love this song!”
“So do I.” Jim smiled at her, bowed, lowering an imaginary hat. “Miss Hunnicutt, could I invite you to spend the night with me on m
y wedding night? As I am far too drunk to drive you home and your company is so welcome?”
Hazel curtsied in return, nearly lost her balance. “Yes, you may certainly invite me, Mr. Bellamy, and I would gladly accept.”
They collapsed on the couch, their shoes scattered, plates and glasses all over the table, and sang along with the song they both loved. Two sleepy people by dawn’s early light, and too much in love to say good night.
Chapter 9
IF PETER DIDN’T get to Florida soon, Mandy intended to move in with a boy she’d met at her former boyfriend’s tattoo parlor. In her own peculiar parlance she described him as a sk8 rat. Rebekah found herself worrying over Peter and Mandy as if they were characters on a soap opera to which she was devoted.
It had been days since Mandy had made her threat, or at least it seemed to have been. Rebekah couldn’t tell one from another: the day Peter asked if she had a doctor’s appointment and she couldn’t remember; the day someone knocked at the door, then went away; the day Peter felt her head and asked her to take some Tylenol. Maybe they had all happened at once. She had been on the couch for a long time; she could feel that she hadn’t washed her hair or changed her nightgown since…and there was the problem of the baby, who was so big and moved so much. Sometimes it put the soles of its feet (or that’s what it felt like) against her rib cage and stretched out, pushing its head against her pelvic floor. She didn’t know why, but that maneuver flattened her lungs until she sometimes lost consciousness. It was too hard to get up, that was the problem; the second she stood, her heart rate tripled but the rest of her felt like a falling elevator, and twice she had come to back on the sofa, her feet on the floor. She dreamed constantly—or something like dreaming—of her cousins, Davy especially, and of her mother threading a needle or studying a patch of wild strawberries, her hands in the pocket of her apron. In desperation she took to telling herself, This isn’t real, and that would last until the baby thrust a knee into one of her vital organs, and even in her current state she could not deny that pain was real. Sometimes she would open her eyes and see Peter hunched over his computer screen and she would think there was something critical she had to say to him, there was a plea she had to make, for herself or for the baby. If for you the Church is the status quo, she might have said, you will do anything to uphold it. But when she opened her eyes again, he was gone, and just when she’d remembered the words: Mary and Elizabeth. John the Baptist. John whom Jesus loved. Cyrus and Penny Jester, never so blest. It stirred, the flickering self of Rebekah, and took calculated note: She hadn’t eaten. She couldn’t recall using the bathroom. When she opened her eyes, a field of stars burst at the circumference of her vision, and she was just able to turn her head long enough to look at the telephone, which was across the room on Peter’s desk, next to…next to the place his computer once sat. She needed to reach the telephone, but not Peter’s—she needed the black phone in the parlor of Hazel Hunnicutt’s Used World Emporium. She saw herself there, her right index finger poised over the green metal address book. All along she believed she’d call (if she called at all) a past so distant that the act of retrieving it would restore to her all she had lost. But when the moment came, she scrolled down to M for Modjeski, and dialed the number she already knew. The past fell through her fingers until she stood empty-handed in the present, waiting for Claudia to answer.
