“Concentrate now, Martha. You get money at the bank, and you bring it here, okay? Mr. McRae will give you flour and milk, and the other things you need, okay?”
“Okay!”
Everyone chuckled, and Dave put his hand on Martha’s head. “She’ll be fine, Fern. We’ll all see to it.” He reached in a jar and brought out a candy stick which Martha promptly stuck in her mouth, sucking loudly.
“Thanks, Dave.” With her daughter in tow, Fern continued through the other shops in town. The reception was much the same. Everyone seemed cooperative, but how could she be sure? Trust, she told herself. Trust.
When they finally got back home, as tired as Fern was, she continued to make telephone calls. She called Mrs. Martin, the woman who worked with the 4-H. Of course, Mrs. Martin said, she’d be delighted to keep up Martha’s garden as a project. She called Penelope Wiggins, whose daughter had gone to beauty school. Of course, said Mrs. Wiggins. Priscilla would be delighted to come and take care of Martha’s hair. Priscilla doesn’t remember, of course, the fever she had that called you out of bed in the middle of the night, but I do. I’ll remind her. She’ll be glad to do it. Thank you very much, said Fern.
Fern’s mortality was closing in on her. Never had her own death seemed more real. It was coming closer; she could feel it. She knew what health looked like and sickness, and death, and she felt the black cloak descending on her increasingly fragile bones, and the thought was almost comforting.
After she’d made all the calls she could think of, she remembered the animals in the barn. They hadn’t been tended to since yesterday morning, when Harry had done it. Was that only yesterday? Oh dear, his funeral is tomorrow. There’s so much to do. Must find someone to tend the animals, or to take them away. Martha was afraid of the barn.
Fern rested for a moment, then went to the barn. She shoveled and hosed, then spread new hay. She checked the feed for the cows and horses, and when all was done, she got the stool and sat down to milk.
The easy rhythm of the milk in the pail began to ease Fern’s mind. There was just so much to do, so much, so much. Find someone to take the animals . . . and what else? Everything else. How could she leave her daughter? Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Why hadn’t she sent her away as Harry had begged her to do so long ago, then have normal children who would be taking care of her in her old age, instead of this? Oh, please, God, take care of my . . .
The pain grabbed her chest again, knocking her back from the stool. For a moment she thought she’d been kicked. But it kept up, her breath, she couldn’t get her breath, couldn’t move her arm, her hand, my God, it was on fire. Her right hand clutched and tore at her clothes, get loose, get loose! Give me air, breath, oh, God, not yet, please, I have one more thing to do, just one more thing, just one more try, please, oh, God, please.
CHAPTER 23
Leslie saw the Bronco come down the street just as he was ready to jump into his own rust bucket. He stopped instead and watched it approach. It was beautiful. I’d give my left nut for something like that, he thought.
The new truck had giant tires, lifting it high off the ground. It was painted in two colors, a bright green-blue and cream. It had lots of chrome—even the lug nuts on the wheels were shiny and silver. It had driving lights mounted below the grill, with their little yellow slipcovers still on. Looked brand-new. What a beauty. Admiration turned to envy, then quickly to disgust. Some rich motherfucker who won’t take care of it. I’d take care of that baby if it was mine.
The Bronco cruised slowly through town, then pulled into a parking space next to the bank. Leon hopped out.
Leon! That sonofabitch! Leslie’s fists clamped hard, and he slammed shut the door to his truck, feeling the whole rusted-body shimmy with the impact. Leon walked around the front of the new truck and toward the bank. Leslie ran a few steps to catch up, then slowed to a walk before he called out.
“Hey, Leon.”
Leon turned, smiling, then scowled as he saw Leslie’s toothless grin.
“Hey, Leslie,” he said softly.
“Where’d you get the buggy?”
“Oh, nice, isn’t it?”
“It’s okay. Say, where’d you get the bread for it?”
This guy’s got more nerve, Leon thought. “It’s Martha’s.”
Leslie hooted. “Martha’s? Martha don’t drive. You mean she bought it for her little gigolo, eh, Leon? You pervert.”
