Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian

by Newall, Liz;

  I look from the baby to Jack. Jack closes his eyes. His lashes glisten in the florescent light.

  PART V

  DEPARTURE

  DONNA

  Little Sammy’s got the weirdest eyes. Sarah’s baby. Not that he isn’t beautiful. Samuel Joseph Brighton—that’s what they named him. Brighton after Jack. Joseph after Daddy. I’m not sure where they got Samuel. Sarah said it was from Aunt Kate. Of course, Aunt Kate could have suggested a whole lot of men’s names. But I don’t remember a Samuel.

  Sammy hadn’t opened his eyes good until Andrew and I were guessing at the color. See, most babies start out with blue eyes. But after a while the color changes if it’s going to be green or brown. Take my own Scarlet. Her eyes were clear blue, blue as Windex—and they stayed that way. But Charlotte’s had these little gold flecks in them. They turned brown like Andrew’s.

  Andrew and I couldn’t agree on what color Sammy’s eyes would be. I said they’d stay blue. His left eye was as blue as Scarlet’s. But Andrew said brown because of the other eye. We were both right. And wrong. One stayed blue and the other turned brown, pale brown like a hazel nut. The pediatrician says they’re rare, but they both work. Sarah thinks they’re wonderful. Those eyes. Sometimes I don’t understand her way of thinking. But then again, I’m understanding more than I used to.

  Sarah’s cowboy is back. The veterinarian. He comes riding up to Aunt Kate’s farm this morning, almost a year ago to the day Mama died. He’s pulling a horse trailer. And if my eyes don’t deceive me, Sarah’s horse is in it. I was over there at the farm giving Aunt Kate some of Daddy’s garden stuff so I wouldn’t have to fool with it anymore. He’s about to drive me crazy. Andrew doesn’t understand. He just says, “Quit doing so much for him. You’ve got your own family to think about.” See, that’s it. Andrew thinks I should be doing things for HIM instead of Daddy. I’m dog tired of doing for BOTH of them. Sarah would understand but she’s so busy with little Sammy she doesn’t half listen. That leaves Aunt Kate.

  But getting back to the vet, I’m pulling out when he comes riding up. I have to admit he looks good. Dark and kind of mysterious, a full beard, and a Charlie Daniels’ type hat shading his eyes. I’m beginning to see what moved Sarah. I watch him in my rear-view mirror.

  I haven’t told anybody about seeing him. Not even Andrew. I don’t want to hear his analysis of the situation. He analyzes my family all the time like they’re some kind of wack-O’s. He should study his own relatives, the Websters. They’re plenty strange, let me tell you. He’s got this aunt that lives with his mama, Aunt Ruth. She swallows toothpaste water. I’ve seen her do it. The stuff most people spit out, she swallows. And she walks sprattle-legged up and down the halls where they live. The first time I saw her do it, I thought she was deformed. Andrew said she walks that way to keep from wearing a path on the carpet. Is that not weird? And then there’s Mrs. Webster, Andrew’s mother. The very first time she had dinner with my family, it was right before the wedding, she asked for unsweetened tea. Mama was in the kitchen, thank goodness. I told Mrs. Webster we didn’t have any made up without sugar. So she asked for water to “thin it down a little.” I was embarrassed to death until Aunt Kate spoke up real fast. She said, “Around here our tea is like our men, sweet and strong.”

  See why I don’t tell Andrew about Sarah’s vet? And to be honest, I enjoy knowing things Andrew doesn’t. Like with Aunt Kate’s new boyfriend.

  Andrew didn’t find out about that till Sunday dinner. It had been going on almost a week by then. That was July, already hot as August. Thought I’d have a light dinner—just ham, potato salad, rolls, corn on the cob, tomatoes, blueberry pie with vanilla ice cream. Sarah and Jack brought little Sammy. He was about three months old then. That cute stage when they have a little more backbone and aren’t so jerky. Scarlet and Charlotte made a big fuss over him and wanted to hold him but Daddy wouldn’t let them. He held Sammy the whole time. Sarah seemed comfortable enough, but Jack watched Daddy like a hawk.

