Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian

by Newall, Liz;

  I fried bacon, sliced one of Joe’s Big Boy tomatoes, and made us a couple of sandwiches. When I poured the ice tea, I noticed my hand shaking. Get a grip, I told myself, calm down, you’ve fed a dozen men in this very kitchen. I laid out two napkins, then two more in case the tomatoes got sloppy, and called Charlie inside.

  “Wish I had more in the way of lunch,” I said, thinking I should have had him stop at the Dixie store or Bi-Lo on the way home and gotten ham or sliced chicken. I’d have even welcomed Donna’s potato salad. “I don’t keep that much just for me.”

  “This is fine,” he said, biting off a corner. His hands almost hid the sandwich. Bacon stuck out between his fingers. He chewed, swallowed, and took a big swig of tea. “Good tea,” he said, “sweet and strong, the way I like it.” He looked into my eyes. “I know what you mean. I don’t keep much just for me either.”

  “Just for me” kept ringing in my ears. “You live alone?” I asked, trying to sound casual again.

  He nodded and took another bite.

  “Who’s minding the ranch?” I asked, double-checking on the “alone” business.

  “Herdsman,” Charlie said, wiping his mouth with the napkin.

  “First time I’ve left the ranch for any length of time, but he’ll do okay. He usually delivers the stock, but I wanted to take this trip myself.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Seems like an awfully long haul.”

  “That’s why,” he said, “because it is a ‘long haul.’” Guess I looked confused. He paused a minute as though he were carefully selecting his next words. “Kate McMahan, do you believe in fate?”

  I thought a minute or two. “I don’t know,” I said, “seems like some things just go wrong without your being able to do anything about them.”

  “Not bad fate,” he said, “I mean good fate.”

  “Don’t think I’ve ever seen such an animal,” I said.

  Charlie laid both hands, palms down, on the table. He leaned forward. “I’ve felt something drawing me,” he said, “for the past couple of years now. I’m not sure what to call it except ‘fate.’ When this trip across the country came up, I felt that this may be it, the way to find whatever it is.” He sat back and pushed his hands in his pockets. “Do you understand?”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, trying to keep a clear head. But before I could think much more about it, Charlie was on his feet.

  “When’s the last time you walked your fences?” he asked.

  “Too long,” I said.

  “Then time’s a wasting.”

  I didn’t realize how right I was about “too long.” Hadn’t thought much about fences since Sarah left. No need with her horse gone, and I’d sold most of my cattle soon after.

  As Charlie and I walked the fence, he took a verbal inventory. “Need new staples here.…” “Could stand a little tightening.…” “Post is gone—rotten at the ground.…” “New string of wire here.”

  “Tell you what,” he said when we’d circled back to the barn, “I have a few more days before I need to deliver Snow White.” He looked out across the pasture. “Why don’t I help you get this fence in order?” He pushed his hands in his pockets and stepped back as though I needed room to think.

  Maybe he couldn’t read my mind, I thought, because the word “No” wasn’t in there right now. Or maybe he knew I’d say “Yes” and just went through the formality of letting me decide. Then I thought—to hell with this mental exercise! “That’ll be just fine,” I said, “just fine.”

  Back into the shiny blue dually and off to the hardware store where we bought a bag of staples, a roll of barbed wire, and a half-dozen locust fence posts. Then Charlie drove me to Floyd’s Feed and Seed to get the Blazer. Floyd was standing at the door. “How y’all making out?” He said “making out” several decibals louder than the rest.

  I was about to yell, “None of your fucking business!” but Charlie answered first. “Just fine, Floyd, but we’ve got work to do.”

  We spent what was left of the afternoon until almost dark working on the fence. Charlie would catch wire in the claw of a hammer and pull the wire around the post so tight not even a skinny preacher could slip through the strands. Then I’d hold it in place while he nailed in new staples with another hammer. He kept checking on me. “Not too hard for you, Kate?” “Let me know if you get tired.”

  That old Robert Frost poem about mending fences kept running through my mind.

  “Theirs was a stone wall,” Charlie said, hammering a staple.

  “Whose?”

