“Three to midnight. My name’s Gloria. You give a shout if you or your baby need anything at all, okay?”
“Thank you.” Fern felt strange. This was an odd place. She turned to go back into her room, but the thought of that barren place with nothing to do didn’t appeal to her. She turned right instead and knocked softly on the door to Mrs. Stimson’s room.
“Come.”
Fern pushed the door open and poked her head in. “Mrs. Stimson?”
“Yes, what is it?”
“Hi. My name is Fern Mannes. My daughter and I are across the hall. I’m kind of, well, nervous, and thought maybe I could come visit for a while.”
“Oh? Well, come on in. Love visitors.” The woman was horribly thin; her cheekbones stood out, shadowing hollow eyes and wrinkled lips. She reached a bony hand back to plump up her pillow so she could sit up better, then reached for little tight glasses. She peered out at Fern.
“You’re a young one. What’s wrong? Female trouble?”
“Oh, no,” Fern said as she pulled up a folding wooden chair, “My baby’s having surgery in the morning.”
“A baby, huh? That’s not good. What’s the matter with it?”
“Her.”
“Hah? What’s that?”
“Her. My baby’s a her. Martha. She was born without a nose.”
“Martha. Always liked that name. No nose, eh? Hah. I’d cut off my own nose if I could live with better veins. That’s what I’ve got. Veins. They’ve been stripping out the veins in my legs for years now. Damned nuisance.”
“That must be very painful.”
“Painful! Hah! Can’t hardly get around, and a youngster like me ought to be out and about, eh?” She cackled.
Fern felt an irrepressible urge to touch this woman.
“Mrs. Stimson, back home, I . . .”
“Home? Where’s that?”
“Morgan.”
“Oh, down south. Lived in Chicago all my life, myself. The windy city. Ever been here in the winter, when the wind blows?”
“No, I . . .”
“Terrible. Terrible. People freeze to death just walking down the street. It’s so cold their lungs just freeze up on ’em and they fall over. Dead. Just like that.”
“Well, anyway, back home, sometimes I can help people who are sick.”
“You a doctor?” Mrs. Stimson looked at her with a wary eye.
“Oh, no.”
“You some kind of a healer?”
“Well, I’m not exactly sure. Sometimes, though, when I put my hand on people . . .”
“You want money. How the hell does this hospital let people like you in here?”
“No, really. No money. Just let my put my hand on your legs, okay? Just let me try?”
The old woman’s face softened. This young thing seemed so sincere. What the hell. Couldn’t hurt.
“Sure. Go ahead. No money, mind you.”
Fern smiled at her. “No money. Just close your eyes and relax.”
“Close my eyes and you’ll probably steal me blind.” She took off her glasses and closed her eyes.
Fern closed her eyes and shut out all the distractions. Her right hand hovered over the woman’s knees. Instantly, she saw the trouble. The passages for the blood were twisted, knotted, dammed up in places, with reservoirs of blood pooling in pockets. They were discolored and sore. Fern raised her left hand to the sky, and a fresh sweet rain poured through her psyche and flushed out the veins. It ran pure and true, straightened out the twisted mess and reamed out the clotting collected on the sides. It emptied and sealed off the reservoirs, dissolved the little tributaries that had been formed out of necessity. When the veins looked fresh and clean, she moved her right hand to the toes, touched them gently, and all the bad blood flowed out of the toes, through her body and out her hand. Then she went back with another cleansing flush and was finished.
She opened her eyes. Mrs. Stimson’s face was pink, her breath came in short gasps.
“Mrs. Stimson?”
The old woman opened her eyes, then closed them again. “Just a moment. Let me catch my breath.” Slowly, her breathing returned to normal. She signaled for a sip of water. Fern helped her to it. She drank strongly, then fell back onto the pillows.
“Well, I never! That’s some power you got, girl. Took my breath clean away.”
“Did I hurt you?”
“Well, yes, some of it hurt, but not like it’s been hurting. More like a good hurt. Not bad at all.” Her eyes opened wide with wonder. “My feet!”
Fern was alarmed. “What? What’s the matter with your feet?”
