Lydia

by Tim Sandlin

  The piece itself could have been painted by an early, unformed Gaugin trying to emulate a late, fully formed Gaugin. The colors—dark green, gray, yellow, some blue—were harsh. The brushstrokes, violent. It was quite good. But what struck Shannon like a brick to the belly was the complexity of the expression on the face. The face glowed with an inner happiness verging on seductive, yet the eyes gave away something more. The eyes held a sadness Shannon didn’t know was in her. The painted Shannon had emotional depths the real Shannon dreamed of. If Roger saw her that way, maybe he saw the true Shannon. The painting wasn’t faked. It wasn’t accidental. This was the Shannon Shannon wanted to be.

  She drew the painting closer and squinted to read the signature in the lower right-hand corner—Roger Talbot in left-hand–slanted cursive.

  Shannon said, “I didn’t know the prick could paint.

  ***

  You pick up a baby person and you hand her to her new parents. Or his. Can you imagine such a thing? Of all the non-traditional chores my job entails, this is the most tangible. I admit I’m a birth junkie, and they are life shifting, but at the births, I’m a spectator. At the Gotcha moment, I am the womb itself. So to speak.

  Passing a child to its parents is a marker moment, right up there with marriages, births of your own children, or the death of a parent, actually well above one of my marriages, and since I hadn’t experienced death of a parent, I wasn’t certain how it felt, even though the novelist in me had played pretend many times. Passing a baby mattered more than losing virginity, I can tell you that.

  There is a breath of an instant when the child leaves your hands and goes to the arms of the mother or father, where time falls out of whack. The new parents are so high on giddiness, terror, and relief that you can see their heads crackling. The baby suddenly has possibilities. It’s like surfing the birth canal.

  My would-be parents gave up on the Best Western. I knew they would. I was inside, on the phone with a nice woman at AAA, trying to get them to come do whatever it took to make my van go. Gilia was changing the baby for the third time since breakfast, because it’s bad form to pass on a soiled baby. As soon as I heard the iron clapper being rapped at the door, I knew who it was.

  “Send the truck this afternoon,” I told the AAA woman, and I hung up before she had time to read me the Rules of Agreement.

  They were Eli and Carolyne Wilcox from Indian Mound, Tennessee. Eli sold high-end shoes. Carolyne owned an Amway franchise. Normally I like to have a formal handing-over ceremony where I place the baby in the mother’s arms and say, Mr. and Mrs. Whomever, you have a new daughter. Or son. Whichever.

  But Carolyne blew past me and into the changing room before I had time to say, Pleased to see you again.

  Carolyne took the baby from Gilia like a pushy shopper. Gilia told me later Carolyne gave her a hip shot. Eli stood back away from the group, pale and twitchy. It was a snap to read who’d been the driving force in this adoption.

  Carolyne said, “We only use cloth diapers.”

  Gilia said, “Do you have any on you?”

  “Of course.” Carolyne popped open her bag and pulled out a genuine cloth diaper.

  Eli nodded vaguely outside. “What makes the rocks out there red?”

  That’s when Shannon stuck her head in the door. She said, “I’m leaving. You’ll have to water Lydia’s plants.”

  I said, “What?”

  “Don’t screw it up. Lydia will kill us both if the right plants don’t get the right amount of water and plant food.”

  Eli was watching Shannon instead of the baby.

  I said, “What if I don’t know which plants to water?”

  “Use your imagination,” Shannon said. “We all know you have one.”

  Then she left.

  Eli looked at me. I said, “That’s my daughter.”

  Carolyne said, “Get over here, Eli. You’re in charge of the camera.”

  ***

  Shannon telephoned Lydia’s house from the Jackson Hole airport.

  “You have not reached Lydia Callahan and Oothoon Press. If you have anything to say that I might give one whit about, wait for the message and leave a beep.”

  Beep.

  “Hi, Lydia. It’s me. Shannon. Shannon Callahan. I’m flying into Las Vegas this afternoon, and I need you to pick me up. I’m on Delta. The plane gets in at 4:10 p.m., which should leave you plenty of time to swing by and—”

  Beep.

