What Love Sees

by Susan Vreeland

  Maybe Mother was right. Three were enough. They were pushing their luck. But the pregnancy was undeniable. She buried her face in the sofa pillows, overcome with tears and self-reproach. There was something unseemly, maybe even inhuman, about not wanting another baby, the natural consequence of lovemaking. Shame at her tears made her sob more. Her stomach cramped and she contracted into a ball. If she had to let it out she’d better let it out now while Forrest was at work. This was one time she couldn’t bear to have him discover her. Her breath came in jerky, wet gasps and her hand pressed against a hard center of regret hurting in her stomach.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  “Take him home, Mrs. Holly. I can’t do anything for him, but you can.” Dr. Lipe’s words lanced the wound she had tried to ignore. She knew something was different with this baby. Alanson Perry Holly felt different, like a bowl of jelly. He could bend back as easily as forward and seemed to slide through her grasp.

  She slipped back into town quietly and tried to learn how to tend this difficult infant who would not eat and whose movements had an erratic discontinuity, as if he were spastic. More than the other children, his little neck lacked the strength to hold up his wobbly head. Gravely she thought somehow it must have been her fault in the birth, or in having a fourth child. In despair, she chased his mouth with a bottle, then with a spoon, sometimes with determination, sometimes in desperation. As much as she had with the other three, perhaps even more, she bathed him with love, exploring his limbs, his receding chin and slightly drooping lids, brushing the gossamer eyelashes with a lingering tenderness, yet in her loving there was a note of self-torture.

  How had she come to this state of affairs? she asked herself one day. From opera in black velvet capes and tea served by a butler at a boarding school to this, force-feeding a limp, unwilling child in some remote town with turkeys squawking in the background and three other children moving around her, she wasn’t quite sure where until they tugged at her sleeve? Where was the calm order of her youth, the placidness that Harkness thought remarkable in a young girl? How had it eluded her?

  For weeks she walked from room to room with a constant lump in her throat. So what would Miss Weaver have done, given this situation? She didn’t need to wonder. That woman was unsinkable. Oh, yes, Mother would coddle, Dody would understand, Icy would have suffered with her, but LCW would be adamant. “Of course you can do something about the condition of that child. It’s foolish to accept as permanent what you see. Now blow your nose and get busy.” Jean could hear her throaty voice conveying absolute control. “Of course you can.” It wasn’t the words themselves. They were simple enough, even superficial in themselves. It was the attitude they conveyed—that our frame of mind determines our experience, that it was absurd to accept obstacles as law. Instead, it was natural to go beyond limitations. Furthermore, not to be stalwart was shameful and might even transmit character weakness to the child.

  Others voiced their worry. “How’s he ever going to sit up and eat by himself?” Franny shook her head. “I don’t think he’ll ever—”

  “Oh yes, he will. He’s going to sit up and he’s going to walk. In fact, he’s going to walk me to your house every day. He can outgrow this. He was put here on earth to do some good, and I’m going to see that he can.” Declaring it might bring it to pass. She held his head firmly from behind and, using two fingers to open his mouth, thrust the spoon home.

  To his own strange incompleteness the child was oblivious, Jean discovered with gratitude. His sounds had none of the crossness of Faith’s nor the sullenness of Billy’s. He gurgled through babyhood with a glee that spoke of his willingness to be in the world, on whatever terms. “He’s happy,” she said to Forrest one night, almost in wonder. And his name became Hap.

  Other than feeding, he was easy to tend to. He stayed put on a blanket spread out on the floor. While Jean gave piano lessons to local children, Hap was content to be held and played with by accompanying mothers or older sisters who circulated the gossip—the Hollys had another child, one too many. Jean choked at their censure.

  Once a girl was brought to her lesson by her aunt, a Mrs. Betty Kenworthy. Jean steeled herself against potential criticism from a new voice, but let the visitor in anyway. “Mrs. Holly, something must have happened to your son,” the woman stammered. “He’s got blood all over his face.” Her voice didn’t have the daggered edge of superiority that Jean had grown to expect, but only concern. It reminded her of a mourning dove.

