by Newall, Liz;
I hired a detective. The Crawfords don’t know that. They just gave up right away, but not me. Took him a week to find her, $100 a day plus travel expenses. Then he watched her another three days, his meter still running. And you know what he told me? Said Sarah looked “quite comfortable” and “there of her own volition.” Fuck volition! I started not to pay him. I know her better than some stranger who watches her three days. I know her better than her own sister for that matter. Donna Jean showed me some letters Sarah might have written but that doesn’t mean he didn’t make her say things. If she’d had her “own volition” she’d have left me a letter. I know.
Of course, there’s a chance that the letter got lost. I’ve torn up the house looking for it. The kitchen, anyway. She always left stuff like that on the refrigerator under one of those little fruit magnets. We have six. I even moved the refrigerator out from the wall—a Whirlpool, fourteen years old and still running—took off the front vent and vacuumed the coils and all under it. It was a mess, too. Looked like a couple of furry animals had gotten under there and died. A bunch of dust, I tell you. Guess Sarah hadn’t cleaned it out in a while. That’s not like her. She’s so neat she even washes out the dog’s bowl before she feeds him. Says he’s our only child.
Bilo, that’s our dog, came riding up with Sarah about three years ago. Four years now that she’s been gone. She went out for groceries at Bi-Lo and came back with a dog. She said he was running around the parking lot about to get run over. She had the bag boy load him with the rest of the stuff. And that’s the way I first saw him, wedged between a bag of charcoal and a jug of Clorox. This little two-toned dog, yellow and brown, not much to look at. But Sarah wanted to keep him so I gave in.
Bilo was already grown. The veterinarian, a small-animal vet not a wife-stealing horse jerk, said Bilo was about four years old and had probably roamed most of his life. Sarah used to say she wished he could talk so he could tell her where he’d been. The funny thing is, the last few weeks I’d hear her saying things like, “Do you miss roaming, Puppy?” or “Bilo, what’s out there?” Or sometimes she’d whisper stuff to him that I couldn’t hear. I can’t see Sarah leaving Bilo. She was crazy about the dog. I guess that vet didn’t mess with small animals, just horses and other men’s wives.
Maybe I should have noticed about her talking to Bilo, but everybody talks to their dog, don’t they? I even talk to Bilo now. Who else do I have? At first Donna Jean kept asking me did I notice Sarah doing anything strange before she disappeared. I told her not anything stranger than usual. I mean the whole Crawford clan is wired a little loosely, some more than a little.
I haven’t seen any of them except Donna Jean since this thing with Sarah happened. Last time I was over there was for Sunday dinner. Joe was talking about special powers people who were close to nature had, like himself.
“What’s your sixth sense?” Andrew asked, opening his napkin.
“It’s not a sixth sense,” Joe said, “it’s one of my five.” He reached for the corn. “Grew it myself.”
“So what is it?” Andrew asked.
“Corn, Silver Queen variety,” Joe said, reaching for the butter.
“I mean the extra power,” Andrew said. He was starting to fidget like he always does when he talks to Joe over two minutes.
“Snakes,” Joe said. He cut a pat of butter and rubbed it against the corn.
“What about snakes?”
“I already buttered the corn,” Vivienne said, frowning at Joe. She looked at Andrew. “Joe can smell snakes.”
“Smell snakes?” Andrew’s brows shot up and his napkin slipped off his lap.
Joe nodded.
“Where do you go to smell snakes?” Andrew reached for his napkin, not taking his eyes off Joe.
“The garden.”
“How do they smell?”
“Musty, damp. Kind of like old bread,” Joe said, rolling his corn against shrinking butter. “That’s how black snakes smell. Rat snakes smell dryer.”
I wasn’t sure if Joe was serious or if he was just having fun with Andrew, but either way he had Andrew going. I glanced at Sarah, but she was staring across the table. I squeezed her thigh. Nothing.
Donna Jean spoke up. “Daddy’s cousin is a fire witch.”
“A what?” Andrew said, a hint of irritation.
“Fire witch,” Donna said, “you know, talks out burns.”
Joe chewed a bite of corn, then wiped his chin. “Don’t y’all have any witches in Massachusetts?” he said. “I thought that’s where they got started.”
