Buried Seeds

by Donna Meredith

  “We need to promote family planning too,” Alexandra said. “Women should have control over their own bodies.”

  I couldn’t have agreed more. We women needed control over all aspects of our lives. Wasn’t that why I’d left the farm to begin with? But I knew little to nothing about controlling births. Well, I knew some. On the farm my father gelded horses and castrated bulls. No humans would willingly tolerate that.

  “It’s just as important that we support improvement of the human race,” Alexandra said.

  “Too many immigrants having hordes of children,” George said. “We need to start breeding humans more like we do animals. Increase the best and brightest and stop propagating undesirable traits.”

  “We must eliminate weakness,” Alexandra said.

  “Yes,” George added, “those with mental and physical defects, and those who carry socially transmitted disease.”

  Eliminate? How? I didn’t want to appear ignorant, so I waited until we were in the carriage ride home to ask Nellie. Thunder rumbled in the distant hills and we pulled a blanket across our laps as light sprinkles fell on the brick pavement outside.

  She wrinkled her nose at my question. “They’re talking about the eugenics movement. Sterilization of immigrants like our dear Valentine. Can you imagine? They think most immigrants aren’t as bright and hard working as English stock. Idiocy, if you ask me. All of us except the Indians came from somewhere else, didn’t we?”

  I couldn’t imagine anyone objecting to Val Martin.

  “Alexandra didn’t get caught up with all this eugenics nonsense until she started this fling with George.” Nellie explained that Alexandra had an understanding with her husband. They remained married and shared a residence, but each led separate lives. “Alexandra calls this a modern marriage. I’ll grant you it allows her a degree of independence many of us envy. No man fussing over where she is and what she is doing, no money worries, and dalliances with whomever she likes. If she wasn’t so rich, she would lose her social standing. Lucky for her, the Underwoods give to every charitable cause, so everyone overlooks her flings. But I do wonder if she ever misses having emotional attachment.”

  Yes, love mattered. So did independence and autonomy—the goals these vibrant women preached about tonight. Was it possible to have both—love and self-determination? I was so young. I still had great hope.

  Angie

  November 2017

  Is it possible to have both love and self-determination? At fifty, I still can’t answer that question. Any marriage means compromise, so your course isn’t steered by your needs alone. There were probably a thousand and one things I would have preferred to spend money on last year than Dewey’s dream truck, but I gave in. Hard to deny the man you love his dream. If he does lose his job, we’d have been much better off paying down our mortgage. I will not say I told you so. He makes sacrifices for our relationship, too. There are probably a thousand and one ways he’d rather spend his time, but nonetheless, he accompanies me and my students on summer field trips and keeps the boys in line.

  I’m intrigued by Ro, but can’t figure out from Mom’s drawing of my family tree exactly how I’m related to her. Her name doesn’t appear on my birth mother’s side, where the Wellingtons and Springers are traced back to the days of the American Revolution. Rosella must be on my father’s side, but the family tree is incomplete, with the most recent generations missing. When I asked Mom about it, her explanation only added to the mystery. Said she was still working on that part of the story, but it is only logical that she would have started with the most recent generations and worked backward. I feel sure she is hiding something. Is my birth father a criminal? A terrible man?

  I can’t read any further in the scrapbook tonight. Too tired. I turn out the light and rub Dewey’s back. He’s not quite asleep, but almost.

  Now that the light is out, I can’t quiet my thoughts. That Alexandra Underwood—was she happy bucking all the norms of her day? I don’t think I could behave like she did, having affairs openly, even today—not that I want to. It’d be pretty nice to have no money worries though. Like Ro, we have trouble paying the bills, but not because one of us is absent or lazy or gambling or not working.

  Is there a gene for working hard and hardly working? Since my DNA test results came back, the company quizzes me on everything from smelling asparagus pee to liking cilantro. My DNA yielded nothing interesting or alarming in the health portion. I expected the one quarter German ancestry, but the half English-Irish ancestry surprised me, as did the quarter Italian heritage. I thought the latter would be more. Don’t see a thing in the reports helpful to Trish and Bella—unless knowing they may have a preference for chocolate over vanilla ice cream is useful. Seems like something you’d want to figure out on your own. The hard way—by eating lots of ice cream.