  “Well, he hasn’t cried. I can’t imagine what. Oh, I bet I know. I fed him tomato juice at lunch.” Her hands reached for the child, and they both laughed in relief.

  “Here, let me.”

  Jean relinquished Hap to arms that seemed to take him with love. “I ought to know by now he’ll be messy whenever I feed him.”

  “It must be hard to remember when you don’t see it. But he’s not the only one who looks injured. What about you? Whatever happened to your forehead?”

  “Do you know what it feels like to bump into an adobe wall?”

  “No, but I can see what it did to you. You’re swollen into a purple knot.”

  It wasn’t criticism, but compassion in her voice. Jean’s relief unleashed a flood of talk, and Betty stayed after the lesson was over. In fact, she came again, even without her niece. A welcome friendship developed quickly, focusing on Hap as he grew through infancy. Without children herself, Betty and her husband Warren became part of the fabric of Ramona life. They took drives in the mountains and had picnics in the desert. And Betty was thrilled to take care of Hap when the rest of the family went to Bristol for Jean’s parents’ fortieth wedding anniversary at Christmas, 1951.

  Trips to Bristol were common for Jean—she went practically every other year—but they were rare for the entire family. This was the first time five Hollys would make the trip. Knowing the children would be so excited they’d be unmanageable days before, Jean took Forrest’s suggestion that they keep it a secret until the last minute.

  They were to take a late night flight so the children might sleep on the way. It would take 15 hours, with five refueling stops. Jean packed bags of new toys to keep them occupied—puppets, dolls, crayons and coloring books—and hid them until that night.

  Faith was the first to notice anything unusual. Scuffling down the hall in pajamas with the feet too big, she stood by the bathroom door. “Pop, why are you shaving now? It’s bedtime.”

  “Oh, thought I’d try to look good in my dreams.”

  Faith didn’t say anything for a moment, apparently intent on evaluating his answer. Jean waited. Forrest whistled a children’s tune. “No, Pop, why are you really?”

  “Do you want to know the truth?”

  “Yes. You say we should always tell the truth.”

  “Oh, I just thought I’d go to Connecticut tonight to see Grandma and Grandpa. Want to come along?”

  “Wow! Yeah! Is it true, Mommy, is it true?” She squealed so loud it drew the boys from the living room. In a moment all three were jumping on the sofa, chanting in chorus, “We’re going to Grandma’s. We’re going to Grandpa’s. We’re going to Connecticut. We’re going on an airplane.”

  Right on schedule, the Kenworthys arrived to take Hap, and the Nelsons arrived to drive them across the mountains to the airport in San Diego. The toy planning worked. Whenever a child got restless on the plane, out came a new toy. Fortunately, the children slept easily, but had to be awakened around dawn in Chicago for a change of plane and even a change of airport. Billy was in charge of getting all the toys back into the bags, Faith of counting and distributing the bags for carrying, Forrie of leading them behind an agent through the airport to the right bus to get from O’Hare to Chicago Midway Airport on the South Side. Big responsibilities for children so young. During the hour-long bus ride Forrest asked “Is it light yet?”

  “A little.”

  “What do you see?”

  “Snow!” Faith said. It brought an awed murmur fro
m the others.

  “We’ll see a lot more of that in Bristol,” Jean said. “And you can play in it and make a snowman.”

  “Can we make a snow cow, too?”

  “You betcha.”

  “Hey, Pop,” Forrie said. “All the trees are dead.”

  “Pee-you. What’s that stink?” Faith let go of Jean’s arm in order to hold her nose. “Smells like the barn only worse.”

  “Probably the stockyards,” Forrest said.

  In the airport, Forrest kept up his questions in order to get to the right gate. The little troop stopped often and Forrest made his oldest son read every sign he could, which wasn’t much. Forrie was only in first grade. He did fine with “men” and “women” and “gate” but struggled with anything more complicated. “I can’t read big words yet,” Forrie whined, nearly in tears, the weight of responsibility heavy.

  “Spell them then.”

  Forrie gave tedious renditions of “b-a-g-g-a-g-e-c-l-a-i-m” and “p-a-s-s-e-n-g-e-r-s-o-n-l-y.”

