The Green Lace Corset

by Jill G. Hall

  She glanced at her phone. Yoga started in forty-five minutes. Even though she was pretty wiped out, she decided to go anyway. For cleansing and balance, she rolled eucalyptus balm on her hands, rubbed them together, and inhaled three times. Then she added some balm to the bottoms of her feet and rubbed them together. She swore eucalyptus helped her do the tree and other balancing poses.

  She’d better hurry now; the space filled up fast. Plus, it was bad manners to show up late. She gathered her mat, huddled in her black coat, and hiked up the hill. As she followed a few other stragglers carrying mats into the cathedral, early-evening light streamed in through the rose window, reflecting colors on the floor and yogis.

  A musician played live new-age rhythms. Hundreds of colorful mats covered the black-and-white mosaic labyrinth in a circular fashion, up the aisles and even around the altar. Yogis of all ages, shapes, sizes, genders, and colors had gathered. A young woman lit votives.

  Anne dropped a few dollars in the donation basket and zigzagged quietly around the supine bodies until she found a spot. She slipped off her sneakers, rolled out her mat, and sat down with a thud.

  Her body had been changing rapidly: bigger boobs, puffy stomach. Her balance felt way off. After practicing yoga regularly the past two years, she’d begun to master the tree and dancer poses. Soon her whole body would be off-kilter again. That was the least of her worries, though.

  The instructor’s soothing voice began, and Anne rolled down, one vertebra at a time, until she was flat on the mat and closed her eyes. Hands on her stomach, she thought of the baby growing inside her and inhaled and exhaled. The music began to trill within her, and tears leaked out the sides of her eyes. She couldn’t raise a child alone. If she had that simple procedure at the clinic, all those cons would disappear. Her life could go back to normal again. But would it ever really return to normal after what she’d done?

  What she had really always wanted was to start a family with her soul mate. She hoped he was out there somewhere. She’d thought Sergio was the one, but he’d turned out not to be. As much as she tried to deny it, though, she still loved him. With his fun, outgoing, loving personality and generous spirit, he would be a great father. Maybe with a baby, she’d feel differently about living in New York with him and wouldn’t get so lonely when he worked late or traveled, because she’d have a cutie-patootie with her. Wasn’t home where the love was?

  Anne rolled onto her hands and knees, did cat and cow, pushed up to downward-facing dog, and stepped forward. Reaching her arms up into warrior-one pose, she swayed to the left and had to catch herself. This had always been so easy for her.

  Their passionate sex life would probably be nonexistent, or at least interrupted by the baby’s cries and exhaustion. Sergio also insisted on a pristine condo. How would that be possible with a child? The last time Anne had visited Michigan, Pootie’s house toys had been scattered everywhere, sticky sippy cups had lined the counter, and the high chair had had food scraps underneath it. When Anne had stayed with Sergio and left even a Coke can on the kitchen island, he never yelled, just gave her the disappointed puppy-dog look that made her feel so bad.

  The really scary thing was that there was a good chance it was Barnaby’s baby. She’d gotten tipsy several times before with Sergio, skipped the condoms, and never gotten pregnant. She didn’t even want to think about how the baby might have Barnaby’s genes and how gross it would be to live with that one-night stand. No, if it was his and she kept it, she’d need to raise it alone.

  “Come down to the ground and pull your legs up to your chest,” the instructor said, and the musician began to play a rendition of Anne’s favorite hymn, “All Things Bright and Beautiful.”

  Anne followed the lyrics she knew by heart: All creatures great and small / All things wise and wonderful / the Lord God made them all.

  Maybe this was a sign. How could she eliminate the small creature growing inside her? Did God love it already?

  But, again, she didn’t want to raise a child alone. She’d watched Pootie and Brian support each other by passing their little doll back and forth. Plus, Aunt Tootie and Anne’s own mom were there to help them at a moment’s notice.

  If she kept the baby, Anne was sure her mom would welcome her home with open arms. That was, after she got over the shock that Anne was going to be an unwed mother. Anne had considered moving back there a few years ago but had decided against it. Maybe that would be best now, though—small-town Oscoda was a good place to raise kids. But she really didn’t want to do that. San Francisco was her home, her soul place. She couldn’t even move to New York with Sergio—how could she ever go back to Michigan? And what about her art?

  If she stayed here and had the baby in San Francisco, she’d need to pack away most of her art materials to make way for a crib in the apartment. She didn’t need a man or her mother. Anne could do it. She’d get by. How hard could it be? Streetlamps cast a halo in the dewy air. Usually yoga rejuvenated her, but tonight it made her more exhausted than ever.

