Loving Chloe

by Jo-Ann Mapson

  “Would you like me to give the doctor a call? Would that make things easier?”

  “She doesn’t want to go to the hospital,” Henry said firmly. “She wants it to happen in her own bed at home. I’ve promised her that much.”

  “You can’t do everything by yourself.”

  “You’ll help me.”

  Hank pinched the bridge of his nose. “You know I’ll come as often as I can. There are questions of practicality and distance involved, Dad. Maybe we can hire a nurse or contact a hospice. I’ve heard those services can provide real comfort.”

  Henry looked up at him, startled. It was as if he were making actual contact for the first time since Hank had arrived. “What the hell do you know about saying good-bye to your partner of almost fifty years? Somebody who ironed your shirts, bore your children, stayed with you every step of the way, even when you didn’t deserve it? You aren’t married. Shacking up with a tart who trapped you the oldest way in the book. I saw that picture. The baby doesn’t even look like you.”

  The shock Hank felt was piercing. The first that tightened at his side immediately went slack, leaving his heart scraped hollow. He understood that this nasty crack had more to do with Iris losing her battle than anything about Chloe. “Trashing the woman I love and the mother of my daughter is not a place you want to go to. I’ll stay over long enough to speak to Mom’s doctor, to help you assemble a game plan. Then I’m going home. When things get bad, I’ll try to come back on weekends. I’m telling you, I’ll try. Otherwise, since it’s always worked for us before, let’s keep our distance.”

  Henry senior cocked his head and looked up at his son as if he were speaking another language. He said nothing and Hank wasn’t even sure that beneath all that alcohol, the man had heard him.

  Hank walked away, tracing the perimeter of the parking lot, circling the clubhouse, studying the shallow lap pool nobody ever swam in, and the common lawn, so green and evenly trimmed his father could have practiced putting there if such a pleasure were within the rules. The California dusk was fragrant with flowers and newly watered grass. He heard Christmas music spilling forth from a few stereos, but everyone was indoors, occupied with friends or family. When he returned to the condo, Iris had already gone to bed. His father sat outside on the patio. Hank stood in the kitchen and watched him puff clouds of smoke into Iris’s garden. After a few minutes he used the kitchen phone to call Chloe. Kit answered.

  “Hank!” she said. “Merry, merry. It’s snowing. The real thing. All white and beautiful and butt cold. I got to help Chloe nurse the baby. Well, not really nurse her, but I got to sit there and watch. Oscar is so cool, Hank. Him and Corrine brought us deer meat and squash stew for dinner. Sounds gross, and it was, I mean to look at, but oh my God, when you taste it? Heaven. Only problem is, I totally feel like I ate Bambi for dinner. Hey, you know about karma. I was trying to explain it to Oscar. Eating a deer, that’s really bad karma, isn’t it?”

  “Kit, I think both you and your karma will survive one meal of venison. May I speak to Chloe?”

  “Sure. Hang on.”

  Kit hollered so loudly he had to jerk the receiver away from his ear. When Chloe came on the line, she was breathless.

  “Where are you? The airport?”

  “I wish. I’ll try to catch a flight home tomorrow. Miss you, baby.”

  “Me, too.”

  “I hope you’re not overdoing it. Are you resting? Eating right?”

  “Yes, I’m resting.”

  “Is Kit driving you crazy?”

  “Mostly she’s a big help. How’s your mom doing?”

  Hank detected a strange tension in her voice and felt responsible, leaving her dependent on neighbors they’d known only a few short months, not being there to make sure she followed the doctor’s orders. “Not great. I’m going to speak to her doctor tomorrow, and then I’ll try to catch a plane home. Forget all that. How’s our baby?”

  “Beautiful. And hungry. Reed has quite the temper when she’s kept waiting. I keep expecting to get nipped but she loves my breasts.”

  “Me, too. Finally, a trace of her father surfaces.” Hank tapped his foot against the shiny linoleum. “I can’t wait to see her again, hold her in my arms.”

  “Hank?”

  He heard that strain in her voice surface again. “Yes?”

  “Are you sure you can’t come home tonight?”