  I have to tell you, Daddy’s really blossomed since this spring. With little Sammy around and his own vegetable garden, he came back to life. It was good to see him digging around in the dirt again, burying seeds, watching them break, grow, leaf out. He gets real satisfaction sharing with all of us and having me cook up his vegetables for Sunday dinner. There’s just one thing about Daddy’s garden I didn’t like—I guess you could say I’ve come to hate. That’s canning and freezing all that stuff Daddy hauls into the kitchen. I don’t see how Mama stood it. I don’t mind boiling a little of this and bagging a little of that. But, my Lord! Daddy comes dragging these bushel baskets full of green or orange or yellow stuff and says “Donna Jean, this needs to go into the freezer today,” or “Donna Jean, these would make some fine pickles,” or “Do what you want with these. I just grow ’em, but I sure hate to see ’em go to waste.”

  Getting back to the “subject at hand,” as Andrew would say, it was Sunday dinner in July before he knew about Kate’s new boyfriend. Andrew kept looking around the table. “What you need?” I asked.

  “Kate,” he said.

  “What? You need Aunt Kate?” I couldn’t help laughing. I looked at Sarah and she laughed too. Daddy was busy watching Sammy and Jack was busy watching Daddy.

  “I mean—where is Kate?” he said. “She hasn’t missed a Sunday dinner in over a year.”

  Sarah and I quit laughing but we couldn’t help smiling. For just an instant, I heard the theme to “Bonanza” humming around in my head.

  “What is it?” Andrew asked. “What are you two smiling about?”

  “Sarah, how about helping Daddy to some ham and potato salad since he’s all tied up with Sammy.” I pushed the rolls toward Andrew, “Why don’t you start these?”

  “I always start the rolls,” he said. “You don’t have to say that every Sunday.” I thought I saw that little muscle in his jaw twitch. He reached for a roll and tore it in two with more force than was necessary. “Now what’s your and Sarah’s secret about Kate?”

  “New boyfriend,” I said, helping myself to a roll. I tore mine in two, gently so as not to ruin the consistency, just like I was tearing sliced bread. The halves separated perfectly. It’s all in the wrists. Then I spread on a little butter. Actually it’s fake butter that’s fake margarine, all whipped and colored so that it looks better than the real thing. They say it’s better for you. I’m not so sure.

  “New boyfriend?” Andrew asked.

  “Yes,” I said. But I was watching Daddy scrape and saw his ham, one-handed, with one of Mama’s good silverware knives. They’re pretty but not very sharp. “What you doing, Daddy?”

  “What’s it look like?”

  “Like you’re trying to cut your ham into teeny-tiny baby-size pieces.”

  Jack looked like I’d just confirmed his worst suspicions. “Sammy can’t eat table food,” he said.

  “How do you know?” Daddy said, squashing a potato cube with his fork. “Has he tried any?”

  Before Jack could shout “No!” or maybe right at the same time, Daddy poked a spoonful of mushed-up potato into Sammy’s mouth.

  Jack shot back from the table and made an attempt to rise, but Sarah clamped down on his shoulder pretty hard. Sammy was smiling.

  “He likes my potato salad,” I said, trying to lighten things up a little. “Sarah, I’ll give you my recipe.”

  Sarah smiled, but Jack didn’t. “That won’t be necessary, Donna Jean,” he said. Then he looked straight at Daddy and in the same voice he used for “Donna Jean” he said, “No ham!”

  “Where’d she meet him?” Andrew said.

  “Who?” I said. “Have some potato salad and pass it to the girls.”

  “Where did Kate meet her new boyfriend?” he said, trying to shake a blob of salad off the spoon. It came loose and spattered just a little. “The Wayfarer Lounge?” he asked, dabbing at his tie with the napkin.

  “Floyd’s Feed and Seed,” I said. “It’ll wash out.” But
I was more concerned with getting Daddy and Jack back to eating than Andrew’s old tie. “Sarah, have an ear of corn and pass the rest to Jack. I couldn’t find those little handles you poke into the ends of the cob. We used to use those when we were little. Remember, Sarah? Mama must have thrown them out. Daddy, have you seen them?”

  Daddy was trying to eat his corn with one hand like a chicken leg. “What?” he said. Little bits of yellow stuck to his chin.

  “Those little pointy things Mama used to stick into the ends of the cob.”

  He shook his head. Corn bits fell off his chin and back into his plate.

  “Go on,” Andrew said. His lips moved but his jaw was clenched.

