“Ned? Jesus Christ, Priscilla, isn’t he a little young for you?”
“And isn’t she a little old for you, Leon? You pervert.”
“We fell asleep watching television last night.”
“Uh-huh. A likely story. So you’re here ripping her off for repair work and getting a little on the side, eh? You asshole.”
Leon looked at Martha standing there, bewildered, confused, sensing the tension but not understanding. He walked to Priscilla, took her elbow, and escorted her firmly to her car.
“Nothing is going on here, Priscilla. I’m being a friend to an old lady and fixing up her place a little, that’s all.”
“Is she paying you?”
“Of course she’s paying me.”
“I wonder if she got other bids for the job.”
“C’mon, Priscilla. Don’t be stupid.”
“You used to fix up around here for free.”
“That was . . .”
“That was before you found out she had money. I know all about it. Ned told me about the wad she flashed in Mike’s, and you’ve been here balling her ever since.”
Leon slapped her, his heavy hand leaving red fingermarks on her cheek.
Priscilla’s eye watered and her face flushed in humiliation and disbelief. She got into the car. “We’ll see what your parents have to say about this, Leon.” She drove off in a cloud of dust.
Leon stood there, watching the toes of his shoes, until he felt Martha’s hands on his arm. They walked slowly into the house together. Leon finished making the omelet. They ate in silence; then he went back to work.
Martha noticed he ate hardly anything. She felt a sadness, an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Pris, Leon, her two friends. Now neither was her friend. What did she do?
When Leon finished work, he came into the house and took a shower. Martha had a beer waiting for him when he came back to the kitchen, and she sat with him at the kitchen table. He seemed in better spirits.
“I’ll paint the coop tomorrow, Martha, then start on the porch roof the day after that. The chickens can move into a nice new house. I’ll show it to you in a few minutes.”
Martha smiled. A new house for the chickens.
“Leon?”
“Huh?”
“Pris? What . . . happened?”
“Oh, Priscilla. She thinks I’m out here after your money. She thinks we’re sleeping together. It’s just that she’s got an eye on your money and is afraid somebody’s going to undermine her action, that’s all. Don’t worry about Priscilla. We’re not doing anything wrong. I’ll have to talk to Ned, though. That girl is trouble.”
All Martha heard was “She thinks we’re sleeping together.” “Us sleeping together?”
Leon looked at her fondly. “Yes, us. You and me.”
Martha stood up to stir the soup. Sleeping together. Her mother and father used to sleep together in the big bed. Sometimes she’d look in there and they’d both be on Daddy’s side, with him facing the window, and Mother up close next to his back. It always looked warm and cozy. Sleep together with Leon? Sounded nice.
He drank another beer while she dished up the soup. As they ate, Leon talked on and on about how he was going to repair the porch, and Martha thought only of sleeping with Leon, his smooth warm body next to her in the soft bed. Then she had a new thought. She interrupted Leon’s discussion of tar paper and shingles.
“Leon?”
“Huh? What?”
“Why Pris mad?”
“I told you, because she thought we were sleeping together.”
“So?”
“So . . . so, I don’t know.” He waved his spoon around while he looked for an answer. He didn’t find one. “Maybe she wants to sleep with you.” That was a stupid answer, he thought. “Hell, Martha, I don’t know.”
Sleep with Pris. Pris didn’t seem warm, like Leon.
Leon finished his soup, ate the last piece of bread, popped another beer, and turned on the television while Martha cleaned up.
She joined him on the couch, watched him as he watched the television, tried to laugh when he did. Nice lines in his cheeks and around his eyes appeared when he smiled at the silliness on the screen. He drank beer after beer until his eyelids started to flutter down. Martha turned off the TV with the little box on the coffee table, and listened to the quiet. Not quite quiet. The crunch of tires outside in the driveway. Just someone turning around.
She nudged Leon, and he woke up partially, his eyes not focusing on her face.
“C’mon, Leon. Bedtime.” She took his arm and led him to the bedroom, where he undressed and slid beneath the covers. She put on her nightie and got in on her side of the bed, then slid over to cuddle him.