  “You know I can’t. Weather permitting, I’ll be there tomorrow afternoon. I need to talk to Mother’s doctor. As usual, my dad’s not dealing with things. I’m the only child here.”

  There was a small pause before she answered. “Sure, I understand.”

  “I’ll make this up to you,” he promised, “even if I have to dig a moat and fill it with alligators myself. From now on, Christmas will be just us three, okay?”

  The second night the couch hadn’t gotten any more comfortable. Hank held on to his pillow and tried to entice sleep to come to him. When he was a kid, he had lined his gifts up on his dresser so that he might glance over at them in the night, be certain the new and coveted toys were real, the requisite sweaters and underwear to expand his wardrobe lesser in importance, but nevertheless part of the same package. This Christmas his mother had bought him a gray-and-white Woolrich sweater and thermals. They were still sealed in the catalog plastic. For Reed there was a hastily wrapped bit of history: His old battered pewter porringer, unearthed from some cupboard or other. Nothing for Chloe, not even a congratulatory card. Within their narrow moral framework, he knew his parents had stepped widely out of their usual path to do this much. John Wayne Airport had gift shops. He’d pick up something there for her, say it was from them. Little lies like that didn’t count.

  He wasn’t the only “only” child here. He thought of the silver cup Junior Whitebear had given to Chloe in the hospital room. It was a work of art. The man had earned respect in a difficult profession. Giving Chloe that cup was almost like presenting someone with a savings bond that in the future could help a then-grown child afford college. But somehow when Whitebear looked at Chloe, none of that rationalizing sat right in Hank’s stomach. Junior’s expression told the real story. Hank knew: He looked at Chloe in exactly the same way.

  Could a baby bind a couple together, strengthen their love? It hadn’t accomplished that for his parents. Factor in his sister Annie’s death, and these nearly fifty years Henry senior was touting as accomplishment made the union sound like a kind of endurance trial. Divorce wasn’t a stigma, but neither was it an Oliver tradition. “Shacking up,” as his father so endearingly put it—was it really so different from marriage? Marriage might not lash two hearts together to ride out the larger waves, but at the very least it forced you to file a joint tax return. Deductions—another good reason—he wasn’t done working on Chloe yet.

  He dreamed of Reed’s birth. In his dream he delivered his daughter, and she arrived full term, growing instantly into a dark-eyed little girl who laughed and reached for him, saying “Here’s my daddy,” leaving no question as to her loyalties or her paternity.

  In his office the doctor laid the facts out as plainly as possible. “At this stage the primal responsibility is to control your mother’s level of discomfort, Mr. Oliver. With the efficacy of drugs available today, there’s no reason for her to experience unmanaged pain.”

  That scared feeling, loosing the hinge pins holding his knees together, made Hank’s entire body go cold. He accepted the hospice pamphlets from the man and nodded. He’d come here so that he wouldn’t have to speak in code from his parents’ telephone. He wanted to see the doctor’s face. “I don’t intend to sound callous, Doctor, but my father’s attitude—”

  The physician interrupted him. “This is a very difficult ordeal for everyone involved. Preparation is a wise avenue to take. It’s good you came.”

  “My father says he wants to take care of everything.”

  “Understandable.”

  “Yet emotionally he’s rather negli
gent. I’m living in Arizona now. I have a new baby. Just a few days old. And financially, well, I can’t afford extended visits.”

  “Call the hospice people. Go back to your wife and child. When circumstances require your presence, you’ll be notified.”

  Which sounded an awful lot like jury duty. “Thanks for your time, Doctor.”

  “You’re welcome. And don’t underestimate your mother, Mr. Oliver. Iris is a strong woman, strong enough to ask when she is in need.”

  Half an hour later, Hank hung up the pay phone outside the supermarket where he had stopped to buy a soda, having secured his reservation for the flight home. He stood there for a few minutes, watching the line of silver carts filled with groceries make their way to various cars. A young mother fed quarters to a mechanical pony, looking off into the distance as the kid indulged in his brief ride. The sun was as bright as August, lulling everyone into a sleepy, post-Christmas daze. The thick traffic on El Toro Boulevard stank of exhaust. Somebody honked his horn and cars trickled forth, hoping to make the green light. Hank gathered his courage, found his rental car in the parking lot, and fired up the ignition, staring at his old familiar landscape, astonished at how much it had changed since he turned his back on it, and how little that mattered to him.