  “She used them so Sarah and I wouldn’t burn our fingers,” I said. “Or more likely get them greasy with butter and wipe them on our clothes.” I smiled just remembering.

  “Not about the corn skewers,” Andrew said, making “skewers” sound almost nasty, “about Kate’s new boyfriend.” I was sure I saw the muscles twitch that time.

  “Aunt Kate met him at the feed store. She said he was driving this custom-type truck. Real big and nice. She called it a Dooley.”

  Jack stopped watching Daddy. Daddy stopped watching Sammy. Almost in unison they said, “a what?”

  “A Dooley,” I said. “You know, like hang down your head Tom Dooley.”

  “She probably meant a ‘dually,’” Jack said. Daddy nodded.

  “What did it have on it?” Daddy asked. He’s always interested in trucks.

  “I don’t know anymore about the truck itself,” I said. Daddy looked disappointed. “Just the contents,” I added. “Kate said he was pulling a trailer with a llama in it.”

  “A llama?” Andrew said. “Are you sure she said ‘llama’?

  I nodded.

  “Michael Jackson has a llama,” Scarlet said, pushing the potato salad bowl toward Charlotte.

  “Is that Fred Jackson’s son, out near the fire station?” Daddy said. “I thought he joined the Navy.”

  Scarlet looked at Charlotte. They both squeezed their lips together and blew out their cheeks. Just like Sarah and I used to do. I stared them down. “No, Daddy,” I said, “that’s a different Jackson.”

  “Good potato salad,” Sarah said. She sounded surprised. “Aren’t llamas like camels?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, “but Aunt Kate said he has a whole ranch of llamas in Washington.

  “They’re ruminants related to the camel,” Andrew said, “mostly used for pack animals, hiking and camping.”

  “Pack animals in Washington?” I said. “Who’d want to go camping around the White House unless you were protesting something.”

  “Probably the state of Washington,” Sarah said.

  “Whatever,” I said, “that’s all I know about Aunt Kate’s new boyfriend.” I knew he was staying out at the farm with her but I didn’t want to say so in front of the twins. I helped myself to an ear of corn and passed the dish to Andrew.

  “This reminds me,” Andrew said, reaching for some corn, “of something I read in National Geographic.”

  “About llamas?” Sarah asked.

  “No, about corn. Actually about grits.” Here we go again, I thought, nasty comments about grits. I looked at Sarah and she rolled her eyes. Jack would have joined in with Andrew—he doesn’t like grits either—but he was watching Daddy eat ham.

  “Grits,” he said in his lecture voice, “aren’t really of Southern origin but rather a food of the ancients.” He paused a moment, to let that sink in, whatever it meant, then went on, “It was an Aztec breakfast, discovered by some Mexicans in the 1500’s.” How does he do it?—I’m thinking—store all those little bits of dates that don’t have a thing to do with anything that matters as far I can tell, and on top of that forget our anniversary?

  That would have been all right, though, except he added, “When someone calls you people a ‘grit,’ they’re really calling you an ‘Aztec’” Then he told us something truly remarkable. “Yellow grits come from yellow corn,” he said, gesturing toward the ear in Daddy’s hand, “and white grits come from white corn.” I looked at Sarah. She had her lips squeezed together and her cheeks blown out just like the twins a minute ago. I probably would have too except I’d about had it with Andrew’s little education tidbits. More than fifteen years of them can drive you nuts.

  Then Daddy spoke up, “That reminds me, Donna Jean. The corn needs to be put up tomorrow. Won’t wait. We’ll start on it first thing in the morning.”

  Damn!—I thought—Damn you both and all your old corn! I almost said it out loud except for the twins. Sarah looked at me sympathetic-like. She knew what I was thinking. Then I felt kind of guilty. Donna Jean, I said to myself, here’s poor old Daddy finally getting over Mama’s death. Think of all he’s done for you.

  Then I thought about Andrew, sitting there eating a bite of ham and a bite of potato salad and a bite of roll and a bite of corn, in that order over and over. No matter how aggravating he gets, I should still love him. I mean you couldn’t just quit loving somebody after living with them this long. Could you?

  I decided it was just me. I needed a change. I started thinking about make-overs again. Lately Andrew had hardly noticed I was alive and the twins had started referring to Andrew and me as “the fossils.” Andrew said that was just teenage slang and a natural way to “snip the bonds of parenthood.” But I still didn’t like it. I told them I’d be snipping allowance, laundry, and anything else that stuck out if I heard that “fossils” stuff again.