  I turn over on my stomach and wiggle down so my feet hang over the end of the bed. Paint fumes—that’s what’s keeping me awake. I told Dewey we’re gonna have to do something to air out Bella’s room better. Leave the windows open all night or something. They are moving in soon and we can’t leave them open once the baby’s here. Dewey acts like we have all the time in the world. Sometimes he drives me crazy.

  I feel as if I have just drifted off when the phone rings. Barely coherent, Mom finally makes me understand the reason for the call: Poppy has wandered off .

  Dewey and I throw on clothes, hurl ourselves into his truck, and speed through town toward the farm. Every light in Mom’s house is on, a beacon in the moonless, starless night. The sky, black felt. Once parked, Dewey and I hurry toward the house, our feet crunching against the hard frost coating the grass. The front door opens, Mom’s thin silhouette backlit. It is freezing cold and she is shivering.

  I close the door behind us. “Where have you already looked?”

  “Everywhere in the house and garage. I yelled for him outside, but I was afraid to wander out there in the dark, afraid I’d fall.”

  “The last thing we need is for you to break something,” I say. “You stay here and we’ll search. You might put some coffee on for when we get back.”

  Dewey digs through the messy conglomeration of junk in his truck. I’ve accused him before of keeping everything but the kitchen sink in there, so it’s no wonder he comes up with exactly what we need: a couple of lanterns and chemically activated heat packs to slip into our gloves.

  With the help of the lanterns, Dewey spots footprints in the frost leading toward the tree line. We head out there, calling for Poppy. Under the trees his path is harder to follow. We split up to cover more territory. My face stings in the frigid air. After almost an hour of searching, Dewey calls out. “Over here, Ange. His footsteps circle around and head out toward the back of the barn.”

  There is a rear entrance we used to let the cows in and out. We haven’t kept cattle for years.

  The heavy wooden door creaks as Dewey pulls it open. “Hambone, you in here?”

  I finally catch up to him. The air inside is musty from moldering hay. “Poppy? It’s me, Angie. Where are you?”

  There is no answer as Dewey and I stomp around, shining the lantern into corners. I grab Dewey’s arm. “I think I heard something.” We stand still, listening. And there it is again—a high-pitched, drawn out meeeoooow.

  I run toward a wheelbarrow leaning up against the wall. Dewey maneuvers it out of the way and there is Poppy, huddled barefoot, shivering in thin pajamas, no coat. One of the barn cats—an old tabby—is dragging itself against Poppy’s arm. It meows loudly as if to ask what took us so long.

  I crouch down. “Poppy, what are you doing out here? We have been worried sick.”

  Through chattering teeth, he gets out, “Sss-Sun-ddance.”

  We haven’t had horses for decades—we sold Sundance when MacKenzie graduated from high school.

  “What about Sundance?” I ask.

  “F-f--feed.”

  “You came to feed the horses.”

  Poppy nods
.

  Dewey picks Poppy up as if he is a sack of potatoes, slings him over his shoulder, and carries him to the truck. He pulls a pair of extra hunting socks onto Poppy’s feet and takes his own gloves off and tugs them onto Poppy’s hands. He wraps an old blanket around him with a few hot packs for extra warmth. By this time, Mom has joined us.

  “I’m taking him to the hospital to get him checked out. You all follow me in the car.”

  “I’ll drive,” I tell Mom. I know she hasn’t driven at night for many years.

  With impressive efficiency, the hospital staff soon has Poppy recovering with heated blankets and intravenous solutions. They want to keep him overnight. Mom says she is staying with him. Her head drops into her lap. “What are we going to do? I just can’t manage him anymore.”

  “We’ll figure something out,” I tell her.

