“In the back of the truck. It’s warm.”
“I don’t care.”
“Bring me one, too. But leave your jeans here.”
She looked at him quizzically, cocking her head. “Leave my jeans?”
“Yeah.” He sat up and grabbed them from her, wadding them up and shoving them behind his head.
“Okay.” She laughed as she picked her way back to the truck, her wrinkled blouse hanging just short of her solid little buns.
She returned with a quart for each of them. They drank in silence, listening to the sounds of the night. Priscilla sat cross-legged, Leslie absently playing with her curly blond hairs.
“So what, you going to jail?”
“Probably. That little fuck Ned.”
“Yeah.” She thought for a moment. “You really went into that house while those people were there asleep and ripped them off?”
“Yeah.”
“That takes balls. Weren’t you scared?”
“Scared? Of what?”
“I don’t know. The dark. The people. The guy might have had a shotgun or something.”
“Nah. Nothing to be scared of.”
“I could never do that.”
“Sure you could.”
“I’d faint.”
“Nah.”
They drank again, and the feeling of being in that house returned. He had been scared. It was a terrible/wonderful feeling, that rush of adrenaline. Then he remembered sitting in his truck watching that old retard’s house.
“Hey, Priscilla.”
“Hmm?”
“Seen Leon lately?”
“Nah. He’s been with Martha. Nobody’s seen him. Real mysterious. He goes into town now and then, in the mornings, then right back out there. I guess he’s moved in.”
“With the retard, right?”
“Yeah. She’s a nice lady. But Leon’s . . . I don’t know. It’s real weird.”
“Go fetch me another beer, okay? Then bring your sassy little bottom right back. I want to talk to it.”
She upended her beer and choked down the rest of it, then stood up unsteadily and made again for the truck, stopping to whiz again along the way. When she got back, Leslie was hard as a rock, stroking himself, and she dropped the beers on the blanket and lowered herself onto him.
He sat up, hugging her, rocking back and forth, and whispered in her ear. “Let’s go pay them a visit, okay?”
“Who?” Her breath was coming hard.
“Leon.”
“Leon. Oh, Leon, okay. Oh, God, Leslie.”
They came together, and Leslie pushed her off quickly and stood up. She looked at him, drunkenly, dazed. “C’mon. Get up.” He threw her jeans to her.
“What?”
“We’re going to go pay a visit to Leon.”
She giggled and popped open a beer.
CHAPTER 18
The puzzle of Martha took up most of Fern’s waking moments. She tried to fit pieces together—the incident in the barn, the closed doors in the mind, the monster, Sam’s funeral—none of it made sense. Trauma, the doctor said. Shock. How could she go in and out like that? How could she have moments where she looked and acted almost normal, when most of the time she was so . . . so . . . unfeeling? And if she could come out once, why not twice, or more often?
Fern bustled around the house, cleaning. She swept and mopped and dusted and hauled the rugs outside to be whacked and aired. She sat down often: the years had accumulated on her, turning her hair almost totally gray; her face was lined and her small frame hung with rolls of fat. As she worked, she thought of her daughter.
There’s a purpose to all of this, she thought. There’s always a purpose. A purpose for everything, good and bad. At twenty-nine years old, Martha was capable only of basic tasks—cleaning herself, doing some routine chores. She spoke one-syllable words. Most of her vocabulary consisted of grunts and hand gestures, delivered in a moronic fashion. A truce had been set up between Martha and Harry, which kept the house a tolerable place to live. Although it was a constant heartache for Fern, the two ignored each other’s existence entirely. She tried to be grateful. It could be worse.
Fern pulled potatoes out of the bin and began peeling them for the stew. Harry was out in the fields, as he was every day during the spring, summer, and fall. He lived for his work; it was all that mattered to him. Occasionally, Fern felt a twinge of guilt that Harry had spent his whole life on this farm, tied down with a retarded daughter rather than having a normal family, traveling a bit, seeing the country, playing baseball with a son—but the guilt was fleeting. Harry had made his own bed.
As far as the farm went, they’d been very successful. There was a solid bank account; Harry had new tools and a good tractor. They’d bought a car, and Fern no longer had to sew clothes for them to wear. They were probably wealthy, Fern thought, but Harry wouldn’t part with a dime that wasn’t absolutely necessary.
The furniture was in rags, none of the dishes matched, and they could certainly afford to take a little trip or buy some new things, but Harry wouldn’t even hear of it. He did bring modern plumbing to the house: toilet, bathtub and shower, a water heater for the kitchen. The rest he considered wasteful excess.
She picked up a fresh potato, one ear cocked toward the bathroom where Martha was bathing. Fern had picked up some fancy bath salts at Dave McRae’s store, and Martha sat and soaked among the bubbles until the water got cold.
The peach and apricot trees were heavy with fruit. Next weekend would be reserved for putting them up for the winter. Maybe Martha would help, watch, and understand some of it. Not a difficult process, but exacting if the fruit was to last. How will she ever get on after we’re gone? The thought sent chills all through Fern. She tried not to think about it, but the thought slipped in now and again. God takes care of his own, she thought. She’ll be just fine. The good people in town will take care of her.
Fern was on her fourth small potato when the gasp came from the bathroom. Fern’s heart froze, midbeat, as it always did when an unusual sound came from Martha. There was no other noise, but a few little splashes, so she kept on peeling.
“Mootheeeer!” A wail shrieked through the house. The knife slipped, skinning Fern’s knuckle; she dropped the potato and the knife into the sink, shoved the knuckle into her mouth and ran for the bathroom.
Martha was sitting in the tub, water around her hips. Her hand was covered with soap bubbles, and a look of delighted awe covered her face.
“Mommy. Look!” She held the bubbles up to the light. Fern knelt next to the tub, her eyes on Martha’s rapt face.
“Look!” Martha insisted.
Fern looked at the bubbles in the light, colors sliding all around them, swirling reds and blues. In each bubble was a miniature window, with little panes, just like those in the bathroom.
“Beautiful,” Martha breathed softly.
Fern looked at her daughter’s face. The lips were even, curving in a smile. Her eyes were clear and focused; she looked at the bubbles in amazement, then back to her mother. She held her hand closer to Fern’s face. “See?”
“Yes, they are beautiful.”
“I never saw that.”
“Beauty is all around us, Martha.”
Martha sat up straighter, turned in the tub to face her mother. She rinsed off her soapy hand and touched Fern’s cheek. Fern again admired Martha’s beautiful eyes. Why did she notice them only occasionally? A fingertip traced slowly, carefully, the lines of her cheek, across her cheekbone, one eyebrow.
“Pretty,” Martha said.
“You’re pretty, too.” A tear gathered strength on Fern’s lower lid.
Martha watched it with interest, and as she did so, her mouth began to slacken, one side drooping again, her eyes going vacant, retreating from her face, leaving the horrible nose the dominant feature. The little smile stayed, though.
“Martha?”
Slowly, she slid down into the water, her knees coming up, and she slid back and forth, watching the water lap at the edges of the tub.