by Margo Catts
“You see a ghost town when you look at this, don’t you?” she said.
I wasn’t sure how she wanted me to answer. “Well, yeah, I guess.”
“We like the idea of ghosts because they say a story is over. Unresolved, maybe, but nothing can be done about it. Lets us say things are done. But no story is ever over. Everyone who lived here was just passing through. These houses don’t have ghosts. They’re just skins that folks outgrew and left behind. The stories go on.”
She tipped her head toward the ground. “This place, for example. Ed died a year or so after the fire. Alcohol. Florence moved down to Leadville and turned into a real good plumber. Their oldest boy runs the trucking company now where Paul gets most of his work. And the girl that knocked over the lantern? She’s a kindergarten teacher at Sarah’s school. This place is the beginning of their story, not the end.” She reached forward and plucked a coral-colored sprig of Indian paintbrush, twirled it between her fingers for a moment, then held it up to me. “Beauty from ashes, right here. Tragedy and blessing. Leave them alone long enough and it gets real hard to tell them apart.”
She flicked the blossom away, and I watched it fall like a feather a few feet in front of me. I looked at the still-visible foundation lines of the house, then up at an aspen sapling that had sprouted near the far corner, its leaves sparkling in the late sun that stretched its rays under the clouds.
“So what happened to John and Olive’s baby?” I asked.
“That house.” She pointed. I wasn’t sure which she meant, but it probably didn’t matter. “The Rodels. Quiet folks. Emma baked such good pies.” She looked down and brushed something away in her lap. “We weren’t going to just give Olive’s baby to the county. Nobody outside Hat Creek knew she’d died or that she’d even had a baby. I kept him for a while. But with Roberto, and Benencia …” The silence carried her sentence further than the words did. This, then, was the first child she lost.
I tried to understand. Bambi. Dumbo. The Secret Garden. From infancy I had been surrounded by stories meant to reinforce the idea that nothing is more tragic than a mother losing a child—or a child its mother. But those situations were different. My own mother disappeared one morning about six months after I started the fire, after a fight I’d heard between my parents in which she said her life was ruined, ruined by what I had done. I didn’t know the specific gravities of sin or love. In a laboratory setting, with all external variables removed, which should outweigh the other? My observations in the natural world showed only that a parent’s love was overcome relatively quickly. What—if anything—I would feel for the being in my belly was something I had no way to know.
“You just gave them the baby? Didn’t they have to adopt him somehow?”
Tuah shook her head. “They moved down to Leadville as a family. Come spring we told the sheriff Olive and the baby died in childbirth. Nobody ever knew but us in Hat Creek.”
I’d read The Grapes of Wrath. I visualized a Depression-era world of migrants and vagrants and dispossessed that surely couldn’t be troubled with getting a government agency to give an official stamp to a birth. Perhaps this situation was far from unique.
I rubbed a stripe in the dirt with my foot. The ashes had long since dissolved, now indistinguishable from the soil.
“John came back, didn’t he?” I said.
Tuah glanced sideways at me. “That next summer.”
“And?”
She squinted into the distance. “Folks stuck to the plan. We told him the same thing we told the sheriff. And that nobody felt sorry for him.”
Cause and effect, action and consequence. “You kidnapped his baby?”
She shrugged. Nonchalant. A technicality.
“Tuah—you’re saying you took a man’s child and never told him.” I paused for another response. There was none. “I’m not disagreeing, but—you’re saying everybody was okay with that? A whole town of people?”
“Absolutely.” She turned to face me. “You do realize you’re doing the same thing, right?”
“It’s not the same thing—you even agreed with me.” I looked down at the ground between my feet. Then up to the clouds. “And it’s not like I made some detailed plan. I just—left,” I finally said.
“Not making a decision is a decision, too. And I’m not saying you made the wrong one. But you did make one.”