Leon walked toward the bank, turning his back on Leslie.
“Think I might take a tire iron to this pretty paint job tonight, Leon. Yep. That big ole windshield ought to just crack into a million little spiderwebs.”
Leon took three large steps backward and grabbed Leslie by the arm. He was surprised how small the other man was; they’d never really gotten this close. His hand went all the way around Leslie’s skinny wrist.
“You touch that truck and I’ll bust your friggin’ head, Leslie.”
“Let me go.”
“Leave us alone, you hear?”
“I hear, I hear, now let me go.”
Leon increased the pressure as he stared into Leslie’s face. “I mean it!” He threw the arm down. Leslie caught it with his other hand and began rubbing the red skin.
“Cheez,” Leslie said as he turned away. Leon watched him. As he passed the rear end, he reached out with his boot and gave the tire a hard kick, but the rubber bounced his foot right back.
“I’m warning you, Leslie. Stay clear.”
Leslie got into his truck and roared off, sticking his finger up at Leon as he passed.
The bank could wait. Leon got back into the truck and started it up. It smelled so good, brand-new. Like sitting on top of the world and driving, it was so high. It felt real strange. It was even stranger, knowing that everybody knew that Martha had bought it for him. But that’s okay. She’s a good lady and I’m proud of her.
He grinned. Hey, I am, he thought. He tried it out loud. “I’m proud of her,” he said to the rearview mirror. It sounded good. Suddenly, he wanted to see her more than anything, so he put the truck in gear and drove down the road.
Leslie drove to the edge of town, fuming. That prick! He gets all the cash; I get to go to court. Tomorrow, gotta go to court tofuckinmorrow. Gotta get drunk tonight. And laid. That prick. Suddenly, he slammed on his brakes and brought his truck around in a full turn and headed back for town. He pulled up in front of Shirley’s Hair Salon and got out. He fished in his pants pocket and pulled out a crumpled wad of ones and fives. He looked it over, then pushed open the door of the flower shop next to where Priscilla worked.
“May I help you?” It was old Mrs. Watson. Leslie had her for homeroom teacher when he was a sophomore.
“Can I buy a flower or something for about a dollar?”
“Our roses are ninety-five cents.”
“Yeah. A rose.”
“Would you like to choose one? They’re right here.”
“Nah. Any one.”
“Here’s a lovely red one. Fresh.” She held up the flower. “Why it’s you, Leslie. How are you?”
He looked at the flower, at her smile, then at the floor. “I’m okay. I’ll take that one.”
“All right.” Mrs. Watson took forever putting a white bow on the stem, then wrapping it in thin green paper. She stapled the end and handed it to him. He put his crumpled bill on the counter.
“Nice to see you again, Leslie.”
“Uh, yeah, nice to see you too.” He walked outside, then in through the beauty-shop door, feeling very out of place around all the smells and girlie things.
Shirley stuck her head around the corner. “May I help you?”
“Priscilla here?”
“She’s with a client right now, if you’d care to wait.”
Leslie looked around uncomfortably. He didn’t want to wait. “Can you just tell me when she’ll be through?”
“I’ll be right there, Shirley,” Priscilla’s voice came up from the back. She walked ou
t, holding up her hands, covered in plastic gloves and dripping brown goo.
“Hi,” she said.
He held out the flower.
“For me? How nice.” They both looked at her gooey hands, and she lifted up an elbow. He tucked it under her arm. She tried to smell it but was in danger of touching the brown dye to her hair.
“What time you get off?”
“Three.” They both looked at the clock. “I have to finish the head I’m on, then I have another appointment for a cut.”
“C’mon,” he whispered. “Get someone else to do it.”
She giggled. “Leslie, I can’t do that.”
He leaned in close to her, whispered in her ear. “I just gotta have you. Now.”
“Come back at three,” she giggled over her shoulder, with a cute backward glance.
“Okay. Meet me at Mike’s.”
“Okay.” She blew him a kiss.
An hour. Shit. He walked out of the tinkling door and down the street. An hour at Mike’s.