  “You have not reached Lydia Callahan and Oothoon Press. If you have anything to say that I might give one whit about, wait for the message and leave a beep.”

  Beep.

  “Get me. If I miss you guys, I’ll fly on to Santa Barbara and leave a message on your phone as to when I’ll be there. If I miss you in Santa Barbara, I’ll go on to that writer’s house. I’m sure I can track down anyone famous as Loren Paul.”

  Beep.

  “You have not reached Lydia Callahan and Oothoon Press. If you have anything to say that I might give one whit about, wait for the message and leave a beep.”

  Beep.

  “Don’t let Roger get away.”

  There’s nothing so irritating as having one of your parents’ nags come true. Maurey’s mother—before she mixed the wrong chemicals and jumped off the Snake River Bridge—had this jingly aphorism that used to irritate Maurey no end.

  “I just pray that someday your children will treat you as badly as you’ve treated me.”

  What kind of curse is that to wish on your kid? From my understanding, it’s fairly universal, but still, just because everyone says a thing doesn’t make it moral.

  Anyway, Maurey got hers from Auburn the night he told her he was spending the summer in Puerto Vallarta.

  Maurey said, “We were expecting your help on the ranch. You could make enough working for us to go back to UW next fall.”

  “If you won’t pay for school, I’m not going.”

  Maurey resisted the impulse to nail the TV remote through Auburn’s neck.

  Auburn continued, oblivious, “I’m only going to college for you. If I have to pay for it myself by irrigating out here in the middle of nowhere, I won’t go. I can make more on the oil rigs than I’ll ever bring in with a phys-ed degree.”

  Auburn was majoring in physical education. His ambition, before this conversation, had been to coach high school football.

  Maurey held herself steady and breathed in and out through her nose three times, slowly. “If your plan is to roughneck the rest of your life, why are you spending the summer in Puerto Vallarta? I wasn’t aware they had rigs in Puerto Vallarta.”

  “I’m young.” Auburn propped his feet on the coffee table. He had a microwave burrito balanced in his lap and a Coors Light in his left hand. His attention was centered on an ESPN strong man competition—two hulking men pulling tractors across a tennis court—and he wasn’t paying attention to Maurey’s dismay. Breaking it to his mother that he was dropping out of college was no big deal to Auburn. “I deserve some fun before I settle into the grind.”

  “And a job would be the grind?”

  Auburn glanced toward Maurey, then back at the large-screen television. “You don’t want me to end up like you and Dad, do you?”

  Auburn’s dad, Dothan, sold RVs in Fresno, California. He was on his fifth wife and second bypass.

  “No,” Maurey said. “I don’t want you to end up like me.”

  Sarcasm flew right over Auburn’s head. To him, she’d just conceded to the wisdom of driving to Puerto Vallarta for a three-month drunk.

  Maurey did what she always did when life made her want to scream. She escaped into the horse pasture and mingled with the uncomplicated loved ones before ending up in the barn, where she went to oil her saddle.

  That’s where she found Leroy.

  He was asleep on a horse blanket
he’d pulled off a stall rail. Mouth open, gums bleeding, filthy cutoffs, feet black from neglect—your basic nightmare come to Earth. Maurey recognized him immediately.

  She stepped into the tack room and came back with an old three-tine J. C. Penney pitchfork her father had bought her mother on their first wedding anniversary. That should tell you all you need to know about Maurey’s parents’ relationship. She stood poised to spear, watching Leroy’s chest pump in and out under the disgusting tattoo. The question was whether or not he remembered her. They’d only been around each other a few minutes twenty years ago, and Leroy—Freedom, back then—had been looped on pharmaceuticals. It was hard to see how he could remember, but then, the parting had been less than civil, and if he didn’t remember her, what was he doing here?

  She poked a tine into the sole of his foot. “Get up.”

  His eyes flew open, but he didn’t move. “Don’t do that again.”

  Maurey poked him again. “Get up, or I’ll run this point up your cock.”