“Nothing’s the matter, child, they’re warm! My feet haven’t been warm in years. Here. Help me get these socks off. I’ve lived in these cussed socks since I was a teenager.”
Mrs. Stimson sat up and pulled off the socks, massaging her feet. They were pink, the gnarled toes flexible. “Oh, my. My, my, my.”
“Well, I think my dinner’s here now. Is it okay if I come to visit you tomorrow, while my baby’s in surgery?”
“Okay? Hell, yes. You come on by here tomorrow, and see if I’m still here. I just might check out of this hellhole tonight!”
Fern walked to the door and opened it. She took a last look back at Mrs. Stimson, who was rubbing her feet, tears streaming down her wrinkled face. She slipped out quietly.
CHAPTER 11
Leslie was in jail. He woke up on that hard, piss-stained mattress with a hangover that would bust the balls off a gorilla. Sonofabitch! He sat up, cradling his head in his hands, but the motion was too much. He lunged for the seatless toilet and just made it, puking and heaving until there was nothing left to come up. He sank to the floor, resting first his cheek, then his forehead against the cool porcelain. What a day. What a pisser.
He crawled back to the mattress, each loud ringing sound reverberating around the inside of his cranium. Why are jails so goddamned loud? He put his hands over his ears and faced the wall. Bright, too. No consideration, no respect.
He drifted off.
He awoke to the clanging of his cell door, and two guards handcuffed him and took him to see the judge. That didn’t take long. Drunk and disorderly, one count. Armed robbery, one count. Not guilty, your honor. Bail, five hundred dollars. An attorney will be appointed. Back to the cell.
He was alone and miserable. Armed robbery, what the hell were they talking about? Then the memory of the night before rose through the murky depths of his drugged consciousness. Shootin’ his mouth off again in Mike’s. Goddamn that Ned. Squealer. Musta been him. Who else was sittin’ at their table? Priscilla. Cunt. What’s Ned see in her? Somebody else was there, somebody with big tits and a nice tight ass. Oh, Lord, he couldn’t even remember her name. Anyway, somebody ratted on him.
He remembered the job, all right. What a score. They were asking for it, in that big fancy house on the hill. What the hell did they expect? Easy, too. Just walked right in. Kitchen door was unlocked. He got no cash, didn’t want to go upstairs, but he scored a great hunting knife, lots of silver stuff that he sold for a good price over in Joliet. Good price. Shit. That jack ripped him blind. Always did.
So he shot off his mouth and the cops searched his truck and got the knife and the gun. Sonofabitch. That Ned. Gonna kill that kid.
No, not Ned, he was just a stupid kid. Cops breathe hard on him and he’d spill. No, it was her fault. Her and Leon. Him sleeping over there night after night. Two weeks now they been at it. What the hell do they do besides screw?
Leslie rubbed the stubble on his chin. He stood up and yelled through the bars. “Gimme a cigarette! Somebody gimme a cigarette!” The calls that came back reverberated throughout the cold, hard place. “Shut up.” “Get your own.” “Fuck off.” But one cigarette and a matchbook with a lone match in it landed by his feet. He lit up and collapsed back on his bunk. Mouth tastes like shit.
He remembered those nights, just sitting out there, in his truck, radio on low, drinking quarts of Bud, w
atching the house. He could tell by the lights what they were doing. Dinner, television on, television off, bedroom lights on, lights out. He ought to just go in there and catch them by surprise. In the act. Boy, that would bust Leon up, wouldn’t it? He wouldn’t, though. He knew he wouldn’t. Leon was a lot bigger and stronger, and probably sober, and he’d probably get the crap beat out of him. So he just sat there, fondling his cock, thinking about Leon gettin’ into that old retard, drinking beer and smoking cigarettes. It made him crazy.
And Leon was always there. He went to the store in the mornings. Other than that, he never left the house. Moved right in, old Leon, moved right in with the old woman.
That’s why he hit the house on the hill. He’d counted on that wad of bills from the retard to help fix his truck, but on accounta Leon, it never came through. Leon. That prick. He’ll get his, that’s a fact.
