In the spot where a nose should have been was a thin triangular membrane, thin enough to reveal a network of tiny blue veins under it. The membrane fluttered as the baby cried, and when she took a deep breath and gave her first real scream, it shattered, spraying blood-flecked fluid all over Fern’s face. It mixed with salty tears and sweat. She wiped it all from her face, then opened her dress and put the baby to her breast. She sucked hungrily, and Fern watched the jagged edges of membrane flap in and out as the baby nursed.
Addie was busy, cleaning up the afterbirth, seeing to Fern’s bleeding, changing sheets, doing everything she could to keep from having to face the mother. She took the soiled linen to the kitchen, handed the bundle to Harry, brewed two strong cups of tea, and without a word, returned to the bedroom, closing the door behind her. She pulled a chair to the bedside and helped Fern up to sip the tea.
In the aftermath of the birthing activity, she noticed how the wind had picked up; she could hear it roaring against the shutters. The room was cool, drying her perspiration.
“I’ll fetch Doc as soon as the storm breaks, Fern.”
Fern smiled at Addie, her pale face shining with the peace of motherhood.
“She looks strong and healthy enough,” Addie said.
“Martha.”
“Martha.”
Fern watched the baby’s face; Addie looked at the floor.
“There’s doctors, Fern, that can work miracles on things like that.”
“She’ll be fine.”
“Yes, I know.”
“How’s Harry?”
“He’s getting drunk.”
Fern closed her eyes. “Good.”
“You sleep now. I’ll go talk to Harry. Be real careful not to get any lint in her . . . in Martha’s nose, okay?”
“Okay.”
Addie went to the door. She took one look back at the mother and child together on the bed. Asleep. It was a beautiful scene, if one did not look too closely. Addie’s heart skipped a beat. She closed the door gently behind her.
Addie pulled a glass from the cupboard and sat next to Harry at the kitchen table. She poured herself a healthy shot of whiskey and sipped. He looked at her with red-lined eyes.
“They’re sleeping.”
“Fern and the monster.”
“Not a monster, Harry, your daughter. Martha. Listen, there’s doctors . . .”
“Ain’t NO doctor going to fix that baby up the way it’s supposed to be. It’s supposed to be normal, have a nose like everybody else, but it doesn’t, does it? God made it that way. God. The same God that gives Fern all these . . .”—he groped for a word—“powers, makes her heal all those people, that same God, Addie, made our daughter a monster.” The tears broke. “Martha was my grandmother’s name. How can I look at that thing and call it Martha?” He took a heaving sob, poured more whiskey into his glass, and drank it down.
“Babies are born with difficulties sometimes, Harry. You have to understand . . .”
“I’ll tell you what I understand.” Harry glared at her, the anger sharp in his gaze. “I understand that what Fern has been doing is wrong. I told her it was wrong. I knew it was wrong, deep in my gut; I knew she shouldn’t be fiddling with what wasn’t natural. And this is how we got repaid. God looked down on this little house and saw all that meddlin’ going on, and he just said, ‘Here!’ ” Harry smashed his thumb down on the table, like he was squishing a bug. He poured more whiskey. “One sharp rap to the head, and we could tell Doc it was stillborn.”
As understanding as she was, Addie was shocked by this. She looked carefully at Harry, upset, wild even, and she knew it was the liquor talking. She was thankful for the storm. She’d have to stay here until it passed enough to go get Doc, and Harry would have to take her there. He would learn. As soon as a doctor put a little nose on that baby girl, and she started to giggle and say da-da, his whole outlook would change. Fathers and daughters, that’s the way it was. He’d hold her and coo to her and rock her and love her, and he would never see the little defect the poor child was born with.
But for now, she would get drunk with him, and they would wait until morning, hoping the storm would clear. The silence between them hung like a heavy curtain, Addie already making plans to help Fern get to a doctor who knew these new techniques, Harry making decisions about Martha and Fern and God that would carry him through the rest of his twisted, bitter life.
CHAPTER 9
Priscilla’s blue Pinto pulled up to the house just as Leon was showing Martha how to make an omelet for their lunch. Anger flared in her eyes as she noted that the chicken coop was half rebuilt, but no carpenter was in sight. Just Leon’s pickup sittin’ out here by itself. She slammed the car door and trotted up the porch steps.
She didn’t bother to knock, just swung the screen door open. Martha and Leon were standing by the stove, Leon in cutoff jeans and tennis shoes, with no shirt. Martha looking frumpy as usual. What the hell was going on here?
“Pris!” Martha’s face lit up with a big warped smile, as she stretched her arms out and went toward her. Priscilla deftly parried her move and stood with feet apart, hands on hips, facing Leon.
“What are you doing here, Leon?”
“Making an omelet.”
“Don’t be smart. Are you fixing the chicken coop?”
“Yes.”
“And sleeping here as well?”
“What?”
“Well, you slept somewhere last night, because you didn’t come home.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because I spent the night with Ned. At your place. And you didn’t show all night.”
“Ned? Jesus Christ, Priscilla, isn’t he a little young for you?”
“And isn’t she a little old for you, Leon? You pervert.”
“We fell asleep watching television last night.”
“Uh-huh. A likely story. So you’re here ripping her off for repair work and getting a little on the side, eh? You asshole.”
Leon looked at Martha standing there, bewildered, confused, sensing the tension but not understanding. He walked to Priscilla, took her elbow, and escorted her firmly to her car.
“Nothing is going on here, Priscilla. I’m being a friend to an old lady and fixing up her place a little, that’s all.”
“Is she paying you?”
“Of course she’s paying me.”
“I wonder if she got other bids for the job.”
“C’mon, Priscilla. Don’t be stupid.”
“You used to fix up around here for free.”
“That was . . .”
“That was before you found out she had money. I know all about it. Ned told me about the wad she flashed in Mike’s, and you’ve been here balling her ever since.”
Leon slapped her, his heavy hand leaving red fingermarks on her cheek.
Priscilla’s eye watered and her face flushed in humiliation and disbelief. She got into the car. “We’ll see what your parents have to say about this, Leon.” She drove off in a cloud of dust.
Leon stood there, watching the toes of his shoes, until he felt Martha’s hands on his arm. They walked slowly into the house together. Leon finished making the omelet. They ate in silence; then he went back to work.
Martha noticed he ate hardly anything. She felt a sadness, an emptiness in the pit of her stomach. Pris, Leon, her two friends. Now neither was her friend. What did she do?
When Leon finished work, he came into the house and took a shower. Martha had a beer waiting for him when he came back to the kitchen, and she sat with him at the kitchen table. He seemed in better spirits.
“I’ll paint the coop tomorrow, Martha, then start on the porch roof the day after that. The chickens can move into a nice new house. I’ll show it to you in a few minutes.”