Leslie got the idea when he was taking a whiz about ten o’clock. It was probably the greatest idea of his life. Mike’s was packed as usual, Priscilla was getting giggly and cute as hell, Ned was fuming over in the corner by the old dudes, and Leslie was looking better each time he looked in the men’s-room mirror.
He combed his hair back and admired himself. Yep. One hell of a good idea. We’ll go pay Leon and Martha another little visit. Only this time it won’t be like last time. This time I’ll do the talkin’. He grinned in the mirror, then did a little two-step.
Back at the table he gave his beer away and ordered a cup of coffee from the bar. Priscilla looked bleary-eyed at the coffee. “Coffee?”
“Yeah.” He leaned close to her. “Can’t get too drunk tonight.”
She smiled up at him, brows together in mock seriousness. “Oooh, I know what you mean.” She moved her hand up on his leg.
“Not that, Priscilla. I’m going to pull a job tonight. If you want to come, you better sober up.”
“A job? What kind of a job?”
“You know . . . a job.”
“That kind of a job?”
He nodded. She pushed her beer away and went up to the bar, coming back with a cup of coffee in one hand and the pot in the other. “I’ll be so sober you won’t believe it.”
He patted her ass. God, she had a nice ass. “Good girl.” They sipped coffee quietly and watched the action around them, anticipation growing in both of them.
You prick, he thought. I’ll get you. And the old whore. Tonight. His hand slid around to the front of Priscilla’s jeans probing into the warmth, while she grinned, trying to ignore him, sipping her coffee and trying desperately to sober up.
CHAPTER 24
It was dark before Fern had strength enough to get up and get back to the house. She was cold, and walked hunched over, as if each hour on the barn floor had added ten years to her life. She quietly closed the barn door behind her and made her way achingly across the drive and up the porch steps. She must remember to tell Martha about the lifeline to the barn in the winter. That was silly. Martha wouldn’t go near the barn. She was afraid. Why was she so afraid?
Martha heard her mother on the porch steps and came out to help her. Her mother looked so old, so frail. In spite of her bulk, she looked sunken and loose. The bun in the back of the old woman’s head had come undone, and strands of gray hair trailed behind her.
They shuffled to the bedroom together, and Fern stepped out of her dress and got into bed.
“Whiskey,” she whispered to Martha.
Martha brought the bottle and her favorite little glass with mushrooms and birds and flowers on it, poured some, watching Fern’s eyes for instructions, and gave it to her. Fern drank it right down, then lay back on the pillows with an exhausted sigh. Soon she was sleeping, and Martha played on the round braided rug at bedside until late. Then she went to bed.
Martha and Fern both woke up with the crow of the cock outside their bedroom windows. Martha padded quietly into her mother’s room. Fern held out her trembling hands and quietly asked Martha to get into bed with her. She moved close to her daughter, every movement a chore. She ached all over. Martha was still nice and cuddly-warm from sleep. Fern was so cold.
This is it, she thought. God has given me one more chance. One more try. Please, God, if you’ve thought anything of my work down here, if I’ve helped you in any way by easing some of the suffering, grant this old lady one last wish. I’ll go in peace, God, if you’ll just let me unlock Martha’s mind and let her be normal. Please. Don’t let her wander around the rest of her life like this, deformed and retarded.
Fern put her left hand on the top of Martha’s head. It was cold. It was always the coldest spot on Martha, where it was the warmest on everyone else. Something was blocking that channel of energy. Fern could blast through it if she had the strength, but that might do further damage. Better to loosen it with gentle prodding.
It was an awkward feeling, using her left hand, but she just couldn’t manage the shift in position. The life-force energy generally ran through her from left to right. She received information from her left, transmitted it to her right. The healing power came in through her left and out through her right. With her left hand on Martha’s head, she was likely to get a good picture of whatever it was Martha had, rather than passing something on to it.
Martha began to fidget. Fern smoothed her hair, talked to her in a low, hoarse voice, trying to settle her down. They’d done this lots of times, with little cuts and scratches, colds, stuffy noses, fevers, and other ailments. Eventually, Martha quieted, lying still and tense, as if she knew something tremendous was about to happen.