  “The neighbors in that Frost poem.”

  “What made you think of that?” “Don’t know,” he said not looking up. “And they were building a wall between them.”

  “What are we doing?” I asked.

  “Mending fences,” he said. He straightened his back and looked down the fence line like a surveyor pleased with what he saw. He stretched his arm out and took my hand. “And,” he said, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb, “we’re working on the same side.”

  We walked toward the house carrying hammers, holding hands, and acting more like fifteen than fifty-something. When we reached the back porch, we flopped on the glider. “Kate McMahan,” Charlie said, “know what you need?”

  “A shower?” I said, pretending to pull away.

  He pulled me back. “We both could use that. But something else?”

  “A good meal?” I said.

  “First part’s right.”

  “A good ‥?” I knew where he was headed. But, hell, I didn’t want to be too damn easy!

  “A good man,” he said, blowing out his chest.

  “For what?” I asked, pushing his chest back in.

  “A good man to,” he said, pressing me down on the glider, belly first, “to rub your back!” With that he took those big hands, those big gentle hands and started squeezing the back of my neck and tops of my shoulders, then rubbing down my backbone between my shoulder blades all the way to the small of my back. Then up. Then down. Then across. Swaying the glider the whole time.

  It felt so good. The touching. When you haven’t been touched in a long time, you appreciate a good set of hands. Charlie seemed to enjoy it too. He would probably still be rubbing my back if I hadn’t turned around. We didn’t make kiss—not right away. We just held each other. Gliding and holding on, my face against his neck, my legs across his thighs. His arm curled around my back and his hand rested on my hip. He stroked the side of my face with his other hand. I felt like a little girl and a love-starved woman at the same time.

  “Kate,” he said. My name vibrated against my cheek. “It may sound silly,” he hesitated, “but I think this is what’s been pulling me.”

  “This?” I said, against his neck.

  “You,” he said, “being with you.”

  “On the glider?”

  “And beyond.” He traced my cheekbone with his fingers. “I want you. But I don’t take making love lightly.” He cleared his throat. “What about you?”

  For the first time in my sexual life, I hesitated. I had taken it too lightly, much too lightly all these years. Here was this man I wanted to lie with, to touch, to kiss all over, to please—and all of a sudden I had an anxiety attack. What if I disappoint him? What if he doesn’t like what he sees? I couldn’t answer him.

  Charlie sensed my uncertainty. “Maybe I’d better take a shower and cool off,” he said. He set me to one side on the glider and stood up.

  “Maybe so,” I said. His lips smiled but his eyes didn’t. “But,” I added, “we’re in the middle of a drought. And I need a shower too.” For the first time since I’d known him, Charlie looked confused.

  I sprung up from the glider, shook off my anxiety like dust, and hooked my arm in his. “We’d better shower together—to conserved water.” He kissed me long and hard, then whispered in a voice deeper and hoarser than I’d heard before, “Lead the way.”

  That was Tuesday. Charlie stuck around all week. When we f
inished the fences, he found some loose shingles on the barn that needed nailing down. After that he replaced the hinges on the barn door. By Sunday he’d repaired enough, he said, to last at least a year. He decided he’d better head toward Georgia the next morning and deliver Snow White.

  I really hated to see him load her into the trailer. I’d grown so accustomed to having her around, watching her delicate, graceful way of moving. That’s what I told Charlie when he asked why I wasn’t eating breakfast. “I’m going to miss Snow White,” I said, not looking up.

  “Oh,” he said. Just “oh.” For some reason that pissed me off. I started crying, crying like I haven’t done since Vivienne died. I wanted to crawl up into the barn loft and scream myself out.

  Charlie got up from the table and walked around behind my chair. He started squeezing and rubbing my shoulders like he did that first night. The more he rubbed, the harder I cried. “Come home with me, Kate,” he said.

  “I can’t,” I said, between sobs, “I can’t leave here. It’s all I have.” God, I hated sounding like that, but I couldn’t control the sudden pain in my heart.

  He pulled me up from my chair and turned me toward him. I buried my face in his chest, but he caught the back of my hair and forced me to look up at him. “You can leave here if you love me,” he said. “I’m more than a goddamn house and old memories!”

