Martha Calhoun

by Richard Babcock

  “The second point I want to make is that it doesn’t necessarily have to be this way. Most of the people of Abundance Lake just shrugged their shoulders and figured there was nothing they could do. I’m here to say that’s wrong. There’s always something you can do. Perhaps, in the long run, it won’t be effective, perhaps it won’t work, but that shouldn’t stop you from doing what you know is right. It is true, as the people of Abundance Lake believed, that the world is sometimes an inhospitable place that can crush your dreams in a moment. But the forces of the world aren’t all impersonal and unresponsive. There isn’t one giant wheel of life that rolls inevitably foreward, crushing everything in its path. People, institutions, nature—they all mix together to move life forward, and, sometimes, that mixture responds to a little poking, a little prodding. Not always, but sometimes.

  “Friends, let me say it more baldly.” He slapped the pulpit with his open hand and a cracking noise echoed through the vast, quiet church. “The largest employer in Katydid is threatening to leave town. Hundreds of people will be out of work. Misery is upon us. The very survival of Katydid is in question. And no one is doing anything. Not the town fathers, not the religious leaders, not you, not me. We have our heads in the sand, and it’s not right. More precisely, it’s not Christian. Friends, there is nothing inevitable about being crushed. If history teaches us anything, if Christ’s life has any meaning whatsoever, it’s that one person, one idea, one hope can make a difference. We have to work to fix what’s wrong. That’s the message of our faith, and that’s what we must believe if we are to continue to lead honorable, Christian lives.” He bowed his head. “Amen,” he said gently.

  In the great, soft commotion that followed, as people shifted and cleared their throats and allowed themselves to relax, I leaned toward Bunny. “Isn’t he wonderful?” I whispered.

  “I wish he didn’t talk about such depressing things,” she said.

  Afterward, Reverend Vaughn greeted people at the door as the congregation slowly filed out. Bunny and I got in line behind the Pratt family. The four young Pratt boys were all wearing matching navy sports coats and clip-on bow ties. The two oldest kept turning around to stare at Bunny. They didn’t have to say anything to each other. Bunny pretended not to notice.

  The line stalled for a few minutes. Mr. Pratt, a compact man who walks with a kind of swagger in front of his troop of boys, was berating the minister. He was obviously angry, talking through a tight jaw and twisting his torso to lead with his shoulder. Reverend Vaughn listened and nodded impassively. I tried to edge forward to catch what was being said, but the angry man kept his voice down so others wouldn’t hear. “Damned irresponsible,” was all that floated out of his mutterings.

  Finally, the Pratts moved on and Reverend Vaughn took my hand. “I’m so glad you could come,” he said. “What a friendly sight your face was.”

  I introduced Bunny, who held out her hand stiffly, like a man.

  “Martha has said so many wonderful things about you,” Reverend Vaughn said. Bunny seemed to be studying his starched, white collar. “I hope you liked the service,” he added.

  “I like organ music,” Bunny said.

  “Oh!” He caught his breath, momentarily taken aback. “So do I,” he said, his face brightening. “Martha can tell you that. So do I.”

  Bunny and I walked down the steep stone steps. She held my arm for balance. Back on the sidewalk, I said, “I never heard you talk about liking organ music before.”

  “Well, I had to say something nice. He was just begging for a compliment.”

  “But what about the sermon? I thought the sermon was great.”

  She quickened her pace, and we left behind the groups of people chatting on the sidewalk in front of the church. “Maybe. I don’t know. I told you it sounded depressing. Anyway, I didn’t listen that carefully. I couldn’t concentrate. His voice bothers me. It kind of drones.”

  “It does not,” I said angrily.

  “My, my.” She raised her eyebrows and looked sideways at me.

  “Anyway, you could have been nicer to him,” I said. “He’s been terrific to me, visiting almost every day.”

  “I was nice enough,” said Bunny, crossing the intersection. “Besides, what do you two talk about, anyway?”

  “Things.”

  “About me?”

  “Bunny, we just talk—about anything. You know how it is.”