  Truth be known, Maurey was trembling in fear. She had a sociopath in her barn, and Pud was off fixing a ranch satellite-TV system, and there was no else around except Auburn, who wouldn’t be much use, even if she wanted him to jump in. The important rule when dealing with lunatics is never show weakness. She had to act the opposite of how she felt.

  “In Wyoming, it’s legal to waste trespassers,” Maurey said. “I could kill you dead and not even have to fill out paperwork.”

  Leroy gathered his legs under him and sat up. “Where’s the boy?”

  Maurey didn’t pretend ignorance as to what boy. She’d been thinking about Freedom ever since Roger showed her the Disappearance book. As Maurey went back over the day Critter had appeared at the ranch and abandoned the child, odd pieces had started to fit. As unlikely as the book’s version of Roger’s past felt, it was the only version she’d come up with that seemed even vaguely possible. That meant this freak at the end of her daddy’s fork was a murderer and a kidnapper of little boys.

  She said, “That kid Critter dumped on me only stayed a week before I had Social Services take him off. I heard they put him up for blind adoption.”

  Leroy said, “His mother owes me a life.”

  “She’s dead. I read the book.” Which was sort of true. She’d heard the story from Roger, even if she hadn’t actually read the words.

  Leroy’s eyes brightened like headlights flashing to high beam. “What book is this?”

  “There’s a book about that boy.”

  “Fred.”

  “His stepfather wrote it after you stole him.”

  Leroy jerked to his feet. Maurey braced the pitchfork, right hand back, left hand forward, figuring Leroy was set to charge. Leroy’s eyes stayed on the points of the tines aimed at his chest. He didn’t look at Maurey.

  “I never stole no one. I took what was mine. That woman knew she owed me a son and she kept him from his fate. She threw the balance off. The universe itself is out of line until I’m repaid that life.”

  Maurey took the thought process as insane. She said, “He’d be too old now, even if you found him. He wouldn’t act like a long-lost son all of a sudden.”

  “I’m not out for a son. I’m out to bring nature back into balance. I’m out to kill me someone close to that boy. Or kill the boy himself—I’ll decide which when I catch him.”

  Leroy smiled at Maurey—a toothless, gruesome, jack-o’-lantern grin, void of humanity. “That Social Services story is bullshit. Tell me where the boy went, and you and your loved ones will be safe.”

  Maurey eased the pitchfork closer to Leroy’s tattoo. “I am safe. You’re the one likely to end up skewered.”

  Leroy scratched his balls under the cutoffs and regarded Maurey with all the fear of a teenager deciding whether to drown a kitten. “Let’s try this the easy way. Where is he?”

  “In your craziest dreams, do you think I would tell you, even if I knew? Which I don’t.”

  “All right. That leaves the hard way.”

  Maurey tightened her grip. “Test me, pal.”

  The Dutch door behind Maurey swung open and she heard a girl’s whine. “Charley, where’d you get to? I can’t wait in the truck no more.”

  Maurey said, “Charley?”

  Leroy, who Maurey knew as Freedom, and Zelda knew as Charley, said, “Ignorant slit, I told you to wait. I’ll be there soon as I have the information.”

  The girl said, “I got the information already. While you were down here playing hard dick, I smoked a pipe with the nice boy in the house, and he told me all you need. Why’s that woman pointing a fork at you?”

  Maurey desperately wanted to turn to see what kind of a tramp had plied Auburn with marijuana. Any mother would want to know, only she was afraid to take her eyes off Freedom for fear he would make his lunge. But then, not looking meant the girl could walk up and hit her in the head with a rock.

  Maurey chose to keep her attention on Freedom. He had to be the more dangerous of the two. The girl sounded too stoned and stupid to find a rock.

  The girl’s voice was irritating. “Your son’s name is Roger. He’s a geek. Listens to queer music. Doesn’t know sports. The kid in the house says he don’t even smoke boo. He says Roger is useless.”