  I got control of myself, enough to quit crying. He let me go and I walked with him out to his truck. “Goodbye, Charlie,” I said. He didn’t say anything. “Goodbye,” I repeated. He still didn’t answer. My throat knotted up and I couldn’t say it again.

  Finally, he said, “I’ll be back in two day. That’s two whole days to pack if you decide to come.” He kissed me quickly and headed out. I stood there watching him go, wondering if I could ever say goodbye again.

  That was a hour ago. I’m still sitting on the steps thinking about him when Donna’s Honda rolls up the driveway. I look around to make sure there are no hoses in the way.

  “Morning, Aunt Kate,” she says, hopping out the car and pulling a basket of produce with her. “I’m giving this stuff away before Daddy comes over. Honestly, I can’t freeze another pea or can another bean.”

  “You look tired,” I say.

  “Tired ain’t the word for it.” She dives in for another basket. “You’d think, with the drought and all, Daddy would slow down but he just gets another irrigation hose and lets it rip. They’re saying don’t water your lawns and gardens. Think I ought to turn Daddy in?”

  I shake my head. “He’d disown you,” I say.

  “That’s a thought,” Donna says. I can’t tell if she’s kidding or not. “Well, I’m off. Got five more baskets to unload.” With that she whips her Honda around and heads back out.

  Before she clears the driveway, she has to pull over for a truck and trailer. It’s blue and for just a second my heart leaps. But as it gets closer I see it’s much older than Charlie’s rig, much more dented too. Then I recognize it. And the driver. Mr. Living Color himself—Michael—riding up just like the hero in a Louis L’Amour novel.

  I move from the steps to the shade of a big old elm tree near the driveway. He stops his truck in the shade. His window is already down. He’s wearing a dark red shirt, Western style, with sleeves rolled up, resting in the window his tanned arm, almost golden. Goddamn it! I’m starting to sound like Sarah. Guess that’s what a little romance can do to you.

  “Hello, Michael,” I say.

  He sets his hat back a little, nods, and says, “Good morning, Kate.” Then he adds, “How’re things going?”

  “What things?” I say. I don’t plan to make this easy.

  “The farm?”

  “Still here,” I answer, “hot and dry. But you can see that.”

  He looks around like he’s noticing for the first time. “No hotter than the panhandle,” he says, “but humid, a whole lot more humid.” He wipes the back of his neck. “Where’s that little red dog of yours?”

  “Run over,” I say, “more than a year ago.” I let a minute or two pass. Then I ask, “What brings you this way?”

  “The mare,” Michael says, glancing a little too fast over his shoulder toward the trailer, “Sarah’s mare. Thought I’d bring her back.” I don’t say anything but I’m wondering if “her” means the horse or Sarah. He gets out of the truck, looks into the trailer, then walks over to where I’m standing.

  “Sarah still around?” he says almost casually but the word “Sarah” seems to stick in his throat.

  “Yea,” I say, “she’s still around.”

  “How is she?” he says, glancing toward the barn.

  “Fine,” I say, “considering.”

  He looks me in the face. “Considering what?” he says.

  “You know, her mother died.”

  “No, I didn’t,” he says, genuine surprise in his voice. “I knew she was sick, but I never heard any more.”

  Nor asked “any more,” I’m thinking, but I don’t say it. I hesitate a minute. “Then there’s little Sammy,” I say. Hell, I might as well get it out in the open.

  “Little Sammy?”

  “Sarah’s baby.” You’d think I plunged in a knife right at gut level. I watch this man of little emotion run through about a dozen. Finally he just stares at the ground. I stare at the same clump of dirt, starting to feel something, I’m not sure what, for him. Then he flattens the clump with his toe, looks me straight in the face, and says, “How old is he?”

  “Who?” I say, my mind racing.

  “Sarah’s baby.” He has me in an eye lock. Now I’m not afraid to tell anybody anything, but giving out the finer details of Sammy’s birth is Sarah’s decision. I’d already had my say on the matter.