  She shot a glance at me, over her shoulder, and her temper flared. “Well, I don’t like it. Everybody’s got something to say to you these days but me. What I say doesn’t matter. The mother doesn’t count.” She started walking faster, taking short, Chinese steps in her tight skirt. “It’s all Judge Horner this, or Mrs. O’Brien that, or Reverend Vaughn something else. And that crazy Jesus lady they’ve got you living with, she’s the worst of all. I’ve noticed the way she checks out whatever I’m wearing. You know what I think? I think she believes I’m the devil, and she’s looking to see how I’ve hidden the tail under my dress.”

  “Bunny!” I was almost trotting to stay up with her.

  “I can just imagine her thinking, ‘Let’s see, does she wrap it around one thigh? Or maybe tuck it between her legs?’ I bet that gives her a thrill. Hunh!” She brayed out a harsh laugh.

  “Bunny, no,” I said.

  “I may not be perfect, but at least I’m your mother, and that should count for something. Why can’t they just leave us alone?” She was a step or two ahead of me, talking to the world in front of her. I’d never seen her this excitable.

  Half a block ahead, the Methodist Church was letting out, and the sidewalk was crowded. We’d have to wade through people to get to the car. Bunny didn’t appear to notice. “Don’t they understand?” she wailed. “It was bad enough with Tom, and now this. What do they expect? I’ve got to work. I’ve got to make money so we can eat. I can’t stay home all day and chaperone.” People on the sidewalk heard her coming, and a path, lined with familiar faces, opened up. I moved right up to Bunny’s shoulder.

  “It’ll only be for a little while,” I whispered. “Simon Beach will get us out of this.” I hoped the lawyer’s name would soothe her. I could see the Pontiac, just ahead, the rusted rear bumper jutting out from a line of cars.

  “Martha!” an eager voice suddenly called out.

  I pretended not to hear and kept moving.

  “Hey! Martha! Yoo-hoo. It’s me.” It was Janie Owens, a classmate of mine. She goes to the Methodist Church.

  I stopped, and she scampered up. She had on a blue dress, something new, with a lacy top. “Gee,” she said. “I heard.” She played with a fold on her dress and waited for me to say something. Bunny had stopped a few feet beyond and was watching us. “Are you out now?” Janie asked. “Did they let you go?”

  “I’m with Bunny,” I said. I wasn’t about to explain anything. Bunny took a step back toward us.

  “Oh.” Janie came up and took my hand between hers. I felt the silky grease of hand lotion. She’d probably been rubbing it on secretly during the church service. “What’s going to happen to you?” Her mouth hung open for an instant. Through her hands, I could almost feel her tingling joy at the horror and wonder of it all. “God, your reputation,” she said.

  Suddenly, Bunny was beside us. “Beat it, you little fat bottom,” she hissed. Janie jumped back. Her hands stroked frantically at her dress, as if to protect it from what was happening. “If I catch you spreading any more rumors, I’ll sue you for every cent you’ve got.” Bunny stabbed at Janie with her finger, and then turned and walked elegantly toward her car.

  “See you, Janie,” I mumbled, before hurrying after Bunny and climbing into the safety of the Pontiac.

  SEVENTEEN

  Back in the car, Bunny was suddenly cheerful. Her explosion at Janie seemed to have calmed her, and she chattered away as if nothing had happened. How many times had I seen her blow up like that in the last week? She’d always had a temper, of course, and, occasionally, she’d
lose it, but never so uncontrollably or so publicly. She used to seethe and then rage at home, mostly for my benefit, I thought. At home, she almost seemed to be showing off, and secretly I kind of enjoyed it. Her anger was harmless and she could be funny with it, saying ridiculous, outrageous things about whoever had offended her. But now she kept making these public displays—at the lawyer’s office, twice on the square—as if she had to flaunt her anger in front of the town. It wasn’t like her.

  We drove back to the Vernons’, and I ran in and changed into shorts and gym shoes for the picnic. Then we stopped at Bunny’s house and picked up the red-checkered tablecloth and a grocery bag stuffed with sandwiches, potato chips, and apples. It felt strange to be back in the house again. I had the sense that the place had changed in tiny ways that I couldn’t see. My room—all white and lacy and soft with pillows—looked childish to me, and even the kitchen, where Bunny and I had whiled away hours sitting around the old Formica table, seemed dreary and cramped.