  Jean had Billy on one hand and Faith on the other, with bags hanging from her forearms. Her wrists ached, but they all made it to the next plane. It swelled her heart to hear the children’s wide-eyed commentary on the big world.

  Father and Mother and a new Packard limousine met them in jovial spirits at La Guardia. The roads were icy, and they crept along, spinning sideways once. Awed by what they saw, the children were quiet. Soon they fell asleep again. Like limp sacks of laundry, all three had to be carried into the big house and up two flights of stairs to bed in the dormitory.

  The next morning was too stormy to go out so Mother and Father let the grandchildren have free run of the house, and they explored every room, closet and cupboard, talking about everything. Billy’s “lookie, lookie,” echoed through the halls. Faith found the dinner gong in the hallway to the kitchen and, boosted by Delia, played an inharmonious melody. Billy spied the wall sconces and asked, “Are those really candles?”

  “Don’t be a dumbhead,” Forrie said. “You think this place doesn’t have electricity?”

  The children took over the third floor and discovered the row of cedar chests where costumes were kept. They played dress-up with abandon, and clomped up and down the stairway in high heels, tall black pirate boots, velvet capes, wooden shoes. Jean’s father took pictures. Eventually he led them downstairs to the basement where he had an extensive electric train layout. “Don’t touch anything unless Grandpa tells you it’s okay,” Jean cautioned. For the children, the world was bursting with novelty. For Jean and Forrest, it was a triumph just to get there, and they relaxed into the large home with ease.

  It continued to snow all night, dropping eight inches by morning. For such an eventuality, Mother had borrowed from Lucy and Mort and Bill a supply of children’s snowsuits, mittens, scarves, boots and caps—clothing the children had never needed before. Morning dawned cold but clear. The children peered out the tall living room windows across the terrace and couldn’t believe their eyes. “Everything’s pillowy,” Faith said. “Looks like a Christmas card.” It was hard to get them to finish their breakfasts before they went outside.

  Jean and Forrest aimed wiggly arms into armholes of bulky sweaters, and bent unwilling knees into layers of pant legs. Then came snowsuit stuffing, with sweaters caught in zippers, the children roasting.

  “Too much to wear,” Faith whined.

  “You’re going to wear it anyway. Here, give me a foot. You have to wear shoes today, that’s for sure.” Forrest tugged on boots, and Jean and Mother tugged on mittens.

  Father went out the front door to find a sled in the garage. A whoosh of cold air that ruffled the doilies and tinkled the chandelier gave the children a preview of what was to come. “Here, use these,” Mother offered. Mufflers two yards long. Jean and Forrest started winding, two, three, four times around necks and heads. Out came a distant, muffled voice. “I can’t see.”

  “I can’t talk,” said another.

  “That’s what muffler means.” Forrest chuckled.

  “I can’t move my arms,” whined a third.

  “Doesn’t matter. You’ll be warm.”

  The door opened again, another whoosh of cold air, and they were gone. Forrest and Mother and Jean collapsed on the sofa. Before Jean caught her breath, the door opened again. She shivered. The chandelier tinkled. “I have to go bathroom,” Billy announced.

  “I’ll take care of him,” Mother said, and ushered him down the hall.

  Jean and Forrest had the moment to themselves. “Come here, Jeanie,” Forrest said. “I need a smooch.” He kissed her with the easy affection that comes when two have accomplished something together. “There was a time once when I would no more have done that here than spit in church.” He stretched, leaned back and sighed. “It’s good just to be with family and not be working.”

  The next days were full of visits. At Lucy’s, the two sets of children got acquainted through play. At Bill and Ginny’s, Bill and Forrest developed a teasing camaraderie. Jean telephoned Mrs. Eastman and had a long talk weighted with pauses and melancholy. Jean was mildly curious about the Hill crowd and asked Mother to bring her up to date, but she didn’t visit any of them. Instead, she telephoned Lorraine to invite her to Hickory Hill but Lorraine was too busy with Christmas in her own household of four children. “I do have some wonderful news, though,” Lorraine said. “I’ve opened a piano studio in Hartford and it’s going well. I already have eleven students.”