  She spied Mata Hari curled up in a doorway. “Hi, Mata.”

  Mata looked up. “Missy, looks like you’ve been crying.”

  “I’m fine.” Anne grabbed for a tissue in her backpack. “Allergies is all. Did you eat at the shelter tonight?”

  “Sure did. The spaghetti was tasty. Here, do you want a ginger snap?” Mata pulled a cookie from her pocket and held it out.

  “No, thanks. You eat it.” Anne felt a pang in her heart. The kitchen used Sylvia’s special recipes. Anne thought back to learning to make spaghetti and cookies with her dear friend in Sylvia’s kitchen at Bay Breeze before the shelter had been endowed its own. What Anne wouldn’t give to have Sylvia to go to now.

  “Okeydoke, Annie Oakley!” Mata took a bite.

  Anne remembered something about Mata saying she preferred to live on the streets than with family. “Didn’t you tell me you have a daughter you hated?” Anne asked.

  “I said I couldn’t stand living with her, not that I hated her. She’s still the most important person in my life.”

  Firsthand, Anne understood how important the mother-daughter connection was. Even though she didn’t want to live with her own mom anymore, they were still close.

  At home, she crawled into bed and tried to sleep, but she was suddenly wired. She couldn’t get used to these strange things happening in her body. Might as well do some art. She got up, rang her Tibetan chimes, and lit a gardenia candle.

  “Alexa, play Enya, please.”

  “Okay. Here’s some assorted music by Enya.”

  “Thank you.” Anne picked up the washboard from her trip. The rectangular top measured three by nine inches. She ruffled through her remnants, found a crocheted oval that fit in the space, and adhered it to the wood. Next, she placed a blue-and-white chipped plate in a paper bag, broke it with a hammer, and filled in the spaces around the remnant with the shards. She dumped out a baggie filled with a random assortment of found objects: old jewelry, Polly Pocket paraphernalia, and tiny toys. She closed her eyes, stuck her hand in the pile, and picked up a piece. The teddy bear fit perfectly in the washboard’s one-inch groove. She breathed in and out as she got into the zone and randomly tried other pieces to find ones that fit: a pearl earring with gold trim, a blue button, a baby bottle, a boot, a cameo pin, a heart button, a pony, a Road Runner pin, marbles, XOXO tic-tac-toe game pieces, a diaper pin, a star.

  On her found-object shelf, she spied a tiny plastic baby doll. Voilà! It fit on top of the crocheted piece nicely. She glued turquoise and cobalt lace trim along the edge. She stepped back and examined the finished mosaic, filled with love and baby themes. Was this another sign?

  23

  Hazy morning sunshine sent light through the window. Sally Sue tried to sit up but fell back onto the pillow, still light-headed. At least she felt better than yesterday—she was thinking clearly and well rested. For good or bad, she’d made it safely through another night.

  Cliff hummed sof
tly, stoked the fire and stirred a cauldron, and went back outside. Her face reddened, and she lifted her hands to her cheeks. Yesterday, she’d been too drowsy to even be embarrassed when he carried the bedpan outside and brought it back to her all clean.

  The room grew dark as clouds formed outside. She’d better get to the outhouse before it snowed again. Forcing herself up onto her elbows, she spotted her men’s clothes folded neatly at the foot of the bed. She snatched them, pulled them under the covers, and put on the shirt. It smelled of oak and something else heavenly. Was it lavender?

  She finished dressing; put on her hat, gloves, and coat; and made her way to the outhouse. As she returned to the cabin, it began to snow and she hurried inside.

  Cliff was setting two plates on the table. “I’m glad to see you’re up and at ’em.”

  “I’m glad too.” Winded, she sat.

  “We’re miles from any neighbors or town. There’s no way you could have made it anywhere on foot in this inclement weather.”

  She took off her hat and redid her braids. She could barely stand her dirty hair; it smelled of caked mud. “I wanted to get away from you.”

  “You mustn’t stray far. There are worse things than freezing to death. You never know what’s out there.”

  “Like what?” She crossed her arms.

  He raised his voice. “Wolves, bears, Injuns, bandits.”

  She tried to laugh, but her voice quivered. “You don’t say. Bandits?”

  “This is not a joke.” He turned his back to her and put another log on the fire. “Whether you like it or not, you’re gonna be here awhile. Now that you’re regaining your vigor, you need to pitch in and help.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  He turned around. “What are you good at?”