He dragged on his cigarette until the smoke was hot, then flicked the butt into the corner. He’ll get his, and so will she. The familiar fantasy came up to him, the curly-gray-haired retard with her face in his crotch and his gun at her head. Oh, Jesus. He turned over and shoved his hand down the front of his jeans.
CHAPTER 12
Harry met Fern and the baby at the train when they returned from Chicago. They kissed briefly, then loaded the suitcase into the buckboard. People stopped on the street as they passed, waving, calling to her. Hiram McRae and his son Dave came out of the store to welcome them home. Fern smiled lovingly at all of them. Even though her trip to Chicago would forever remain an intense memory of magic and misery, she had missed Morgan during her absence.
She had stayed in Martha’s room and prayed the whole day while Martha was in surgery. When she knew the operation had been a success, she walked off nervous energy in the halls of the hospital, meeting people, talking to them, laying on her hands. Many were helped, but Fern learned a disturbing thing while she was there. It was like her fondest fantasy come true, of healing all those within a hospital, but it couldn’t be. There were those who would not be healed. She had denied it at first, fought it, wrestled with the bodies and illnesses of some of those people. But it was true, and she began to discern those people as she passed them, barely stopping to speak.
She worked, of course, on Martha, and the healing was rapid. Dr. Goldman insisted they stay the full three weeks, though, not understanding the assistance the baby was being given. He was worried about the grafts taking, and while Fern assured him she was fine, they stayed. And Fern worked with those who would have her.
And now they were home again.
As soon as they had driven through the small town, Harry asked about the baby.
“How did it go?”
“It went well. Doctor Goldman was very nice.”
“How much do we owe him?”
“He gave us a special price, Harry. We only owe him fifty dollars. I told him we’d pay him five dollars a month until it was all paid.”
“Is she normal?”
“Of course she’s normal. You’ll see when we get home.” Fern was anxious to end this journey. Get settled again.
At home, she put the baby in her crib, then unpacked her suitcase. Harry sat in a kitchen chair, patiently waiting to see what difference his investment had made in his daughter.
Eventually, Fern brought the baby to him. She lifted back the blanket and carefully removed the gauze patch.
“Doctor Goldman said to keep this on for another week or two. At least until there’s no chance for infection.” She lifted the baby up. Martha looked directly at Harry.
Revulsion welled inside him. Her eye sockets down to her cheeks were still discolored with the bruises of surgery. The stitches had been recently removed, leaving little red dots on either side of a black and red line all the way around the nose. But the nose. The nose itself was as large as Harry’s, looking like a beak. It took up most of her face, dwarfing the tiny features of a baby face, and making her appear cross-eyed. It extended from high between her eyes to her lip, and from cheek to cheek. The effect would have been humorous if it weren’t so tragic. He wanted to snatch it as he would a Halloween mask and rip it from her face.
Fern saw Harry turn pale. She’d had time to get used to the look of her daughter—this was infinitely preferable to the hole in the face—but then Harry hadn’t seen much of that either. She hurried to reassure him.
“They took skin from her hip, Harry, to make this. Look at how perfectly the nostrils are formed. They had to make it big, because it won’t grow like the rest of her will. She’ll grow into it, and those scars will fade away to nothing, and Harry,” she pleaded, “some day she’ll look normal.”
Harry look at his wife’s twisted face. She wanted so much for him to accept this baby as his own, to love her as a father should, but in his shock at seeing what the quack had done to that baby face, he misconstrued her pleading with him, thinking she was trying to convince herself as much as him.
“She ain’t never gonna look normal, Fern. She ain’t never gonna be normal. She’s a horror!” He shouted this right into the baby’s face, and she blinked and began to wail. “Shut it up,” he said as he stalked out the door.
Fern’s life dissolved in front of her eyes. She unbuttoned her dress and brought the babe to her breast, rocking back and forth in the straight chair. She couldn’t think. Fragments of crazy thoughts kept shooting through her mind. Take the baby and leave. Go visit Addie. Go home to her parents. Send the baby away. Renounce God. Give up healing, give up her life, give up Harry. Kill herself.