Fern was also tense. Afraid. She had never forgotten her last try at this, but now she was old, worn out, dying, and this was her last chance. God could have snuffed her out with a flick of his fingernail last night in the barn, but instead, he had given her one more opportunity to heal. Her most important session was now at hand.
She took a deep breath and began. Her consciousness slipped inside.
She was sinking, falling, spinning around wildly, out of control, diving down, down, down. Fern told herself there was nothing to be afraid of—slow down, my heart. The descent was so swift it brought her stomach to her throat; the blackness was absolute, just the swirling, turning, dizzying fall down a tunnel, a well, a bottomless pit.
Then it opened up, and though she still felt she was falling, now she was falling through a huge black cavern, monstrous in size; she could wave her arms about, her breath wasn’t echoed right back to her.
Her descent slowed, much to her wonderment, and she landed lightly on her feet on a roughhewn floor. She paused, slowing her heart, catching her breath, taking a look around. There was nothing to see. Was this the inside of her daughter’s mind? It seemed to be more a dream, a fantasy, a movie.
She raised her hands above her head and prayed. A light began to glow. She discovered herself in a tunnel, that same tunnel as before. She walked toward the glow, everything so familiar, so horribly familiar.
She passed the doors, heavy, like oak, and solid. She tried each one as she passed; they didn’t budge. Eventually she came to one that hadn’t been sealed shut. It was ajar, and Fern pushed gently, and the huge door swung wide open. Fern took a step within and was immediately overcome. It seemed that all the birds in the world were singing cheerful songs. Stained-glass windows shed crystal beauty everywhere she looked. Joy and pleasure coursed through her body in wave after wave. Snatches of melody, little children’s songs flashed through her memory; she remembered all of the beauty of life, the happiness, the free, delightful laughter she had once known.
There was something for every sense. The scent of fresh baked bread was there, the smell of rain, bubble bath, perfume, roses. Smiling, open-mouthed, she turned around and around. Every time she shifted her eyes, something new and beautiful appeared before her. Flowers, baby kittens, a fuzzy, tattered re
d sweater, fresh crayons, and . . . a picture. A picture of Fern, a long time ago, her face fresh and clear, no wrinkles, dark, glossy hair. The face hung there, suspended, completely at home with these other delights, in this room of pleasure. Fern’s face. She smiled lovingly at her own face and remembered her mission. She remembered when this door opened, when Martha saw the bubbles in the bath for the first time. She pushed the door wide open to let the merriment course through the hallways of Martha’s mind, and left.
The overpowering reality of this room of pleasure stayed with Fern as she continued down the corridor. She tried even harder to open the other doors, pulling, tugging, grunting with the effort. Surely trapped behind each one was Martha’s true experience of something—pain maybe, fear, love, understanding, normalcy. Where is the key? Why won’t they open?
Gradually she noticed the vibration, the low rumbling. Had it been here all along, or had it just started? She knew the sound, the growl. I must deny the monster, she thought. I must get through to the door of the light. The key must be there. This is my mission. I must unlock these doors! She pushed the fear behind her: I have nothing to fear, I am used up and dead anyway, I must be fearless, yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death . . . She began to run. The rumbling grew louder; she heard it take breaths, growling more loudly, more fiercely, threatening. I must get around it.
She saw the door. Translucent, with a soft yellow light emanating from it, lighting up the corridor. The door was closed, and in front of it, standing guard in a protective, attack stance, was the monster.
I must not let it bother me, she thought, intent on her mission. I will not let it distract me. If I look upon it with love in my heart, it cannot hurt me.
Their eyes met, Fern continuing, more slowly now, but steadily. Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies . . . No quick movements, just fill myself with love, and surround it with peace and easiness, happiness and joy. I’m not here to hurt you; I am here to set my daughter free. The beast snarled, grinned, it seemed, and Fern stopped dead in her tracks. It looks so familiar. Where have I seen that before? She shook her head, rubbing her eyes. Where have I seen that before?
When Darkness Loves Us Page 19