  We didn’t stay long. Bunny said she wasn’t going to change her clothes. “If these are good enough for the Congo,” she said, “they’re good enough for Mason’s Farm.”

  I had an idea something was up, and once we were back in the car, instead of heading out of town, she swung down Beetle Street, toward Eddie Boggs’s place. I turned and stared out the side window. We passed the V.F.W., Katydid Ford, Southside Elementary School. In front of the Poskas’ house, the entire Poska family, with all its white-blond hair, was piling into the family car, probably going out to the Estonian Center to sing songs and eat sausages all afternoon. Why did Bunny have to do it? Why couldn’t she give up on men for a while? Why couldn’t she see that Eddie Boggs was wrong for her? Why, why, why—my head was starting to ache.

  Bunny knew what I was thinking. “I want you and Eddie to be friends,” she said.

  I wanted to ask her: What about Mrs. O’Brien? What about Judge Horner? What about getting your life together? What about me? I wanted to ask those questions—I wanted to yell them, because I knew there were no answers. But my throat had tightened up as if somebody’s fingers were clamped around it. I didn’t say a word.

  Eddie Boggs lives by himself in a room above Rose Dry Cleaners. Bunny says it’s a sorry place, barren, except for a mattress, a few chairs, and a hot plate for cooking. But there’s a big, gravel parking lot in front of the dry cleaners, and on Sundays Eddie and his friends can hang around and work on their cars.

  When we pulled up, Eddie had his shirt off and was leaning over the engine of Tony Burger’s red Chevy. Eddie’s got one of those wiry male bodies on which all the muscles and veins stand out, as if the skin’s too tight. He looked up and saw us and gave his wrench to Tony and then loped up the stairs on the side of the building. Tony came over and looked in Bunny’s window. “Hey, lil’ darlin’,” he said.

  “Shut up,” said Bunny, and the two of them grinned at each other for a while.

  Tony noticed me and stuck his head in the window, leaning over Bunny. “Well, hello, there,” he said.

  “Get out,” snapped Bunny. She pushed him back and rolled up the window.

  Eddie appeared again shortly and slid into the back seat. He’d toweled himself off and put on a soft cotton shirt with palm trees all over it. He was carrying a paper bag and immediately he pulled out a Hamms beer. “You see the light?” he asked Bunny, as he opened the can and a mist of beer squirted out. He was talking about church.

  “It was very nice,” said Bunny. “The sermon was about the KTD.”

  “That don’t sound very religious to me,” said Eddie. “I mean, I’ve heard of heaven and hell and the Garden of Eden, but I never heard anyplace in the Bible where it mentions the KTD.” He smirked at me. That’s typical Eddie Boggs. He won’t come right out and say hello, like any normal person. He’ll act as if you’re not there until he wants you to laugh at a wisecrack.

  Mason’s Farm is a swampy piece of property about five miles south of Katydid, along the Little Carp River. Nobody knows anymore who Mason was. All that’s left of his farm is a grassy pile of stones where the barn used to stand and a few old wagon paths. The rest of the place is overgrown with reeds. If you follow the most worn-down path, you cross a field and come to the Little Carp and to a grassy stretch shaded by a few big willow trees. The river—it’s really not much more than a creek—makes a sweeping turn there, and the bank has been pushed up into an overhang. People from town have been picnicking at that spot for years, supposedly since Katydid was founded, over a century ago.

  Bunny parked the car along the side of the road, near the start of the main wagon path. Just ahead, someone had left a pickup truck. “I hope nobody’s beat us to the spot,” said Bunny.

  She gave me the bag of food, and Eddie carried his beer. The path was dry and scuffed down to the cracking, gray earth. Bunny still had on her high heels. She walked on the balls of her feet for a while, but pretty soon her ankles tired, and her heels started spiking into the ground, leaving long, thin holes, the way a planter would. Finally, she stopped. Resting one hand on my shoulder, she took off her shoes and her stockings. She stuffed her stockings into her purse, and dangled her shoes from the fingers of her left hand. Then she continued barefoot.

