With just a glance at them, Fern wordlessly swept the presents and wrappings onto the floor and helped Tom lay the girl on the sofa. She unwrapped the homespun blanket as Harry pulled up chairs for the parents to sit on, then poured them each a cup of tea, putting a little shot of brandy in Tom’s. Tom sipped, then winked at Harry with a weak but grateful smile.
Fern worked quickly and quietly as they watched. She looked older all of a sudden. These few months since Dave’s accident had put wisdom in Fern’s face. She’d gained a little weight, plumping up her breasts and thighs; she no longer looked like a skinny little kid—she looked like a young woman, blooming, with even a touch of rose in her cheeks. Harry thought she was gorgeous.
When Harry saw her working like this, he was proud. He felt like a rooster, wanting to strut in front of his friends and neighbors, the people who’d watched him as a child and put up with his boyhood pranks. Now he’d grown, and brought a healer home to Morgan, Illinois, and he wanted the whole community to respect them.
He looked at her, hardly more than a girl herself, leaning over the child, and blood pulsed in his loins. He wanted to pick her up and carry her to their bedroom and make love to her all afternoon, slowly, tenderly. But he shoved this thought from his mind, because he knew that after the Wilsons left, their little girl healed, or nearly well, that Fern would intimidate him, being a far greater, more gifted person than he, and he would be embarrassed and shamed. Not only that, but their lovemaking was never slow and tender. It was fast and rough, his need suddenly all consuming, and then it was over and he was embarrassed and ashamed again.
He hated this.
Fern was talking quietly to the child. Her big eyes showed white in the red of her flushed face; perspiration stuck her bangs to her forehead like tissue paper. She nodded in response to Fern’s murmured questions.
Fern stood up and turned to Tom. “Please carry her to the bedroom. I need her on the bed where I can get around her.” Tom picked up his daughter and carried her in, laid her down on the brown and gold quilt, then went back to the kitchen. Fern closed the bedroom door.
She sat on the edge of the bed, left hand palm up in her lap. She passed her right hand a couple of inches over the child, from her toes to the top of her head. She could feel the sickness. The throat and the stomach. She laid her hand on the throat, the skin hot to her touch, and closed her eyes. She saw the familiar glittering blue sweep through her upturned palm, streak across her chest and out her right hand into the throat, it was cool and comforting, like menthol ice cream, melting on contact and sinking into the reddened, swollen tissues.
When the flow of blue stopped, she moved her hand to the other infected area, the child’s right side. She felt a corresponding ache in her own side. Ignoring it, she concentrated. She made her conscious mind like a black drumhead, stretched tight. Every thought, every noise made little thumping dents in the fabric, so she shut them out. Pure and black. Peaceful and undisturbed.
Soon she began to get a picture. She felt she was crawling inside the girl’s skin, around the different organs. In front of her were a cluster of polyps, like grapes, black and unnatural amid the pink, red, and white glowing of healthy flesh.
She got down to her knees on the floor, eyes still closed, and put her left hand palm down on the floor. In her mind’s eye, she punctured each grape with a huge hollow-pointed needle, and drained the vile liquid through the needle, up her arm, across her chest, and siphoned it into the floor through her other hand. One by one, the polyps collapsed. When the procedure was complete, she raised her left hand to the sky and a dry wind whistled through her body, into the child’s, turned the residue to dust and blew it away.
She was finished. She opened her eyes, the ache in her side gone. She looked at the little girl’s face, pale, eyes closed. Her forehead was cool. She covered her with the blanket and quietly left the room, shutting the door gently.
An air of solemn expectancy met her as she returned to the kitchen.
“She’ll be fine.”
Mae crossed herself and sank her chin onto her folded hands in prayer.
Fern poured herself a cup of tea and took a sliced fruitcake from the ice box. Her hands felt a little shaky. It was so strange. She had no idea what to do in these cases, but the process was instinctual, automatic, as if someone else was at the controls.
Mae lifted her eyes. “Bless you, Fern.”