Instantly, Leon was wide awake. What in the hell was she doing? I gotta go home. The thought registered, but her little soft hand was rubbing his arm and it felt so good, so good.
Martha had never felt anything like this before. He was so smooth, so soft, his skin was cool and pleasant. She could stroke him like this for hours. Her hand ran up and down his arm, then down his side, over his hip—he didn’t have any clothes on at all—to the little hairs on his thigh. The feel of him made her sleepy. Her hand rested where it was.
Leon rolled over, completely aroused. He knew he was crazy, but suddenly it didn’t matter. She was so soft, so nice, so tender. He really cared about her. He pressed against her and ran his fingers lightly over her cheek as he looked at her profile silhouetted in the moonlight shining through the window. Her face was soft; he could see the little tiny white hairs that covered her cheek. He brushed his hand around her neck, down her arm, up over her breast and down to her ample middle. She felt marvelous. He kissed her cheek, then her neck.
Martha was in heaven. She had no idea people did this, but she loved it. She loved him. They would do this every night forever. He began talking to her in a low voice, and feelings began to pulse in her body. He took her hand and put it on a part of his body she’d never seen. She was startled, surprised, but as he told her what to do, she began to enjoy it, she enjoyed it all, she enjoyed him, oh, she loved him.
They stroked and caressed each other for hours, then drifted off to sleep, only to wake up and begin again. Leon pushed his conscience to the back of his head. He tried to take it slowly, easily, not to frighten her. She was alarmed when his muscles tightened and he jerked and warm wet stuff flowed all over her hand, but he didn’t seem to hurt, so she just wiped her hand on the underside of the pillow and didn’t tell him about it. The night had a magical quality, a newness, a strange feeling of sleeping but not really sleeping, of someone else in the bed, someone nice, always aware, yet comfortable and peaceful. In the early hours they both slept deeply.
Martha woke up as she always did, when the rooster crowed just before dawn. She felt warm and cozy, drifty, floating. She looked over at Leon, sleeping with one leg hanging over the edge of the bed, the sheet covering his chest to his thighs. His face was relaxed, peaceful, little whiskers growing darkly on his chin and under his nose. His sunblond hair scattered across his forehead.
She snuggled back down under the covers to watch him wake up. She kept to her side of the bed, wanting to touch him, not wanting to wake him. She wanted to watch him wake up all by himself. Feelings of the night before came back to her, memories in vivid detail of the closeness they had shared. She could understand this. She yawned, lazily.
Why would Priscilla be mad? Because Priscilla wants to sleep with Leon, that’s why, not because she wants to sleep with me. Why would Priscilla not want me and Leon to be together? What did he say? “It’s just that she’s got an eye on your money.” That’s what he said. Priscilla wants money? She can have money if that will make her not mad.
Somehow that didn’t feel right. Martha’s face screwed up in concentration. What does money have to do with sleeping together? She thinks I’m paying Leon to sleep with me? That’s silly. I’m paying Leon to fix the chicken house. Maybe that’s the
money Priscilla wants. And Priscilla doesn’t want Leon to sleep with me because if he’s here every night, he’ll work every day, and he’ll get all the money for doing other things. Her heart started to pound. She looked at Leon, sleeping, his eyes moving under his lids.
This whole thing is silly, Martha thought. She thought of Mike, and that afternoon in the bar when Leon brought her home. She thought of the other day in the bar with the man with the toothpick, and the one who called her retard. She had answered him: Daddy. Oh, boy, did she really say that? And Mr. McRae in the market. What a nice person. The chickens really liked the food he gave her—what did he call it? Cluck peck. She smiled at the ceiling. Wait a minute. I gave it that name. The smile vanished. In front of all those other people. Shame crept up her face, burning her cheeks. Did I really say that?
Leon moaned and turned onto his stomach. She slid quietly out of bed and went into the kitchen.