  It is four in the morning before Dewey and I get home. I don’t bother going to bed. In two hours I have to get up for work anyway.

  ~~~

  Yawning, I send Marla to the library with a copy of a childish book on dinosaurs her mother would approve of and strict instructions not to read Chapter Five on Evolution in our textbook. By the time her backpack hits the table, she’ll be deep into the study of evolution. Not the text—I suspect she’s already read it at home, intellectually curious gal that she is. No, she’ll have that copy of Darwin’s On the Origin of Species off the shelf again—the librarian is my spy and has ratted Marla out, much to my delight. Her mother would be horrified to know she is harboring a budding scientist in her home, a rebel, an anarchist who dares to read Darwin. Furthermore, when Dewey and I have walked around Veteran’s Memorial Park on Saturday afternoons, I have seen Marla hanging around the particular patch of land assigned to her. She sits on a stadium cushion, which she moves around to various positions, and takes notes after consulting field guides. I can’t see which ones from a distance, but I can’t wait to read her science journal.

  Once Marla leaves for the library, I ask each student to jot down the five most interesting ideas they discover while reading Chapter Five in the text or other resource materials on evolution. I motion to books scattered across a tabletop. Chairs scrape and chatter ensues as everyone chooses a book, and it sounds a bit chaotic until they settle down to read. Then, blessed silence for a while.

  Something has to be done about Poppy. I hate to think of a nursing home, not only having to confine him away from family, but also the expense. How could we ever afford it—unless we sign up for Medicaid but then won’t we lose the farm after Mom passes away?

  I’m too worn out to dwell on it today and a room full of teenagers waits on further directions. “Tomorrow you will meet with your group to compare and discuss your five points. “Fifteen minutes total, three for each person,” I suggest. “Then the team leaders will type your group’s top five points into a SharePoint doc. At the end of class tomorrow we’ll talk about your findings and I’ll answer any questions you have.”

  Somehow I make it through the day—which isn’t over when the dismissal bell rings. I have to attend an AFT meeting as Rebecca’s vice president. Normally that might be yawn, yawn, yawn, but not in the inferno bubbling near the surface of any room where more than one teacher gathers these days. Still, not many show up for the meeting. No surprise. Usually I was one of the no-shows. Th ose who come express concern about the funding behind our health insurance program. It isn’t stable. Instead of buttressing the system, rumor has it the legislature plans to cut benefits.

  After the meeting, I comb my hair as I wait for Rebecca in the restroom. I hear a whimper—so muted I decide it might be my imagination. Finally, Rebecca emerges from a stall, her face pale and pinched.

  “You okay?” I ask.

  She nods, but I don’t think either of us is convinced.

  When I get home, with a groan I hurl my book bag onto a chair and hurl myself into the cushiony recliner beside it. Dewey takes in my utterly wretched face, my raccoon-rimmed eyes and glowering mouth; he nods as if he has anticipated my exhaustion. He, in contrast, wears a superior little smile as if he hasn’t lost a wink of sleep—or most likely his job. Heaven help me, I am not in the mood to see a happy face. I want to unload, I want to share my gloom, but the cushions begin to absorb my tension, and I detect the aroma of tomato sauce and yeasty crust. “Do I smell pizza?”

  “You do. I knew you wouldn’t feel like cooking, but that’s not all.” His expression grows even more smug.

  Curious, even though I hate to move out of my chair, I let him lead me by the hand into the kitchen where he holds forth a canvas shopping bag as if presenting, at the very least, frankincense and myrrh.

  “Inside this bag are door alarms. After we eat, you’re going to sack out in front of the TV or soak in a hot bath or whatever fl oats your little boat, and I’m going over to your folks’ house and install the alarms. From now on, your mom will know if Hambone tries to make another jailbreak in the middle of the night.”

  “My hero.” I plant a big old smoocher on his cheek.

  After pizza and iced tea, I feel revived enough to delve into my book bag for a set of worksheets that need checking.

  Dewey snatches the papers from my hands.

  I try to hang onto them. “Hey—what do you think you’re doing?”

  “You need to relax tonight. No more work.”

  “Since when did you get promoted to be my boss?”

  “Since I bought door alarms so you could get a good night’s sleep.” He has a point and he won’t let go of the papers, so I let him stuff them in my bag. “When I get back from your mom’s tonight, you better already be asleep.”

  On his way out the door, his arms are loaded with tools and shopping bags. I land a hearty pinch on his butt.

  He yelps and delivers a threat over his shoulder. “Payback will come when you least expect it.”