Andrew didn’t answer.
“Some people can talk off warts, some can talk out burns. It’s a God-given power.”
“It’s superstition,” Andrew said, louder than necessary. Donna patted him on the arm. “The thing is,” he said, a little lower, “you hear these stories second or third hand, but you never actually meet someone who’s experienced this miraculous healing.” He reached for an ear of corn.
“I have,” Joe said.
“Met somebody who experienced this special power?”
“No,” Joe said, “experienced it myself.” He laid his corn down. “I fell on a wood stove in grade school. It was a real cold day and Miss Drake, she was our teacher, she had that stove popping hot. I tripped over a stick of wood. My chin landed on top of the stove and commenced to frying like an egg. My hands stuck to the sides.”
Donna and Vivienne shuddered. Kate split a roll. Sarah stared into space.
“Andrew, you haven’t touched a bite of dinner,” Vivienne said. “Let me heat it up for you.” She reached for his plate.
“It’s fine,” he said, holding on tight, “just fine.” He took a bite of corn. “Go on, Joe,” he said between chews.
“I left skin on that stove everywhere I touched it. I can still smell it. Miss Drake ran home with me then and there. It was only a mile or so. Mama said she heard me yelling before she saw me. When she found out what happened, she rushed me over to cousin Zooney’s. She was my Mama’s first cousin. What does that make her to me?”
“Second, I think,” Kate said.
“Or third,” Donna said.
“No,” said Vivienne, “it’s first cousin once removed.”
“Get on with it!” Andrew shouted. Donna cleared her throat.
“I went into cousin Zooney’s sitting room, still screaming. She ran Mama out, sat me down, and took both my hands in hers. Then she started chanting-like.”
“Singing?” Kate asked.
“Not exactly. More sing-songy talking.”
“What were the words?” Donna asked.
Joe tilted his head. “To be honest, Donna Jean, I don’t remember. I heard her but I think her powers wiped it from my memory. Anyway …”
“Like those people who get examined by space aliens?” Donna Jean asked.
Andrew shot a look at Donna Jean. “Anyway?” he said. You could tell he was grinding his teeth.
Joe looked down at the corn. “Anyway, she talked the fire right out. It quit hurting and when Mama came back in the room she said I was playing patty-cake with cousin Zooney.” Joe picked up the corn, took a bite, and smiled while he chewed.
“Mind over matter,” Andrew said. “It’s simple psychology. She got your mind off the pain with a silly song and a little game.” His eyes swept the table. “But,” he said, “she couldn’t make the burns disappear!”
Joe laid down the corn and held both palms up. He stuck his chin out so we could see underneath it. “Then why don’t I have any scars?” he asked. Andrew gave up.
I wanted to laugh. But I thought I’d hold it until Sarah and I were alone. “Was that fire-witch story true?” I asked her driving home.
“What?”
“That story your father told.”
“I didn’t hear it,” she said. She was staring out the window. That’s all she said, so I just let it drop.
When I think about it, there were other times she acted different, too. When I think
about it! Hell, I’ve thought about it for the past 365 days! Sarah must have locked her keys in the Cutlass a dozen times last year. But I never said anything about it, not mean anyway. I just sent over Chip, he’s our rookie salesman, with a spare. And sometimes Sarah stayed up half the night reading some book, but she never seemed to finish one. She’d have three or four novels around the house opened face down like spraddled-out A’s. If I asked her what she was reading she’d say something different every time.
Then the horse business. It was right before Sarah’s fortieth birthday. She’d been acting different, like I said. I figured it was her birthday coming on. I hardly remember my fortieth, things were so busy at the lot. We’d just got the go-ahead to do a promo on a bunch of mini-vans. Men just aren’t affected the same. At least I wasn’t. Steve Brock, he’s my best salesman when he’s not trying to impress the lastest office temp, anyway, Steve was telling me one morning what happened when his wife hit 40. “She quit her job at the bank,” he said, “didn’t ask me or anything.” He filled his mug. “Then,” he said, embarrassed-like, “she dug out her high school charm bracelet, strapped the thing on, and signed up for cosmetology school.” Steve couldn’t make eye contact. Disaster for a salesman.