It wasn’t me! Fern wanted to say. But something told her that these people needed to place their adoration somewhere. She could only accept their blessings and give thanks in her own way to the God of her own understanding. Later.
“It was your faith,” Fern said gently, touching Mae’s shoulder.
“She’s been gettin’ sicklier and sicklier since fall,” Tom said. “Then yesterday she came down with this sore throat, and I guess she was pretty run-down, because it didn’t look like she was going to be able to manage a simple little thing like this here sore throat. This morning she didn’t even get up to open her presents.”
“Well, she’s going to be just fine. She’s sleeping now. Let’s let her rest for a while; then you take her on home. Keep her quiet for a few days and she should be back to normal.”
“Thank God.”
“Yes, thank God, not me.”
This was just too much for Harry. He grabbed his coat off the peg by the door and slammed outside. He stomped down the squeaky new snow to the barn. Winters were boring. He’d cleaned the barn, fed the cows and horses and chickens, milked, gathered eggs, fixed what needed fixing, and he was bored.
Fern has all her friends, and her sewing and knitting and cooking and cleaning, and all her healing and shopping and more healing, and what have I got. Damn! I don’t even have Fern. I don’t know how to take care of a wife, not a gifted wife like her. We’ve been married less than a year, and she’s brought in more food and more housewares than I have.
He sat on a bale of hay and looked at the snow melting off his boots. She’s a good woman, loving and kind and helpful. I know it ain’t no devil got a hold on her, it’s got to be the Lord’s work. How the hell do you make love to the Lord’s chosen one? Didn’t even give her a decent Christmas present.
He wandered around the barn, then grabbed a broom and started sweeping the already clean floor.
He was rearranging the gardening tools when he heard the barn door open.
“Harry?”
He turned. Her young face looked beautiful in the soft barn light. She was wrapped up warm in boots and a long wool skirt and coat she had made at Addie’s.
“Harry, it’s Christmas. And a beautiful day. Let’s go for a walk.”
He kept fiddling with the tools. He felt her touch, light on his arm.
“What’s the matter, Harry? Did I do something?”
“No.”
“Come on then.”
“You go.”
“I want to be with you.”
“You want to be with me, but you’re always with other people, healing and doing God knows what all.”
“It’s God’s work I’m doing, Harry. I didn’t ask for this. It’s a gift. And you can’t turn down a gift that God gives you.”
“I know. I just feel, like, I don’t know. I don’t feel like much of a man.”
She turned him toward her with a feather touch. “You’re my man, Harry, and I love you. Can’t you be pleased, excited, that we’re together in this?” Her eyes were moist, her face pleading. “Can’t you see the loveliness of this . . . this gift? This ability to help people and ease their suffering?”
“Of course I can, Fern. I just think nothing comes from nothing. Somewhere along the line we’re going to have to pay our dues. We’ve got it too easy here. I myself think I’d rather work hard—long and constant, and learn about life as it goes on. This seems too much like a free ride. Something bad’s going to happen and it’s going to hurt.”
She stepped toward him, putting her cheek against the sheepskin jacket. His a
rms automatically went around her, drew her in close. He kissed the top of her head.
“No, Harry. Life doesn’t have to hurt. Life is good.”
They held each other while the cows and horses shifted, scraping restlessly in their stalls. While the barn smell enveloped them in its warmness, deep in Fern’s mind, a little voice said over and over to her, “He’s right. He’s right. Get ready.”
CHAPTER 5
Martha leaned against the doorway and watched the red, orange, and yellow sunset streak across the horizon. Above, the clouds were puffy white, but to the east, they were already dark, night clouds. Her feet were swollen, her ankle throbbed, but she was reluctant to go back inside. The cool of the evening was coming, and it was just beautiful outside.
She dragged the heavy rocker out to the front porch and lowered her bulk into it. Then she wished she had brought a cold glass of lemonade with her. It was lovely out here—how come she never thought to do this before?