  ~~~

  A substitute is standing in front of Rebecca’s door on Monday morning. She never, ever misses school. I text her: What’s up?

  Seconds later, I see three wiggly dots, indicating she is typing. An incoming message pings: Had blood in urine again over weekend. Bad back pain too. Doc insists on more tests. Carry on AFT without me tonight. Organize troops. Show strength to tight-wad legislators.

  Rebecca has had too many pee problems lately, dismissing her pain as nerves over the rising tension with the legislature. I warned her it could be more serious. Should have pressed her harder to see a doctor. Not that she would have listened.

  I text back: Will handle AFT. Don’t give it another thought. Listen to doc. Get well.

  My stomach twists in knots. Something’s really wrong with her. I just know it. I wrack my brain thinking of what I can do to help.

  I have just enough time before class starts to call Dewey so he can take a pan of lasagna out to thaw and run it over to Rebecca’s house later this afternoon. Her kids and husband will still have to eat.

  “Leave it to me,” Dewey says. “I’ll fix a salad and get some good bread to take over, too.”

  “You’re a gem.”

  During my lunch break, I text Rebecca: Any news? No response. I figure she’s wearing one of those attractive tie-on gowns in some halfway sterile room submitting her body to a humiliating assault on her dignity.

  After work, my heart races as I stand in front of my colleagues. My throat is so constricted I wonder if I’ll be able to speak, if my voice will quiver, but I can’t let Rebecca down. Especially not now when the stakes are so high. The whole state is in an uproar because the legislature once again is failing to properly fund our health care or offer a significant raise. I take a deep breath and imagine that these adults are simply more students. I explain where Rebecca is and let them know they are stuck with me for now, their vice president.

  “Don’t be silly, Angie, we’re happy you are here, and rest assured, we’ve got your back.” That was Eve Carstairs, our English department chair, one of the stalwarts of the school. The
staff joked she has been teaching since Melvil Dewey invented the decimal classification for books. Students, however, swear she was the Eve formed from Adam’s rib. With iron-gray hair and an iron-stiff spine, she is not to be trifled with. If Eve Carstairs has my back, I am in good shape. The meeting continues with little resolution to our problems, but at least my voice doesn’t shake.

  In the morning I check my messages. Still no word from Rebecca. I call and reach her husband Chad. “It’s bladder cancer,” he says.

  My heart leaps into my throat. For a moment I can’t talk. “Oh, Chad, I’m so sorry. What do the doctors say?”

  He explains she’ll have surgery and then some crazy procedure where they fill her bladder up with an infusion of tuberculosis-like germs. He says the doctor is upbeat about her prognosis and Rebecca is in good spirits.

  “What can I do to help?” I ask.

  “Nothing else. Thanks for the casserole. The kids enjoyed it.”

  “The least we could do.”

  Rebecca’s mom is coming to help with the kids. Chad promises to keep me posted with regular updates. I tell him I will organize a meal team, where all her friends and colleagues can sign up to send food over to them.

  After work I pick up a bouquet of daisies and button mums at the grocery store and take them to Rebecca. As soon as I enter the room, the smell gobsmacks me. I hyperventilate and feel dizzy. I force myself to take deep breaths and calm down. It’s not the usual hospital smells that have plunged me down the rabbit hole. I can take the disinfectants and bodily fluids. It’s the vase of Stargazer lilies sitting on Rebecca’s overbed table that slay me with their lovely speckled strawberry and white blooms and heady scent. The smell that I will always associate with Daddy’s funeral. Observing Rebecca accelerates my panic. Her spiky hair is squashed flat against the white pillow. Her essential perkiness is flatlined, too. I smile and say the expected platitudes and pass along AFT news, but I turn tail and exit as soon as I can without seeming rude. I can’t let her see how distressed I am by the sight of her in that bed, how worried I am for her and Chad and their kids. The surgery is slated for the next day, with the germ infusion to follow soon after.