  “I’m not sure,” I answer. “You’ll have to ask his mother.” I look him straight back into those dark brown eyes that must have driven Sarah crazy.

  He looks away first. “I need to see her,” he says, scanning the pasture like she might come riding up, “about the horse.”

  I volunteer to go after her. I know she won’t come on her own and that it will be better all the way around if Michael avoids Jack.

  “Why don’t you unload Athene while I’m gone,” I say, walking toward the house for my car keys. Michael looks relieved. His truck and trailer disappear around the far side of the barn as I head out.

  On the drive to Sarah’s, I consider what to tell her. As little as possible, I decide.

  Sarah looks surprised but glad to see me. “Hi, Aunt Kate,” she says. “Look who’s here, Sammy.” Sammy’s in the middle of the kitchen floor, on his hands and knees, rocking back and forth like a hobby horse. “What brings you out on warm morning like this?” she asks.

  I hesitate. “You need to come with me,” I say, more solemn than I intend.

  “Why?” Sarah asks, a note of panic in her voice. “Is it Jack?” I shake my head. “Donna? Daddy?” Her voice rises an octave with each name.

  “No,” I say, “everyone is fine. I just need your help.” I’m starting to feel guilty. She calms down a little but still looks suspicious.

  “I can’t leave Sammy,” she says.

  “Bring him,” I say, “he can help too.” Judas, I think to myself. I feel like a goddamn Judas. But Sarah doesn’t say anymore. She picks up Sammy, grabs an extra diaper and we’re off. We don’t talk much on the way to the farm. Sarah holds Sammy up to the window and they both look out as trees and buildings and telephone posts blur by. Doubts sail by in my mind like roadside signs. What if Michael breaks her heart again? What if he wants the baby? What if? What if?

  “I think I’m doing the right thing,” I blurt out loud.

  “You are,” another voice answers.

  “What?” Sarah asks.

  I look at her. “Nothing,” I say. She turns toward the window again.

  “You’re doing the right thing,” the voice repeats. This time I recognize it. Not Sarah’s, not my own. The voice is Vivienne’s.

 
; I park the Blazer in front of the barn. Sarah looks puzzled. “Let me hold Sammy,” I say, easing him from her arms, “and come inside.”

  Sarah finds Athene. She lets out a cry and leaps for the mare’s neck. She doesn’t see Michael. Not yet. I can’t stay any longer. It would be like watching a child have his appendix cut out. You know he’ll be better off but you don’t want to see the blood. “Here’s Sammy,” I say. She takes the baby, but her eyes are wild, so Harrison green, I wonder if I’ve made a mistake.

  I give up little Samuel and head for the house. Once inside, I shout, “That’s it, Vivienne, the last thing I can do for you.”

  SARAH

  Have you ever awakened and felt like something was about to ignite or explode or fall to earth or fall away from earth? That’s the way I feel this morning. Andrew would tell me it’s anxiety brought on by “unsteady hormone levels induced by childbirth.” Daddy would say it’s “the pull of the moon.” Donna would say “You got up on the wrong side of the mattress.” Aunt Kate would call it “just a fucking awful morning.” Jack wouldn’t call it anything. I don’t think the man has a moody bone in his body. At least not since Sammy was born.

  Jack has his own style of handling the baby, somewhere between the Hope diamond and a basketball. He talks to him, changes his diaper, would breast-feed him if he could.

  The day we came home from the hospital, Jack decided to introduce Sammy to Bilo. He crawled under the kitchen table on his hands and knees, actually on one hand, holding Sammy tight against his chest with the other hand. He squeezed in beside Bilo then carried on a conversation for both dog and baby. “Hi, Bilo,” in a squeaky little voice, then “Arf! Baby!” in a barky voice, back and forth, so silly that I laughed until my sore abdomen ached.

  He’s still that way. The first time I had to go to Dr. Fleming for a recheck, Donna kept Sammy. But the next time Jack said, “I can take care of Sammy. No problem. And don’t you call Donna Jean. She’ll be over here all morning, talking nonstop.” So I didn’t. I left the two together assuming they both would be okay. I was half right.