  He sat with his mother on the small patio off the kitchen. Her kentia palms were doing well, as were the few orchids. She had let the African violets get leggy. His father’s dirty ashtray sat on the glass tabletop between them. Iris reached out and wiped it clean with a tissue.

  “Every morning at breakfast he informs me he’s quitting smoking. Then, at night, I hear him outside, sneaking around.”

  “He’s worried,” Hank said. “Maybe smoking is his way of dealing with it.”

  Iris looked at her son. A slow and deliberate smile spread across her face. “It strikes me as odd that this is so much harder on you both than it is on me.”

  “Is it?” Hank asked her.

  “Absolutely. I feel myself giving in, a little bit here, a little more there, each and every day. You both have to go on after I’m gone. I confess that worries me—how on earth you two will ever manage to communicate without my running interference.”

  “We’ll hire a diplomat,” Hank said, and his mother laughed. “I wish you’d come back with me and see the baby,” Hank rushed on. “You know I’d have brought her with me if she weren’t so small. Mom, she is gorgeous.”

  “Maybe I can see her this spring.”

  “Don’t say that to be polite with me. Please, as hard as this is, let’s try to be honest with each other.” The tears took hold of him, and this time he didn’t try to stop them from flowing down his cheeks.

  She laid her hand across his forearm. “Oh, honey, I’m sorry. It’s just that this is finally my life, Hank. Now, what little of it I have left. If I seem selfish, please don’t hate me for it. Someday you’ll understand.”

  He nodded. “Sure.”

  With a thumbnail she lopped off a shriveling cymbidium blossom and tossed it in the carpet of baby’s tears that grew along the patio edge. “I was secretly hoping you’d name her Ann, you know.”

  “Chloe decided.”

  “As all mothers do. You should probably leave for the airport. Traffic can be brutal this time of day, plus you need to turn in the rental car.”

  Hank swiped his cheeks clean and got up from the table. “She gives Churchill a run for his money, Mother. I’ll get a camera, send pictures, prove it to you.”

  Iris remained seated. “You do that, son.”

  13

  Hours after the Johnsons left, this disappointing holiday was thankfully ended, and Kit had begun snoring in front of the woodstove, Chloe sat up, studying the firelight reflecting off the mica panels, playing through Kit’s long, curly red hair. All through that long, quiet day neither had mentioned the letter. That night Chloe could think of little else. Kit’s ability to set things aside amazed her. Imagine being so young and sure of yourself you could fall into sleep like that, as if it were a trustworthy embrace, God’s arms right there to catch you, banish every bad dream. Insomnia had punched her ticket, so she made real coffee and poured herself a cup. You’re better off letting sleeping dogs lie, she kept telling herself. What you don’t know can’t hurt you. Old sayings were about as useful as the pain pills the hospital had sent home with her, which left her dull and stupid and craving more. She sipped her coffee, petted her dog, and watched the sunrise. The furry white animal gazed up, sensitive to her mistress’s mood. California winters Hannah could handle, but the northern Arizona cold crept into her bones. Sometimes she had trouble getting up onto the bed, and Chloe wondered if she took her to the vet there might be some new miracle to stop the animals you loved from getting old seven times faster than you.

  She wasn’t angry with Kit, not truly angry. The teenager’s own mother was lost to her, off living her life so selfishly that Chloe felt reasonably certain Willie’d sacrifice Kit completely if it meant one more Dead concert where she could flail her arms in a crowd and pretend she was still twenty-nine years old. Lots of girls managed the teenage years without a mother present, and Lita tried her damnedest to fill the gap. But the toll all that exacted on Kit gave rise to the girl’s determination to soften every hard edge she ran into with dreams and romance. Which was the reason she’d gone after finding Chloe’s mother instead of her own. Kit was the one desperate for a tear-jerking reunion. Wherever Chloe’s mother was, she’d bet the woman thought of the daughter she’d given away as no more important than shoes that never quite broke in to a comfortable fit.