  Getting a make-over in this town was tougher than I thought. We don’t have any Glamour-type experts unless you count what Holly gets from her cousin in California. She’s a beautician too. Sometimes she sends Holly samples of the latest beauty product out there, like anti-aging eye gel or tan enhancer. Andrew says they’re made from bull semen and embryo fluids. But I don’t believe that for one minute. Holly says she doesn’t either. We both tried the samples and that was it for make-overs.

  Then a few months back a new cosmetic store opened in town. They ran a coupon in the newspaper that said “free makeup lesson.” That’s it, I thought, so I clipped the coupon, washed my face, and went. The only person there was this salesgirl, not much older than the twins, who looked like she had on every eyeshadow in the store. Her makeup instruction consisted of pulling out a box of half-used samples, handing me a mirror, and saying, “Keep trying till you find what you like. That’s what I do.”

  I might have given up if Holly’s cousin hadn’t come for a visit. While she was here, she set up shop at Holly’s Hair and Then Some. Her name was Barbra, not Bar-ba-ra like I thought at first. She preferred Barb. Sounded too much like wire to me, but Holly called her Barb so I did too. Barb offered free make-overs, hoping, of course, to sell makeup. The way she talked you could tell she was from California. And she really knew her business. She started with cleanser, then clarifier, followed by astringent that she said “snaps the pores.” Barb spread foundation with this little pie-wedge sponge. She said, “Never the fingers.” She also used sponges because they were disposable. “In LA,” she said, lifting one eyebrow, “you NEVER re-use a sponge.”

  Barb used two kinds of blush on me to bring out the “sharpness in my cheekbones.” And the whole time she was telling me how pretty I was and with the right makeup I could look ten years younger. I bought the package. All $76 worth. It was a starter kit and had all the cleansers and brushes and makeup in a pretty little blue carry case I could take on trips. Not that Andrew and I travel much unless you count Myrtle Beach every other summer.

  I planned to tell Andrew about my make-over as soon as he noticed how different I looked. I was going to show him the kit and tell him what Barb said. But not the price. I considered that a beauty secret. That was my plan until I came home. Know what he said? “You look different around the mouth. Your lips are swollen. Have you been eating oranges?”

  Still the make-over was a good experience bec
ause I started thinking about going into business myself. “Donna’s Make-over Magic.” I imagined a small shop with wall-to-wall photographs. I’d put the “befores” on one side and the “afters” on another. Then waiting customers could try to match them or pick out a look they especially liked.

  I told Holly and she said she’d give me a corner in the shop. But she said I’d have to get a certificate or license or something to show I know my stuff. Something to hang on the wall in one of those black frames like Andrew has in his office. There’s a school in Atlanta I could go to. Holly gets ads from it all the time.

  I could take that old dressing table Mama meant to refinish and do it myself or maybe just give it a coat of glossy white paint. I could dig out the Polaroid camera Andrew gave me for Mother’s Day a couple years back, and I could “snap” the befores and afters right on the spot.

  I’d accept walk-ins at first. Holly doesn’t usually. She makes them an appointment and sends them right back out the door. Except for people from the campground down the road. She gets a good many customers just passing through. Some may want makeovers. I’ve met some really interesting people from the campground. Like this man who invented blowing up buildings so they fall straight down instead of exploding all over the place. He came in with his wife. While Holly did her hair, he told us about places he’d been—New York, Minneapolis, Denver—just about everywhere somebody wanted something big, blown down. He was on his way from Florida to Nevada. I asked him if he was going to blow up a casino. He said no, but he might shake down a slot machine or two. He was funny but he had an accent.

  He gave Holly and me his business card, like we might have something to blow up. When they got ready to leave, we went out to see their camper. He called it a “travel home” and he was right. It must have been 30 feet long. Biggest one I’ve ever seen. Holly too.

  That’s another reason I want my own make-over business—to meet interesting people. It’s sort of like traveling with them when they tell you where they’ve been or where they’re going. The thing is, if I go down to this school in Atlanta, I’ll have to leave Andrew and the girls and Daddy for two whole weeks. Andrew’s so busy on that research project of his and the twins have to go to music and ballet and the mini-mall. Then there’s Daddy.