  This would have all been fascinating had Maurey not been in a survival situation. Maurey’s in AA, although maybe I’m not supposed to say that. It’s supposed to be anonymous. She hates it when Auburn drinks Coors Light, and she hates it even more when vixens give him dope. She was naturally tempted to whirl and spindle the girl, but that would leave Freedom free. She had to be practical.

  Leroy said, “Let’s go up and reason with the kid in the house. Find out where my bastard is now.”

  “I know where he is now. He went off with an old lady in search of his father.”

  Maurey heard the girl come into the barn, crossing toward the horse stalls.

  The girl said, “You told me you’re his father, Charley. This Roger sounds like a mess to me. Don’t even know who he’s related to and who he’s not.”

  “The kid tell you the old lady’s name?”

  “Of course he told me the old lady’s name. He gave me a beer too. I left him a joint for being so sweet.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Leroy started around Maurey but stopped when she thrust the pitchfork his direction. Leroy spit on the floor.

  “I know damn well you can’t stick me unless I am about to hurt you or yours, and that is not the plan for universal balance. Not yet, anyways. So stop being such a cowgirl.”

  Maurey swiveled the pitchfork as Leroy circled her, until the girl came into view over by the tack rack. She was a pitiful teenager with awful skin. Her hair looked like road kill. Maurey couldn’t see why Auburn had let her in the house.

  Leroy knew. He stopped and closed one eye to focus the other one on Maurey. He said, “You ought to kick that kid’s ass. That’s what I’d do if any son of mine did drugs with this twat.”

  Then he walked out.

  18

  I wound up bringing all four wandering Indians home, of course. Evangeline wasn’t about to abandon the old folks to the Clignancourt circus grounds. The trip cost a fair amount of money, which I made on Impressionist paintings of Evangeline in her buckskin dress. I used all the black velvet in the carriage house and even ended up buying some at the flea market. It didn’t take as long to earn the fares as you’d think, because a Paris artist who stops drinking can save cash quickly.

  I must of created a hundred works of art in two months. Tiger Lily from Peter and Wendy was all the rage then, so I hid Tinker Bell in many of my scenes. I’m certain you can, to this day, discover paintings of Evangeline—big eyed and fair skinned—in the better art collections of Europe and America.

  When I broke the news that I was leaving to the old Montparnasse ladies, I gave them
a going-away gift of a painting of Evangeline on a pinto horse, wading a mountain lake. The both of them wept, although I fear it was more from losing their wine-and-cheese runner than out of sentiment. Or maybe they were moved to tears by my painting. They perked right up when I told them Josef would be along to discuss the rental.

  Evangeline and me were married on the ocean liner Olympus on New Year’s Eve 1922. The captain married us in the ship chapel, with only Samuel, Moccasin Woman, and Flower in attendance. Later, at the New Year’s party in the ballroom—where I didn’t drink a swallow—we were toasted by the multitudes. They called us Picasso and Hiawatha. I should have kicked some fannies for that, but I was too happy, sober, and nauseous, so I skipped the violence.

  I know what you are wondering, and it’s true. I was just as sick for my second trip across the Atlantic as I’d been on the first. Sicker, if that’s possible. My honeymoon was spent knees down in the WC. At Evangeline’s insistence, we hadn’t consummated our love until we married, and we hadn’t married till we were on the boat. Worse came to worst, as it usually will, and we never finalized the marriage contract for two weeks after the wedding. We were sailing under the armpit of the Statue of Liberty before I was able to lie with her without the room turning upside down.

  You’re no doubt cynical about the sincerity of my marriage bonds. You think Evangeline married to get out of a bad spot and she withheld the matrimonial chore till she knew I couldn’t beg off the bargain. I thought along those same lines myself, especially the weeks in Paris while I supported her and the old ones and she said the marriage and the other would have to wait.

  But you and me would both be wrong. Evangeline turned out sweet as any wife ever was for a man. The entire time on the voyage while I was sick as a poisoned cat, she took care of my needs. She patted my brow with a damp cloth. She sang me lullabies through the oceanic heaves. She didn’t have to do that. I would have married her and taken her home even if I’d known I was nothing to her but a taxicab.