Cid, he’s head of service, heard Steve. Cid parts his hair over his left ear and swoops it over. Looks like hell on a windy day. “You got off easy,” he said, fingering the Krispie Kremes. “My wife had liposuction, bought a new wardrobe, and traded in our mini-van for a ’65 Mustang.” He licked his fingers and chose a doughnut.
“Where?” Steve and I asked at the same time.
Cid didn’t look up. “Her thighs.”
“No,” I said, “where’d she get the Mustang?”
“Karl’s Used Car Corral,” he whispered.
Nobody said anything for a minute. I filled my cup, took a pull, and said with more confidence than I was feeling, “Sarah’s not like that.”
“Just wait until the big 4-0.” Steve said, pulling at his gold rope necklace. Cid nodded and swept his hand across his hair, left to right.
But I got busy and didn’t think about the birthday thing again until a month or so later. I came home one evening and there Sarah was sitting cross-legged in the den. She looked up and smiled like I hadn’t seen in months or maybe years. “Guess what I want for my birthday, Jack?” she said, her knees pumping up and down.
“What birthday?” I said, remembering the conversation at the coffee pot.
“You know! So guess.”
“A diamond? New underwear? I know—leather boots, a whip, and one of those cute little garter belts?”
“No, no, and NOOOOOOO!” She quit bobbing her knees. She opened her eyes wide and took a deep breath, for dramatic effect I knew.
“A horse!”
“What’s wrong with the Cutlass?”
“To ride, not drive!” And before I could say anymore, she pulled me down beside her and started reading horse-for-sale ads. I didn’t really listen. I was too busy watching her excitement and thinking how eager she’d be in bed. She was my Sarah again. And I figured the horse thing was like the high school charm bracelet, something to ease in forty. I couldn’t say no.
Sarah found the horse she wanted and I got the owner down from $800 to $500 plus a new truck liner. The liner was probably worth more than that nag. I hated to let him get me like that, but Sarah had her heart set and she’d already arranged to keep the horse at Kate’s farm. I don’t have a whole lot of use for Kate but I figured what trouble could Sarah get into at her aunt’s farm taking care of a horse, for godsake. And Sarah did seem happier for a while. That is until the damn nag went lame. I’d have helped her myself if I knew anything about horses and if the stuff they feed horses didn’t bother me so much. I told her to call an expert. Some expert! I still wonder if Kate had a hand in it.
They took the horse with them. Or that guy stole it. I think I would have shot it, taken a gun then shot it between the eyes if they’d left it. This whole thing has made me think like a raving lunatic. Maybe I’d have just sold it by the pound for dog food. Or fed it to Bilo.
SARAH
It has nothing to do with Jack. How can you fault the perfect husband? Smart, successful, still hot for me after twenty years. At least he was when I left. My leaving came from something else. For a whole year I heard it, faint at first like a song I’d forgotten, a dream without dialogue. It doesn’t have that much to do with Michael either—except for those tan arms, hard as fence posts, eyes dark as a forest, the smell of leather—all in a cool, woodsy barn. Maybe it does have something to do with Michael. But I didn’t meet him until the last month. By then, I’d been leaving in my mind almost a year.
It started about the time Dr. Sams retired. I thought at first I just missed the clinic, the regular hours, talking to Robbie Jo. She was the permanent nurse. Dr. Sams had others that came and went, but Robbie Jo had been there longer than me. She was blond and pretty except for her eyebrows. They looked a little strange like she’d tried to move them up a notch. The work-comp guys who came in from the mill loved her. She’d say, “Jimmy, come on back here with me,” or “Charlie, tell me about that bruise,” in a voice that hinted more than just checking temperature and blood-pressure.
On days when Dr. Sams was out, we kept the office open for book work and allergy shots. Robbie Jo and I would usually run across the street to the Quik Mart, buy some junk food, hide out in the back office, and talk.
One time I asked Robbie Jo about her husband.
“Which one?” she said, peeling the cellophane off a honey bun.
“Either one,” I said.
“There’s three. Take your pick.” She bit into the top gooey layer.
“Husband number one.”