Because I’m learning, she thought. I have a friend, and now things are different.
Inside, the little house was filled with emptiness. Priscilla had gone, and with her went the gaiety of life, the smiles and joys of pleasure. The kitchen table was piled with packages, and a new television stood in the corner by the sofa, but all those things weren’t fun without Priscilla.
Martha rocked and watched the chickens scurry toward their coop. She unlaced her shoes and took them off, feeling the fresh air on her hot and wrinkled toes.
Priscilla had been coming over a lot lately. They painted the living room last week, a cheery yellow. Today they went shopping. Priscilla explained to Martha that the bank held a whole lot of money for her, and that money was for spending. They went to the bank and Priscilla talked to the manager. Martha made an X on a little card, and when they left, with everybody staring at them, Martha had more money in her purse than she had ever seen before. And Priscilla said there was plenty more where that came from.
They drove, too fast, it seemed, to the new shopping mall just south of Morgan. They bought two new dresses for Martha, some wool slacks and sweaters, since winter was coming, a new coat they found on sale, and the new color television with a box to change the program from way across the room. They looked at new sofas and chairs and bedspreads and curtains. There were more electric gadgets than Martha had ever imagined, more colorful things, pretty golden statues, books and pictures and paintings and lots and lots of people and even more cars. A whole farmful of shining cars, windshields glaring in the sun.
Priscilla had told her she had enough money to throw out all her old furniture and buy new, so they looked and looked and Martha loved it all, but she loved what she had in the house best. She bought new towels, though, for the bathroom and kitchen, some underwear, and six new loaf pans.
There were some heavy bookends with little golden birds on them that Priscilla just loved, so Martha bought those, too, and gave them to her. Priscilla’s eyes lit up, and she hugged her, right there in the middle of the store. Martha felt embarrassed, so she took the mirror out of her purse and worried over her nose.
They went in and out of shops all day long, Priscilla laughing at everything and Martha trying to keep up. She tried to understand, she tried not to think about her feet, she tried to enjoy everything as Priscilla did, but she just felt out of place.
Finally, they left, and drove home with the car filled with crinkling packages and fresh things. Priscilla helped bring the things inside; then she left, and all the joy went out of the day.
The sun sank down and the shadows grew. Martha felt a chill, so she left the rocker on the porch and hobbled inside. She turned on the television and lay down on the sofa. There was a man talking. His face was green. Idly, she wondered where the green people lived, and when she woke up, the house was dark and quiet, except for the white fuzzy buzzing on the screen.
Martha twisted the tube of flesh-colored makeup and looked in the mirror. Slowly, carefully, she traced the scars around her nose like Priscilla told her, like she did with the lipstick so long ago. With an awkward little finger, she tried to mush the line out—“Blend it, Martha”—so it didn’t look worse than the scars. Nothing looked worse than the scars. They began between her eyes and ran down both sides of her nose to her lip, half an inch wide, shiny and smooth with ridges like little ladders. On the left side of her nose, the scar was jagged. She blended as best she could, then powdered her whole face. It looked better.
She turned toward the door, then back quickly to the mirror to see what she looked like at first glance. At first glance she looked like Martha, with a crooked lump of flesh tacked on to the middle of her face like a horned knob on a tree. She had hoped this stick makeup would give her a nose like Priscilla’s. Smooth and pink with little brown dots across it. Small, with even little nostrils. Her nostrils were warped—one was large and round, one was dented and caved in on one side. She striped on red lipstick and put on one of her new dresses. She was going to find another friend today.
There was still lots of money in her purse. She walked into town, ignoring the bite in her ankle, and walked directly to the bar. She opened the door and went inside, her mouth and throat parched from the walk and the anticipation.
The room was even more magic than she remembered. It was cool and dim, and empty, except for Mike, who sat on one of the stools, writing. He looked up with a surprised smile.
“Martha! How nice to see you!”