I doubled over my knees and wrapped my arms around my shins, pressing myself and my tiny, tiny baby into my lap. I didn’t know what to feel. I just wanted to think about someone else’s story instead of my own.
“What did he do?” I finally asked.
“John? He left. If he wanted comfort, he wasn’t going to find it here.”
How could someone identify all the consequences of what they’d done? Olive’s story was like a ball of yarn scraps, loose ends protruding in every direction, nothing to make it clear which strand led to which other, which ended, which carried on.
“What about the son?”
“He never knew any of it. Still doesn’t.”
“He’s alive? He lives around here?”
“Well sure. He’s a little younger than your father. He lives in Leadville and works at the mine, like everybody else. Grew up, got married, had two children. And now grandchildren.”
“Who all think they’re Rodels.”
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Tuah, this is huge. How did you know you were doing the right thing?”
“He’s had a good life, Elena. His folks loved him and taught him to work and do the right thing, and he did the same for his own children.”
“But don’t you still wonder?” Suddenly, I needed the answer to this question more than any others. “How did you know that was the best thing to do? I mean really know.”
“The best? We didn’t. Nobody can know that. But we knew it was good. And it was what we could do at the time. That’s all anybody ever gets to work with.”
“But—what about Olive? When you’re gone, she’ll be totally forgotten.”
“That happens to everybody, eventually. Her son was safe, and he got to have children of his own, who grew up to be good people raising more good people, who will do the same after that. That’s the important part.”
I could understand the logic, but did the important part also have to be the only part? The idea that I was now one of only a handful of people on earth who knew Olive had ever walked upon it felt like a weight.
“Is she buried here?”
Tuah tipped her head in the direction of town. “Yup.”
“Is the grave marked?”
“Sort of.”
I knew what that meant. A wooden cross in a graveyard no one ever saw, with a name and dates carved into it, which by now was becoming too weathered to read and would soon fall over, would split as the wood dried and endured relentless freeze-thaw cycles, and would finally disintegrate into splinters on the ground. When that happened, she’d be gone. What she’d done, how she lived, even her name—all vanished.
Tuah rubbed her shins, then put her hands against the log and pushed herself to her feet.
“Time to get back to work,” she said, brushing the seat of her pants.
I squinted up at her. “Who are they?”
“Who?”
“Olive’s descendants. You want me to know. You want somebody to always know who they are. That’s why you told me the name.”
Tuah smiled. She looked down at her boots, then swiveled one at the heel like a windshield wiper to make an arc in the dirt.
“Look up Rodel in the phone book,” she said. “Charles T. Rodel. Jack Rodel is his son. The daughter’s married so she doesn’t show up as a Rodel, but you already know her anyway.” She looked back down at me. “Those girls you said stopped by? Mindy? She’s Olive’s granddaughter.”
13
I arrived at the Koffords’ home Wednesday morning before the children were awake. I balanced on the edge of the living room sofa, hands folded around
one knee, while Paul stood in the kitchen drinking a mug of coffee. He wore dark, stiff jeans, a plaid shirt, and a denim jacket and leaned back against the counter with one boot crossed over the other, blowing and sipping, gaze fixed on the oven door. I looked at the top of one curtain, where a pleat sagged away from the rod, or at the kids’ framed school pictures on the mantel, with their slicked hair and fixed stares against marled blue backgrounds. After the strained conversation we’d had before I left Friday—him seeming puzzled by my questions, giving answers off-target from what I was asking, me feeling as ignorant after as I had before—I didn’t really want to start a fresh one. And so I sat, acting alert and interested, listening to nothing but the hum of the refrigerator.
Finally a creak of leather—whether belt or boots I couldn’t tell—as he straightened and turned to rinse the mug and upend it over the other dishes in the sink.
“Well, guess I’d better get along. Cash’s in the jar. Might wanna get to the market first thing. Not much here to eat. Not enough milk for cereal.” He opened the fridge and took out the jug, sloshing it to demonstrate.