  The path was just two parallel wheel ruts carved in the ground. No wheels had rolled over them in years, but wagons had once driven that route so regularly that even the thick marsh grasses couldn’t quite erase the markings. There was no breeze, so the air along the path was thick and heavy with the strange, sweet fragrances of a swamp. Eddie walked on ahead, leaving Bunny and me to trail behind, walking side-by-side along the path. “We’re each in our own rut,” I said, and Bunny laughed. I was still angry about Eddie being there, but I could see how his presence reassured Bunny.

  The yellow stand of willows rose like a golden oasis at the end of the path. Farther up the river, two men were spearing carp. Otherwise, we were alone. Bunny spread the tablecloth on the ground and dumped the sandwiches, potato chips, and apples in a pile in the middle. Eddie found a place in the Little Carp beneath the overhang to set the beer and a few bottles of Coke he’d brought along for me. Then we all stretched out. The ground was spongy and coolly damp.

  Bunny undid a few buttons on her blouse and slid her skirt up to just below her hips, for comfort. She’s got great legs with curved, muscled calves. She says they got that way because Grandmother’s house in Indian Falls was on a hill, and every winter, when the pump froze, Grandmother would make Bunny haul water up from the stream at the bottom.

  “Damn!” said Bunny, slapping at her neck. “I forgot the bug stuff.”

  “Too hot for bugs,” said Eddie. He took off his shirt—Eddie takes off his shirt every chance he gets. He rolled the shirt in a ball and stuck it behind his head for a pillow. He’s learned to drink a can of beer lying on his back without using his hands, just by holding the edge of the can in his teeth. Something went wrong this time, though, because a little stream of beer trickled down his cheek and dripped onto his chest. Bunny mopped it up with a napkin.

  After a while, I passed out the sandwiches. “This is just like a regular family,” said Bunny, smiling at Eddie and me.

  Eddie took a couple of bites of his sandwich and then heaved it into the river. “Maybe the carp will eat it,” he said. Bunny had made the sandwiches using some baloney that hadn’t been covered right and one edge of it had turned dry and leathery. She must not have noticed. She’s not too interested in cooking. Eddie ate some potato chips.

  “You know, I read yesterday that the last Union Army veteran died, from the Civil War,” said Bunny. “He had a funny name, Wolfson, or something.”

  “How old was he?” I asked.

  “One hundred and nine,” said Bunny. “He joined when he was seventeen. He was a drummer boy, and he signed up after his father was killed in a big battle.”

  “Gee,” I said. “Imagine.”

  “He’s the last Union man, but three Confederate vets are still a
live,” Bunny added.

  “I guess that means the South won after all,” said Eddie, pleased with himself.

  “Very funny,” said Bunny.

  The shrill buzz of a swamp bug got fiercely loud and intense, then faded away to nothing. “Adlai is coming to the fair next week,” said Bunny. “It’s a campaign stop.” She didn’t seem to be speaking to either of us in particular.

  “Big deal,” said Eddie, after a couple of seconds.

  “I like him,” she said. “I feel sorry for him.”

  “He’s an egghead,” said Eddie.

  “How about you, Martha?” asked Bunny. “Who would you vote for if you were old enough?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I don’t follow politics or sports much, but to help Bunny out with the conversation I added, “Mr. Vernon likes President Eisenhower. He has a sticker on his bumper.”

  “Walter Vernon?” said Eddie. I nodded. “That’s quite a statement for him. That’s practically an entire conversation. Whooo-eee. I worked next to him one night on the power press, and he didn’t say a goddamn thing the whole shift. He just stood there scratching his ass all the time. He must have hemorrhoids.”

  “Eddie!” said Bunny. “Not in front of Martha.”

  “Well, it’s true. He just stood there all night with one hand on the press and the other on his butt, like some kind of statue.” Lying on the ground, Eddie rolled over and demonstrated what he meant.