She smiled back. She was getting used to people since Priscilla had become her friend. She knew how to smile, and sometimes she could talk, knowing the right words, and sometimes they didn’t all bunch up in her mind and clog her mouth.
“How would you like a drink?”
She nodded and climbed gently onto a stool.
“What would you like? Root beer? Coke?”
“Root beer.”
He brought her a frosty mug, then came around and sat on a stool next to her. “You look very nice today.”
“Thank you.” She spoke slowly and clearly.
“Are you in town to do some shopping?”
Shopping! I know shopping! “No, went shopping already.”
“Where are your packages?”
“No, no, before. With Pris. Bought television.”
“A television? Gee, that’s great. Keeps you company on the farm, eh?”
Martha thought about this. “No,” she said.
“Pris took you shopping?”
She nodded.
“Who’s Pris?”
Her brow furrowed. Who’s Pris? She took her fingers and made scissors around her head.
“Oh, Priscilla. The hair stylist. I know her.” Oh, God, Mike thought. Priscilla. Golddigger.
Martha smiled and nodded. She sipped her root beer.
Mike and Priscilla had gone to school together. They were the same age, thirty-two. Mike inherited the local tavern from his dad, and Priscilla went away to beauty school. She came back after years of bad rumors had circulated about her and got a job with Shirley’s Hair Salon in town. She was a wild one, all right. Spent all her money here at Mike’s, hustling. Mike sighed. Every town’s got to have one, I guess. But this is no good, her taking advantage of Martha.
“Priscilla cuts your hair?”
“Yes.”
“That’s nice. She does a good job, doesn’t she?”
Before she could answer, the door swung open and three young men walked in. They took stools at the bar and ordered beers. They wore Levi’s and dirty T-shirts rolled up at the sleeve. The one next to her had heavy brown arms with large smooth muscles. Martha looked at them carefully, but when one looked back, she quickly sank her gaze into the foam on the top of her soda and kept it there.
“Martha?” It was the man next to her. She looked up slowly, shyly.
“It is you. Hi. Remember me? Leon. I cut your lawn.”
It took a moment for Martha to understand what he said, she was so flustered that a stranger would talk to her. Th
en she remembered seeing the boy on the tractor, waving to her as he left. She always went inside when he came. But surely, it couldn’t be this boy. The last time she had seen him he was young and skinny. And this boy was older; this was a man.
She smiled at last, lines of confusion leaving her forehead. “Leon?”
“Yes, Leon. Let me buy you another drink.”
“No. I buy. For all.” She looked at Mike, then busied herself in her purse. She pulled out a wad of bills and handed them to Mike. All eyes at the bar looked in amazement. Mike took the wad of bills, picked out a five and gave the rest back to her.
“Hey, Martha,” Leon said quietly. “You shouldn’t carry money around like that. Someone’s likely to steal your purse.”
“Yeah, like me,” one of the other boys said, then snorted a laugh. He was cut off short by hard glares. His face reddened.
“I’ll tell you what. After we finish our drinks, I’ll take you home, okay?”
Martha smiled. “Okay!” Another friend. She glowed inside. She looked at Mike. He smiled, relief flooding through him. Thank God. Leon’s a good kid. Always helping out. Jesus, I don’t want any trouble over this woman.
When Martha had slurped up the last of her root beer and wiped the mustache from her lip, smearing her lipstick and exposing some of the scar, Leon left his friends and walked out into the afternoon sun with her. He held open the door of his old pickup truck parked at the curb and helped her inside.
They bounced their way to the farmhouse, truck squeaking and rattling. “Gee, I better get over here with my mower pretty soon, huh?”
“Yes,” she said softly. “Weeds.”
Leon killed the engine and jumped out, ran around and helped Martha down. He walked to the door with her. “You know, we could fix this place up a little bit.” He looked up at the sagging roof over the porch. “This needs shoring up.” He bounced on his toes. “Porch is solid.” He walked across and looked around the side. “Chicken coop looks pretty sad.”
“Lemonade?”
When Darkness Loves Us Page 10