“Oh, sure. That’ll be fine.”
“They can have some toast or something for breakfast.” He opened a cupboard. “Cinnamon and sugar here, some honey. Bread’s on top of the fridge. You probably want something yourself. There’s some eggs. Not enough to just eat, but maybe you could make some French toast. There’s enough milk for that. And sugar. Or pancakes. There’s pancake mix. The kids like pancakes. Syrup’s here, too. Butter—” He opened the refrigerator door and stooped to peer inside. “Yeah, there’s enough. You probably want butter. I got no powdered sugar, though. You probably want powdered sugar, so that won’t work …”
Powdered sugar, a deal-breaker? I didn’t know how to respond. He faded back into silence as he started opening cupboards and checking for mystery ingredients.
“I’m sure we’ll be fine,” I said after I guessed the monologue wouldn’t resume. What would it be like to be married to someone like this? Only the knowledge that he’d be gone in a few minutes kept me from shoving back against this takeover of my needs and wishes. I contented myself with changing the subject. “They knew you’d be gone this morning?”
He closed a cupboard and stood for a moment with his hand on the handle. “I think so,” he said.
I wasn’t convinced and foresaw potential disaster when the children woke up and found him gone. But as soon as the idea formed to suggest he go in and wake them to say good-bye, I pictured a bad reaction intensified by grogginess. Which would be worse? Telling them he’d left without saying good-bye or starting their day off confused and unhinged?
“Maybe you could write them a note,” I said. “Just something quick. Tell them you’ll miss them. Stuff like that.”
“That’s a good idea.”
He opened a drawer near the door to the back porch, took out a pad and a pencil, wrote for a few moments, then folded the piece of paper and left it on the counter.
“There you go. I thought Sarah might want to try to read it, so I tried to write real clear. Kevin can read it to her, but that might make her mad if she wants to try by herself, so you’ll probably want to let her have it first. You could maybe give it to her while she eats her breakfast, when Kevin’s on the other side of the table and can’t see it too clear right off. Then you could help her if she needs it. Kevin’ll be just fine that way, just fine, I think …”
He was already turning away, pulling on his ball cap. I caught myself thinking I’d do almost anything rather than whatever he said I’d probably want to.
“Well that’s it, then,” he said, turning back at the door. “I’ll be back on Friday, y’know. Probably late. Then out again Sunday night. So you’ll probably want to just stay in town for the weekend. You can stay at your grandma’s, I guess. I mean, we’ll leave your bed up here, but y’know …”
He trailed off, gave a little cough, and shifted his weight, clearly having been dragged by the current of his own stream of consciousness into uncomfortable water. To my discredit, I left him there, waiting with a smile for him to extricate himself however he saw fit. He tugged at the bill of his cap.
“Well, anyway, I guess I’ll be going.”
“Have a good trip,” I said. “We’ll be fine.”
The back door squealed on its hinges, then latched closed again. And I was glad of it.
*
“Are kittens stronger than puppies?” Sarah sat on a kitchen chair, legs swinging, chin close to the edge of her plate, scooping sodden toast into her mouth.
There had indeed been just four eggs, but that was enough for me to make each of us a piece of toast and a single egg, with an extra to spare for Kevin if he was hungry. By the time I’d ruled out everything Paul had suggested, it was my only idea.
I’d involved the kids in buttering bread, cutting a circle out of the center of each piece with a jar lid, then breaking an egg into the center as soon as the bread started grilling in the pan. Kevin, I’d already seen, was willing to eat almost anything put in front of him, and though Sarah said she didn’t want her eggs and toast to touch, as soon as she cut her circle she couldn’t wait to see the egg break into it. She was now eating the result with gusto. Neither one seemed upset that their father was gone.
Her question caught me by surprise. “Uh, I don’t know. I guess it depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether they’re big dogs or small ones, how old they are, what you mean by stronger. Lots of stuff.”