  “You know something, Lorraine. Our lives are coming closer together. I mean, we live now more like each other than we ever have.”

  The world seemed whole and rich and full of joy. Christmas Eve at Hickory Hill was radiant. Mother brought out Christmas stockings and they all hung them on the mantle. Delia and Alexina had festooned the chandeliers with holly, and carols played in the library at cocktail hour. Jean couldn’t keep the children from eating up the cocktail nibbles, but Father’s annoyance even took on a gentle tone. “Don’t you think we’ll feed you tonight, Faithy?” Jean sat in the rocking chair where Mother had read novels to her as a young girl, her hands in her lap, relishing the utter peace. Life was good. She felt something placed in her hands, Faith’s big stuffed doll. “What’s this for?”

  “You don’t look right,” Forrie said. “You don’t have a baby on your lap.”

  She thought of Hap at home. Love for her whole family welled up, and Father stood behind her and laid his hand on her shoulder.

  The next morning all three children padded down from the third floor and climbed into bed with Forrest and Jean to hear the marvelous events of the day. Christmas dinner was to be a festive event.

  Mort and Bill and Lucy and their families were all there, and the long stretch of damasked dining table displayed the Treadway’s most formal service, complete with crystal stemware and silver candlesticks.

  “The whole room sparkles,” Faith said, and then added, “I can’t move my chair.” The tall, heavy dining chairs were a bit much for the children, and being served by maids in formal black and white uniforms was a thing of fairytales. “We have a maid, too, only she speaks Mexican,” Faith said.

  “She’s probably with Ezequiel in Tijuana for Christmas,” Forrie added.

  It was good to be with her brothers and their wives, Anne and Ginny. Talk touched on the events of the year—Joe McCarthy and the Communist threat, MacArthur’s unexpected turnaround in Korea. Father held to his traditional stance. “This is just a little police action,” he said. “We’ve had all the big wars we’re going to have. Let’s not let it worry us. Forrest’s doing well with his adobe building, Mort. He’s got some fine prospects.”

  “What’s the cost of an adobe house compared to a frame house?” Mort asked.

  “Somewhat more expensive but it will last longer and there’s no danger of fires.”

  “What about an earthquake?”

  Mort was always the serious one, Jean thought.

  “The walls have reinfor
ced steel.” Here was something Forrest was an authority on, and it was kind of Father to steer the conversation in his direction.

  “I suppose you have a thatched roof out there in the West to go with your Indian bricks,” Bill teased.

  “Thicker thatch than what’s on your head, as I’ve heard tell.” The easy give and take told her that her family had accepted Forrest, and that Forrest was beginning to feel valued by Father.

  When the flaming plum pudding was served, the children all chorused their approval. “Aw, it went out,” Lucy’s daughter said.

  “Why don’t you put more kerosene on it and start it again?” Forrie’s offer of a helpful suggestion was meant in earnest and he didn’t understand why everyone was laughing.

  “Don’t you know what’s good for you? It’s brandy that flames, not kerosene,” Mr. Treadway explained.

  “Is that the kind of thing you feed your son out west, Forrest?” Lucy’s husband teased.

  “Yup.” Forrest reveled in the attention. “That’s how come us cowboys have tough guts.”

  Two nights later the fortieth anniversary party was a gala affair. There were nearly eighty guests—family and Ares and Ain’ts, Father’s business associates and Mother’s DAR and Red Cross friends. Jean was sure Faith was getting an eyeful of gowns and jewelry she’d never even imagined before. Hickory Hill was alive with spangles and music and laughter. “Every light in the house is on,” Forrie said.

  One of mother’s long-time DAR friends asked Jean about her life out west. “And what does your husband do?” The tone of judgmental curiosity, akin to asking what can he do, scraped a raw place on her heart. When Jean told her about the adobe brick business developing into a building firm, the woman said, “Well, I’m sure that’s lovely dear.” Jean’s mind flashed to Sally Anne saying, “You look lovely, Jean,” the first time she tried to pin up her hair without help. She was glad to hear Forrest and Bill walk by so she could excuse herself.