It all looked different. There were squished beer cans on the coffee table, leftover soup still on the stove. She thought to scramble some eggs for Leon’s breakfast, and went to the refrigerator. Something was really different. Had she ever noticed how dirty it was? There was dust and dirt in the little egg cups, old rotten food in dishes, dirty marks all over the front. She felt a little faint, pulled out a kitchen chair, and sat down heavily. Something was happening to her mind. She looked around the room again. It was shabby, terrible. Something broke inside her chest, some constricting band was suddenly cut loose. She inhaled a great breath and the dizziness faded. Things were so clear.
Automatically, fingers went to her nose, a longtime habit. She went to the mirror in the bathroom and looked at herself. Her twisted nose was still there, the scars were still there, but her lips were even and straight. She picked up a brush and began to brush her hair back from her face; then she stopped and stared. Her eyes. They were a light green-brown, with little flecks of black and gold, and so pretty. They sparkled in the faint light of the dawn that was sliding up over the windowsill. As she watched, the whites reddened, little veins standing out. Tears filled the lower lid and spilled down her cheek. They were beautiful; her eyes were so beautiful.
CHAPTER 10
Fern was exhausted. As soon as the train pulled out of the station, she laid the sleeping baby on the empty seat next to her. Thank God we’re finally on our way. She took a last quick check around her, made sure her things were secure, propped a pillow next to Martha so she wouldn’t roll out of the seat, checked the white gauze patch that covered most of her face but kept the dust from her nose, and then really relaxed.
She stretched her legs under the seat in front and crossed her ankles. Now she could take a quick nap. The train trip would be most of the day to Chicago; then she had to find whoever was to meet her and go directly to the hospital. Bless Doc Pearson. He arranged everything so carefully.
She missed Harry already. They said their good-byes at breakfast; then Harry went to work and Dave McRae picked her and Martha up and took them to the station. Harry needed to get the fields plowed while the spring weather was just right. As they drove off in the buckboard, Fern waved, trying to catch his attention, but he was concentrating on his work.
He’d been concentrating a lot lately, and none of it was on her or the baby. It had been so difficult. Having a baby was hard work, especially one who needed special care. Fern was constantly changing the gauze patch, swabbing out the cavity, making sure no bath water got inside, in addition to all the other demands a baby made. Harry was no help at all. He barely even looked at the child, which broke Fern’s heart.
Whenever Fern took Martha to the bedroom to nurse, she would lay her hand over the child’s nose and wait for the healing power to course through her, that familiar feeling, contact with the energies that would help her. But none came. It didn’t really surprise her—there was no disease, there was no sickness, and really, growing a new nose was quite out of her realm. The baby was perfectly happy, perfectly normal, and when this doctor in Chicago was finished, she would look normal, too.
This operation would make it all better, she thought. She and Harry and Martha would make a wonderful little family, until there was a little Harry Junior. They would be happy and laugh and play games and love each other.
The wheels rocked an easy rhythm, and soon Fern was asleep.
Chicago was a smelly, noisy place. The train crept through endless miles of tracks that seemed to go nowhere except through an awful stench. She looked out the window and saw nothing but ugliness. Then the tunnel closed about them, and the train stopped. She gathered their things and disembarked with the help of the conductor and walked into the station. She located the clock and went to stand under it, as she had been told. A man waited for her.
“Mrs. Mannes?”
“Yes.” Fern took in his young, dark looks and was pleased. He had a nice face.
“I’m Doctor Goldman.”
“Oh! Oh, well, I didn’t really expect . . .”
“Didn’t expect me to meet you here myself? It just happened that my schedule opened up this afternoon, and I thought I could meet you and Martha personally. May I?” He lifted the corner of the baby blanket.
“Of course.” Fern shifted her bundle so Dr. Goldman could get a full view of Martha’s face.
“Yes, well, can’t see too much here. Let’s get her over to the hospital where we can really take a look.” He picked up Fern’s suitcase. “My car’s just outside.”
In the car, Fern had an opportunity to look at Dr. Goldman. He looked successful. He was dressed well, in what looked to be an expensive pinstripe suit, his car was new, and he carried with him quite an air of authority. He was small-boned, with a large nose, but his eyes were dark brown and friendly, and laugh lines around his mouth showed a face that knew humor.