“What if they’re big dogs and little kittens?”
“Dogs,” said Kevin. He herded a bite of toast through the yolk slurry on his plate, then pushed it onto his spoon with his thumb.
“Hands out of your food,” I said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“What if they’re mean kittens and little puppies?”
“Kittens,” I said.
“What if they’re both little and they can’t see?”
She knew a lot about kittens and puppies. “Then they just trip over each other.”
Sarah giggled.
“They could bite,” Kevin offered.
“No teeth,” I said. From my seat at the head of the small table I reached out to pluck a fold of each of their arms between the edges of my fingers. “They’d just suck on each other.”
They both giggled, scrunching their necks down between their shoulders, and Sarah had to catch some food that burbled out the corner of her mouth, which made them both laugh harder. I started laughing, too.
“You want more?” I said to Kevin as he chased down his last bite.
He nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Then go fix it yourself. I’ll watch.”
“I want more, too!” Sarah wailed. I looked at the bites mashed and scattered on her plate.
“No, you don’t. If you finish yours before Kevin’s ready you can have some of his. That’s all we’ve got. If that’s not enough, we’ll just have to be hungry bears when we go to the store.”
“Are bear cubs stronger than puppies?”
“Yes. Always. Why do you want to talk about animal babies so much?”
“Miss Poppy—” Kevin started as he stood with his plate.
“Her dog had puppies!” Sarah yelled before he finished. “I drew a picture!” She started to push herself away from the table.
“Finish your breakfast,” I said. “When did—”
“She said we could come see them every day!” Sarah shouted. She held on to the back of her chair and bent at the waist from the effort.
“Wow,” I said again.
“Can we go after breakfast?”
“No,” I said reflexively. This must be the same woman who’d told Sarah about the ghosts. I did remember Paul mentioning a neighbor with a flower name—Rose or Daisy, I would’ve said—who knew the children well and could help if I needed anything, but even assuming this was the same one I had no idea whether she’d ever really invited the children to c
ome over. And she certainly wouldn’t want them at eight o’clock in the morning. “We need to go to the store. Plus I think we need more library books. Maybe this afternoon.”
“She likes the mornings,” Sarah grumbled, getting back into her chair and turning her attention back to her plate.
“She does,” Kevin added. “Where’s the circle cutter?”
“Right by the sink.”
“Where’s the bread?”
I eyed him from my seat at the table. I had a sudden memory of my father calling questions like these out to my mother. Was kitchen-blindness a genetically male trait?
“Maybe you could find it yourself,” I said. “It looks like a bag with bread in it.”
*
“One puppy died,” Sarah offered, without preamble, during lunch.
After shopping and restocking the kitchen, we had decided to eat our ham sandwiches outside. The morning had gone smoothly, except for the moment when I suggested that we pack our lunches in sacks. Sarah told me her dad would have to check them. I looked to Kevin for explanation or confirmation, but he looked down and shoved his hands in his pockets.
“Okay,” I finally said, electing to sidestep rather than challenge. “We’ll just carry everything outside on a cookie sheet.”
So now I sat on the tufted, uncut grass with my legs crossed, feeling moisture wicking onto my seat and considering putting the cookie sheet underneath me. Sarah, oblivious to the damp, sat with her knees turned out, her legs forming a W. Kevin ate potato chips out of a wad in his hand.
I waved a fly away from my face. “My,” I said. I wished I knew what Sarah was thinking. “That happens with puppies,” I added.
She nodded, sure of herself and emphatic. “Uh-huh. The mom squashed it.”
Oh, good grief. “That’s too bad,” I said.
“Do you think the mama is sad?”
I looked at the potato chip bag. They were the last of an old bag and slightly stale. I took one anyway to avoid her eyes. “I do. Moms love their babies.”
“Miss Poppy doesn’t think so. She says the mama never even knew she did it.”
“Well, that’s true. It was an accident, but she loved her puppy.”