“Harold,” she said, chewing on one side. “He’s dead. I thought love was forever but not when you cross a TV antenna and a power line.” She swallowed. “It about killed me too. I was just a teenager.” She looked at a Pharm-all calendar hanging on the opposite wall. “Funny thing is, I can hardly remember his face. I have some pictures but they don’t seem real anymore.” She took a smaller bite.
“Number two?” I said.
“I remember him all right.” She smiled, distant like Aunt Kate does sometime. “Sam. Samuel Lee Pettimore. He killed a man.” She wiped the sticky from her lip. “Lordy, lordy. He had a temper. But he was fun, Sarah. We had a ball. Every weekend we’d go riding on his Harley, not with a gang or anything, just him and me. I loved him like crazy.” She took a long drink of Coke and wiped her lip again. She lowered her voice, “He’s the kind of man that makes you want to kiss his thighs. Know what I mean, Sarah?”
I nodded. But I’d never kissed Jack’s thighs, not even thought about it. I tried to picture it in my mind.
“But he killed a man,” Robbie Jo said. “Knocked him down with a tire iron and didn’t let him up until the coroner came.”
My mind skipped from Jack’s thighs to bloody asphalt.
“That’s what they said. I wasn’t with him at the time. I was spinning out laundry at Suds and Duds. Sam had been with me and I guess had too many suds. He left for a while. Never did come back. Still don’t know what started the fight.” Robbie Jo peeled more cellophane but she quit eating.
“I’d be married to him right now but he made me get a divorce. Told me to marry a doctor. That’s love.”
I nodded again.
“Dumb me,” she said wetting her fingers on the Coke bottle, “married a pharmaceutical salesman instead. Trouble is he was selling to more than just doctors and drugstores.” She wiped her fingers on her pants. “Took me two babies and a visit from the law to find out. Lost my job at the hospital. Ended up here, flirting with patients and paying two-thirds my paycheck for day care.” She smiled, not bitter, just tired. “Ain’t that America!”
I miss Robbie Jo. She would have listened, told me what she thought, and made me feel better. She was used to making sick folks feel better. She was trained at tech sch
ool, but she had this extra power like Daddy’s cousin Zooney. She could talk out the pain. Robbie Jo promised to send her address but she didn’t, not before I left. I would have driven 500 miles to see her if I’d only known where.
I needed to talk to someone so much. Donna was out, bless her heart. First of all, she wouldn’t understand, and second, she’d tell Andrew. I tried to talk with Aunt Kate a few times, but she just kind of drifted off, reliving her own restlessness I guess. Jack was out from the start. He can’t understand anything that isn’t in numbers or black-and-white clear. It’s as though he doesn’t recognize gray and therefore it doesn’t exist.
I even thought about Mama. But I knew what she’d say. “Sarah, you need to stay busy-out-of trouble. There’s plenty of things you can do.” Then she’d suggest a whole stack of projects. And I did try. Home improvement projects, jazz-er-cise, all kinds of volunteer work.
My favorite was cuddling the preemies down at St. Francis. When I went in, the nurse would bathe my arms in disinfectant, dress me in a gown and mask, and send me into the preemie ward sterile as glass. It was a temporary shedding. I felt pure, baptized in alcohol. I’d walk around, choose a baby, and lift it. Each one was like a little bird—warm and jerky, its tiny heart racing. I would cradle it between my breasts against my heart until it relaxed. Then I’d rock and rock until we had reached a spot in the sky with blues and pinks and whispy clouds drifting the same speed of our motion. I loved cuddling those tiny babies. But when I left, all the restlessness would come flooding in, twice as strong, rising around my ankles, above my knees, pulling me away like an ebb tide.
Sometimes it made me think of Judy. The paintings she kept underneath the bed. We met at Mimosa Trailer Park and we used to hang around together on her days off when the guys were somewhere else. On Wednesday nights when Jack was working late and Roy was out trying to sell something, Judy and I’d keep each other company with a few long-neck Buds and a bag of Cheetos. We’d spread two beach towels in front of the couch and watch her tiny TV or just listen to music from the wide gray radio on top of the refrigerator. Judy would dig out a pack of Salems she kept hidden somewhere in the bedroom. Then she’d pull out an ashtray and we’d light up. Pretty soon the filters would turn orange from the Cheetos and the smoke would smell like menthol cheese.
