“Enough for new furniture?”
“Yes.”
“And a new truck for you?”
“Oh, Martha, come on.”
“I’m serious. Is it?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
He kissed her on the cheek and put the truck in gear. Mother was a healer, she thought.
CHAPTER 22
Fern sat at the kitchen table, note pad and pen in front of her. The pressure inside her head was tremendous. Martha sat next to her, watching the tortured look on her mother’s face. Fern tried to think of everything she needed to teach Martha, everything she needed to know in order to get along on her own. It was a heartbreaking task.
With pictures she wrote out the recipe for a stew, and for a vegetable soup. She made grocery lists, pinning together labels from all the canned goods and things Martha liked to eat. She showed Martha how to wash clothes, rinse them well, and hang them on the line. It was hard—Martha’s attention span was so short. She had to talk quickly, with lots of action. They went to the yard to look at the vegetables and the chickens.
“Most important, Martha. Martha, concentrate. Most important, feed the chickens. The chickens gotta eat. The chickens gotta eat. If you have chickens, you have fresh meat and eggs, okay?”
At this, Martha brightened. She loved the chickens. “Okay!” she said.
Fern laughed. “Okay!”
“Okay!” Martha imitated her. They hugged each other. She’ll be all right, Fern thought. A hot tear started to form again in Fern’s eye. I’ve had enough crying, she thought. Martha pointed at it, questioning.
“Dust,” Fern said, swiping it away.
When Fern announced they were going to town, Martha’s eyes got shiny and excited. She picked out her favorite dress and slipped it on, then watched her mother get ready, watched her brush her long gray hair, then twist it up in a bun. She powdered her nose and put on red lipstick. This routine fascinated Martha, and she was content to watch, anticipation of the trip to town forgotten as she shared this time with her mother.
They walked quietly down the road, nervous energy flowing through Martha, a dreaded heaviness in Fern.
First stop was the bank. Mr. Hillis saw them coming through the doorway and came right up to meet them. He introduced Martha to each of the tellers, and together he and Fern explained that this is where she should come for money to go to the store. “Just come in and ask for twenty dollars,” Fern told her several times. Martha seemed to understand. Mr. Hillis had suggested that she just open an account with McRae’s, to be paid by the bank, but Fern wisely suggested that Martha needed more contact with people—she would be so alone at the farm. Mr. Hillis agreed, and so it was settled. A wise old woman, Mr. Hillis thought.
Martha cheerfully smiled her crooked way at all the pretty girls in the windows. They all smiled and waved to her until she was embarrassed and turned toward the corner window to look at her reflection. Fern thanked Mr. Hillis, waved to the girls, and took her out.
They looked both ways before crossing the street and going into Dave McRae’s store. Dave had inherited the store when Hiram retired ten years ago. He was a very pleasant man, eager to help. When Fern told him her mission, he could see the wisdom in her actions, but was saddened to think that this wonderful woman would eventually be taken from their lives. And it was with sadness in his face that he greeted them both on this important day.
“Mr. McRae will be your best friend, Martha. Your friend.” Martha smiled up at him shyly. “Whatever you need, you come here, see Mr. McRae, okay?” Martha wandered off, looking at all the bright packages and bottles and cans and jars, while her mother and the nice man with no hair talked. Soon she was called back.
“Concentrate now, Martha. You get money at the bank, and you bring it here, okay? Mr. McRae will give you flour and milk, and the other things you need, okay?”
“Okay!”
Everyone chuckled, and Dave put his hand on Martha’s head. “She’ll be fine, Fern. We’ll all see to it.” He reached in a jar and brought out a candy stick which Martha promptly stuck in her mouth, sucking loudly.
“Thanks, Dave.” With her daughter in tow, Fern continued through the other shops in town. The reception was much the same. Everyone seemed cooperative, but how could she be sure? Trust, she told herself. Trust.
When they finally got back home, as tired as Fern was, she continued to make telephone calls. She called Mrs. Martin, the woman who worked with the 4-H. Of course, Mrs. Martin said, she’d be delighted to keep up Martha’s garden as a project. She called Penelope Wiggins, whose daughter had gone to beauty school. Of course, said Mrs. Wiggins. Priscilla would be delighted to come and take care of Martha’s hair. Priscilla doesn’t remember, of course, the fever she had that called you out of bed in the middle of the night, but I do. I’ll remind her. She’ll be glad to do it. Thank you very much, said Fern.
Fern’s mortality was closing in on her. Never had her own death seemed more real. It was coming closer; she could feel it. She knew what health looked like and sickness, and death, and she felt the black cloak descending on her increasingly fragile bones, and the thought was almost comforting.
After she’d made all the calls she could think of, she remembered the animals in the barn. They hadn’t been tended to since yesterday morning, when Harry had done it. Was that only yesterday? Oh dear, his funeral is tomorrow. There’s so much to do. Must find someone to tend the animals, or to take them away. Martha was afraid of the barn.
Fern rested for a moment, then went to the barn. She shoveled and hosed, then spread new hay. She checked the feed for the cows and horses, and when all was done, she got the stool and sat down to milk.
The easy rhythm of the milk in the pail began to ease Fern’s mind. There was just so much to do, so much, so much. Find someone to take the animals . . . and what else? Everything else. How could she leave her daughter? Why hadn’t she thought of this before? Why hadn’t she sent her away as Harry had begged her to do so long ago, then have normal children who would be taking care of her in her old age, instead of this? Oh, please, God, take care of my . . .
The pain grabbed her chest again, knocking her back from the stool. For a moment she thought she’d been kicked. But it kept up, her breath, she couldn’t get her breath, couldn’t move her arm, her hand, my God, it was on fire. Her right hand clutched and tore at her clothes, get loose, get loose! Give me air, breath, oh, God, not yet, please, I have one more thing to do, just one more thing, just one more try, please, oh, God, please.
CHAPTER 23
Leslie saw the Bronco come down the street just as he was ready to jump into his own rust bucket. He stopped instead and watched it approach. It was beautiful. I’d give my left nut for something like that, he thought.
The new truck had giant tires, lifting it high off the ground. It was painted in two colors, a bright green-blue and cream. It had lots of chrome—even the lug nuts on the wheels were shiny and silver. It had driving lights mounted below the grill, with their little yellow slipcovers still on. Looked brand-new. What a beauty. Admiration turned to envy, then quickly to disgust. Some rich motherfucker who won’t take care of it. I’d take care of that baby if it was mine.
The Bronco cruised slowly through town, then pulled into a parking space next to the bank. Leon hopped out.
Leon! That sonofabitch! Leslie’s fists clamped hard, and he slammed shut the door to his truck, feeling the whole rusted-body shimmy with the impact. Leon walked around the front of the new truck and toward the bank. Leslie ran a few steps to catch up, then slowed to a walk before he called out.
“Hey, Leon.”
Leon turned, smiling, then scowled as he saw Leslie’s toothless grin.