The eyes in question twinkled. “Mr. Callahan, you always were a charmer.” As they ate pie, Maurey filled her mate in on the events of the day. “Shannon is bringing all six grandkids out this afternoon. She promised them you’d tell the story about when you wrote the great Wyoming novel between innings of the pennant drive.”
Sam smiled to himself, remembering the fall he won a Pulitzer and a World Series. “I sure am glad she had those kids without any help from male people.”
“I wonder how she did that,” Maurey said.
“In dreams, all daughters are pure and all hits are doubles into the left-field fence.”
Dothan came by the house a week later to take Maurey for a drive in his Ford. I was glad to see her go off with him. I mean, her leg was in a cast and she had stitches down there from where Dr. Petrov did something creepy to help the baby out. Maurey wasn’t likely to get wet anytime soon.
She’d shown me the stitches; looked as if he’d used garden loppers to connect the front and back holes. Ish. I’d hate to be a girl, always being shaved and cut and poked at, half the population scheming, drooling, lying constantly just to stick a foreign object in your body. The female orgasm must be pretty amazing to make all the crap they go through worth it.
Dothan came in wearing a torn T-shirt and black sneakers without socks or laces. He looked at Shannon for about five seconds. “What’s wrong with her head?”
I held the door open and stood by in case Maurey crashed while crutching down the steps.
“Don’t wake up Shannon,” she said.
“Of course not.”
“Her next feeding’s in two hours and I’ll be back, but if I’m not, you understand what to do.”
“I know what to do.” I’d learned a lot in a week. I knew what formula is and how to shake warm drops out on my arm and everything else you need to raise a kid.
“You have the White Deck phone number in case you need Lydia?”
“I won’t need Lydia.”
I helped Maurey into the backseat while Dothan revved the engine. “Bye, kids.” I waved. “Have fun.”
First time alone with the baby; I’d waited all week for this. She lay sleeping on her stomach with her head turned toward Les. I held my mirror in front of her little nostrils to see if she was still alive—a trick I’d learned on her fourth day—and her breath made the neatest fog heart pattern on the glass.
Then I lifted her from the bassinet and carried her to the new rocking chair. Bassinet, rocker, and the cute pink sleeper she wore all came from Caspar.
At least eight times while we were shopping in Jackson, he stopped to snort out that hairy nose of his. “None of my kindness is for Lydia, you understand that, Samuel? Lydia shall never get a dime from me. This is for that baby.”
“Shannon.”
“No reason to punish the little one simply because her parents and grandparents are all immoral, shameless hellhounds. The baby is still innocent.”
“Thanks for all the stuff, Paw Paw.” I know he got a kick out of being called Paw Paw again.
We drove to the Western Union to send a telegram to Caspar’s own mother who lived in New York City. I think he was afraid to call her on the phone. Intimidation now ran through five generations of Callahans.
Alice jumped on my lap to sniff Shannon’s breath on the front of my shirt. The three of us rocked a long time, Shannon sleeping, Alice purring, me rocking and watching. Shannon was so small I had to hold her head up. Her upper lip was the tiniest, prettiest thing I’d ever seen. The father-love deal crept into the room, not so much like Carolina surf, more on the scale of mountain air.
As we rocked, I started talking to Shannon. I told her the importance of knowing the names of what you looked at and how Caspar hadn’t really meant to burn my baseball cards. I explained what she could learn from books, not to ever trust men, and don’t take Lydia seriously.
“Mom loves us, she can’t help it, only love scares her so she thinks it’s a weakness.”
Shannon’s mouth puckered in her sleep. I traced the pink wedge on her forehead with my finger. Lydia had said it would go away and I wanted to remember it.
“Shannon, your life will be interesting. Wonderful and sad things will happen, you’ll feel hordes of emotions and sometimes they won’t make sense. Just watch out for coaches and cowboys and you’ll be happy.” I touched her tiny nose, then the midpoint of her mouth. “You’re a lucky girl, Shannon.”
She slept. Alice hopped to the floor and bent to lick herself under the armpit. Above it all, Les stayed cool.
I rocked awhile and looked out the window at Soapley’s trailer where Otis was digging a hole in the shade of a dead GMC truck. I felt a bit bored.
“Well, Shannon,” I said. “What should we do next?”
About the Author
Rebecca Stern
Reviewers have variously compared Tim Sandlin to Jack Kerouac, Tom Robbins, Larry McMurtry, Joseph Heller, John Irving, Kurt Vonnegut, Carl Hiaasen, and a few other writers you’ve probably heard of. He has published eight novels and a book of columns. He wrote eleven screenplays for hire; two of which have been made into movies. He turned forty with no phone, TV, or flush toilet and spent more time talking to the characters in his head than the people around him. He now has seven phone lines, four TVs he doesn’t watch, three flush toilets, and a two-headed shower. He lives happily (indoors) with his family (wife, Carol; son, Kyle; daughter, Leila) in Jackson, Wyoming.