The shock of Harry’s reaction burned in the back of her throat, but her eyes were dry. She looked down at the little face sucking at her breast, and she loved this child. She loved this little girl with everything in her body and soul, and she loved Harry too.
She raised her eyes to the ceiling and prayed.
Martha grew as a normal child, but by the time she was three years old, it was plain that her nose would never look normal. As she grew, the scars widened, her growing cheeks spreading them apart. The uneven stitching on the left side caused uneven tension, and the nose began to draw to one side, the nostril collapsing in upon itself. And it began to hurt.
After numerous consultations, Doc Pearson finally removed the metal brace from inside the nose, figuring he couldn’t do any more harm, and the brace might be the cause of the pain the little girl felt at night. When the metal form was gone, the pain stopped, but the nose began to harden into a twisted shape.
The nose was not the only twisted thing in the Mannes household. Harry had become adamant about the child. She was not to speak to him for any reason whatsoever. She was to be in her room and silent whenever they had visitors. She was never to go to town, nor to school, nor to be anywhere where she might embarrass him. Fern tried, on many occasions, to argue with him, but there was no softness upon which she could make an impression. Harry had indeed retreated.
Fern hoped for another child, a Harry Junior, a boy Harry could wrestle with, but it was not to be. Their marital bed was a cold one, unresponsive, barren. Fern would rub his back, stroke his arms, his chest, but he would turn on his side, or his stomach, and make himself unavailable to her. She was shut out as totally and completely as their child.
One night, she even posed the question. The moon shone through the window of their bedroom. Fern turned on her side to face Harry. He began to turn away from her, when she caught his arm and turned him back. “Harry, let’s have another baby.”
Harry looked at her closely for a moment. Her bright eyes reflected little sparkles in the captured moonlight. He thought for a brief second about another baby. Thought about Fern’s birthing screams, thought about all the blood in the bed. Visions of that first look at his newborn daughter, the constant wishing that she would die. “Don’t be silly,” he said, and rolled over. It was at that exact moment that Fern realized she needed to resume her healing work in Morgan.
Martha was a joy to her, despite her appearance. It broke
her heart to see the child examining herself in front of the mirror all the time, but when Harry was working, they played games, told stories, read, made cookies, and learned the ABCs.
When Martha was five, Fern was able to leave her home alone and go into town. She reestablished communication with the townsfolk, from whom she had, by necessity, retreated these past years. Martha understood everything, her soft little brown curls bouncing up and down as she nodded her head in response to Fern’s careful instructions.
Fern felt free as she walked into town for the first time by herself. She stopped and talked with everyone she met, joyous at her freedom. Soon she was going out almost every day.
From her window, Martha would watch her mother go then sit down and read, or play with her dolls, and pretend. But it was boring, and soon she was watching for her mother’s return, fantasizing about the things her mother was doing and seeing in town. Then she would see the familiar figure walking slowly down the dusty drive, and her heart would beat faster and she would count her mother’s footsteps until she came around the house.
On the hottest day of the year, a black car drove up. Visitors at the Mannes home were rare lately, and the three men who jumped out strode to the door with purpose. Martha hid in her room and listened at the door. They were all excited, talking very fast. There had been a terrible accident—two cars had collided head on just outside town. Both cars were full of drunken teenagers. Please, oh, please, could Fern come help?
Fern grabbed her shawl, spoke quickly and quietly to Martha. “Stay in your room, dear. Mommy’s going to go help some people who have been in an accident. I won’t be gone long. Please, Martha, don’t do anything to irritate your daddy, okay?” Martha nodded.
The four went out the door, and Fern looked toward the field where Harry was working. He didn’t see them, and judging by the looks on the faces of the men, there wasn’t time to go talk to him. They all got in the car and were off.
Eight kids, two dead by the time she got to the accident scene. She pushed up her sleeves and went to work as quickly as she could. It was agonizing. Delicate and intense. She worked nonstop, with only one brief pause for a cup of coffee. She stopped the bleeding where she could, but the damage to some of the young people was overwhelming.
When Darkness Loves Us Page 14