“How was the trip?”
“Oh, fine. Long.”
“I bet. Nervous?”
“Yes.”
“Well, don’t be. Ralph filled me in on all the particulars of the case, and I don’t think we’ll have any problems at all.”
“Ralph?”
“Doctor Pearson.”
“Oh. Do you know him well?”
“We’ve had a few mutual patients.”
“Oh. How long will this take?”
“It will be about three weeks after the surgery before Martha can travel. We’ve arranged a bed in the hospital for you, so you can stay there.”
Three weeks.
The hospital was a bustle of hushed activity. The antiseptic smell, not unpleasant, was pervasive. Dr. Goldman escorted them quickly into an examination room, where he washed his hands while Fern talked baby talk to Martha and settled her down on the table. Then Fern undressed her at the doctor’s request.
Very gently, Dr. Goldman removed the gauze patch. As many times as Fern had changed that dressing, it never failed to shock her that under that white square was a gaping hole in her daughter’s face. She looked better, she looked even normal with the bandage in place.
Dr. Goldman listened to Martha’s heart, checked her mouth, ears, and eyes, weighed her, and wrote down the dimensions of the hole. Martha began to fuss after a while, so after the doctor had applied a fresh gauze patch, Fern dressed her, rewrapped her, then sat down to nurse while they talked. The surgery would be tomorrow morning. No sense in putting it off. It should be easy, routine even. He would take a patch of skin from her hip and fashion a new nose from it, sew it into place with a little metal brace to keep it in shape. It would look a little large to begin with, but her face would grow into it, and in the end, it would be perfect. Easy.
Easy. Fern couldn’t imagine such a thing.
A pleasant nurse helped get them settled in their room. Martha went directly to sleep in the crib; Fern hung her clothes in the little locker-closet by the washbowl. It didn’t take very long. She wrung her hands, then wiped the sweaty palms on her dress and wandered about the room, it had a nice view of the city, but the city wasn’t very nice to l
ook at. Maybe if Harry were here, they could see a few things, but probably not. He didn’t know how they were going to pay for it as it was. Fern didn’t tell him that the town had taken up a collection. That would be her little secret. It wasn’t enough for the whole thing, but it would cover a major portion of the cost, she was sure.
She looked down at the sleeping baby. Absently, she brushed the reddish wisps of hair around on her little head. Such a beautiful child. And in the morning she would be put to sleep and taken into a room where they would cut her side and her face and make a new nose. Fern felt a sympathetic pain in her nose at the thought of it. Time for a walk.
She went out into the corridor of the hospital, noting her room number, 222. Trays of food were being served to patients—the smell stirred up hunger. She’d forgotten all about eating. She went to the nurse’s station. A fat nurse stuffed tight into her uniform was writing on charts. Fern cleared her throat, and the nurse looked up.
“Yes?” She had a surprisingly pleasant face, even though her eyebrows were picked almost clean.
“I’m Fern Mannes. I’m staying with my daughter in room Two twenty-two.”
“Oh, yes. Have you had dinner yet?”
“No.”
“Well, I guess they haven’t gotten to your room yet. Why don’t you go back in there and wait, and I’m sure a tray will be right up.”
“Oh, okay. Um, I was wondering. It’s kind of hard just waiting, you know, and I was wondering if there maybe was a patient here that, you know, never got any visitors? Maybe I could visit with them for a while tonight and tomorrow, while my baby’s . . . while my baby’s in . . .”—she took a deep breath—“surgery.”
The nurse stood up. She towered over Fern. “Why, that’s a wonderful idea. And as a matter of fact, we have a lovely woman who’s been here quite a while. Her son comes now and again, but he’s busy with his own family—you know how it is. Mrs. Stimson. Room Two twenty-three, right across the hall from you. She’d be delighted to have some company.”
“Oh, thank you. Thank you very much. Are you here . . . ?”
When Darkness Loves Us Page 13