  Outside the wind howled, and she could hear rain spattering the cabin’s windows. Give it a few minutes, it would freeze and then turn to snow. Snow on top of snow on top of snow. She pictured Reed snug in her hospital bed, some nurse quietly feeding her a bottle. This might not be just a letter from her mother, but Reed’s grandmother as well. Ojos vemos, corazón no sabemos—Francisco back at the stables in California used to say that all the time—“The eyes you can see, but it’s hard to know what’s in people’s hearts.” The letter was just across the room in Kit’s pocket.

  Chloe thought of all the times she was bleary with exhaustion, or half asleep, and Spanish echoed in her head. Songs, stories, voices, and she’d wondered where on earth all that had come from. Patagonia was near to Nogales, a border town. Did this woman speak the language, too? It was only about a seven-hour drive from Cameron. It could just as easily have been Minnesota, North Carolina, or nowhere at all, but here they were, living in the same state, within a day’s drive of one another. Luck like this, Kit ought to spend her lunch money on lottery tickets.

  Chloe sipped her cold coffee and made a face. Even if she did a crazy thing like ask Oscar to drive her all that way, who would feed the baby?

  “Never saw such a bunch of lazy women,” Oscar said as he kicked snow from his boots in the back doorway. “I been up working since first light. Come on, throw some water on those pretty faces, get with the lipstick. Got horses to feed and a big after-Christmas sale going down at the Trading Post. Then we’ll hear your excuses about bad dreams and too much eggnog.”

  Kit rolled over in her sleeping bag and yawned. “This is a free country, Oscar. I’m on vacation. It’s not like me or Chloe has a job.”

  Oscar scoffed. “Maybe you two live in a free country, but I’ve yet to meet the Skin who does. Not even Mr. R. C. Gorman can afford to sleep this late. Got to get his red ass up and roll out lithos if he wants to keep his belly full. Wonder what a driver’s got to do to get any coffee around here.”

  Chloe lifted her head from her arms. Sometime in the night she must have lain back on the couch and dozed off. Her belly was a little less sore than yesterday, but now she ached in a million places from sleeping in such a cramped position. “The one thing we’ve got in this kitchen is coffee. Pour yourself a cup and stop complaining.”

  “Pour me one, too,” Kit said.

  “You’re too young to drink c
offee,” Oscar said. “Have a glass of milk.”

  “Oscar,” Kit said, slowly dragging out the syllables in his name. “The only milk in this house is in Chloe’s breasts. She’s not exactly shopper of the year.”

  Oscar blushed and looked out the window. “Kitten, don’t ever talk like that to a man who hasn’t had his first jolt of morning java. I’m going to be off all day on account of what you just said.”

  “Well, it’s true.”

  Chloe smiled as the Indian set a cup on the table. “Speaking of that particular subject. You’re here to drive me to the hospital already?”

  “Nah, Corrine’ll be by to take you later. She needs to go into Flag, pick up a load of storyteller dolls from Coconino Center for the Arts. I really got to work on the repair orders today. I’m so far behind it’ll take me until spring to catch up. Kit, you interested in earning some money? I could sure use somebody to straighten out my invoices. Five bucks an hour, and we don’t got to clear one penny of it with Uncle Sam. Free lunch in the restaurant.”

  “Um, I really need to help Chloe,” Kit said, a little nervously. “That’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Kit was behaving as if the letter wedged between them, irrevocably altering their relationship. After the long, quiet Christmas, Chloe knew a break would do the girl good. “Take her along if she wants to go,” she said to Oscar. “But don’t work her all day. Let her have some fun. Lend her your snowshoes. Poor kid’s so bored she’s keeping track of my milk.”

  Kit rolled up her sleeping bag. “Thanks, Chloe.”

  Chloe smiled at her across the room. “Stay out of Corrine’s way. And try to keep from getting frostbite. Your dad wants you back with all your toes.”

  “I think I can manage to keep my shoes on in the snow.” Kit disappeared down the hall to the bathroom.