  “I can read and do figures.”

  He eyed her. “That’s not much use out here. How’s your cooking?”

  “Not good.” She sighed. There was no way she could make anything as good as his flapjacks, apple crisp, or rabbit stew.

  “Anyone can clean house. I’ve seen you with your needles, making doilies. I bet you can sew.”

  “A bit.”

  “Maybe mend clothes, do laundry, make us some curtains.” She hated to do laundry. The floral fabric from McMillan’s would make pretty curtains. No need for a lovely dress out here.

  The snow continued. Cliff sat by the fire all afternoon, doing leatherwork, while she curled up in bed and worked on memorizing psalms in her Bible.

  The next day, Cliff carried in a vat of snow and placed it in the cauldron. He handed her a washboard that the previous owners had left, a box of Sunlight soap that he had bought at the mercantile, and a pile of dirty clothes, then left. She held her nose as she placed his soiled long johns and holey socks in the water. She also added in her green traveling suit but then paused. The thought of mixing her own undergarments with his made her body shiver. But she wouldn’t want to ask Cliff to bring in another vat of water, so she tossed in her chemise, drawers, corset, petticoat, and bustle.

  Her father had been gone a year when Mrs. Rowling from next door had her fifth baby and Sally Sue’s ma took in the woman’s laundry. Ma said it was the neighborly thing to do. Even though Sally Sue was only seven, she knew the reason was to help make ends meet. She’d seen her ma frown on Saturdays as she counted out the dwindling pile of money on the table. She also noticed her ma had stopped putting a dollar in the Sunday offering basket at church and instead cupped a penny in her palm and put it in. Gradually, word seemed to spread, as more folks in town needed neighborly help with their laundry too.

  When she grew older, she pitched in to help; however, people complained about how their clothes were scratchy from soap residue, poorly ironed, and awkwardly folded. Sally Sue wasn’t disappointed when her ma took over those tasks again.

  Sally Sue did continue to collect the money and do the deliveries. Afterward, her ma pumped her for the local gossip. She never repeated any of the rumors she’d heard. She knew others had talked about them when her father had left, and she didn’t want to speak ill of anyone else who’d fallen on hard times.

  And now here she was, doing this washing. The fire kept the cabin warm. She rolled up her sleeves and scrubbed Cliff’s socks on the washboard, but no matter how much elbow grease she used, they still felt gritty. She glanced up. No wonder—she’d forgotten to use the soap. From the box, instead of bars, white flakes drifted out like snow. This was much easier than what her ma used, and smelled much nicer. Sally Sue rubbed the socks on the washboard, squeezed out the excess water, and laid them on the mantel to dry. She made a note to darn the holes in the toes.

  Even though she rubbed her suit skirt on the washboard, the mud stains wouldn’t come out of the hem. She sighed as her green shoes came to mind. She had to admit her boots were much more practical.

  Next, she worked on the bustle. No matter how much she fluffed it, it just wouldn’t pouf back up—squished forever. She draped the skirt and bustle over the crib to dry and ran her hand over the smooth wood. Did the people who lived here have a baby? Who were they? What happened to them?

  She finished the laundry and surveyed the cabin. What a filthy mess. Dust and soot covered everything. She tried to sweep the floor, but since it was dirt, that didn’t do much good. Her things sitting on the trunk were covered in dust.

  She opened the trunk lid. On top of a Mexican serape sat a handful of yarn scraps, other remnants, and a wooden egg darner. She put it in her shirt pocket. As she lifted up the serape, her eyes spotted bright red fabric underneath. She picked it up and fingered the scoop-necked dress with lace trim and puffed sleeves, more beautiful than anything she’d ever seen before. Who had worn something so lovely? Looking in the mirror, she held it up and turned this way and that with a smile. Her ma would call the red color shameful. When Cliff came through the door, Sally Sue quickly slid the dress back into the trunk.

  “How’re you doing?” he asked.

  “Laundry’s all done. Just trying my best to clean, as you asked.”

  He grunted and went back outside.

  Cobwebs and dried candle wax clung to the crystal chandelier. Cleaned, this would be more luxurious than any she’d seen in a mansion while delivering laundry. The folks who’d lived here must have been rich. Had they brought the chandelier all the way here in a covered wagon?

  Dustrag in hand, she climbed up onto a chair and then to the tabletop and started picking off the candle wax. She lost her balance and wobbled.

  “Careful!” Cliff came in, ran toward her, and caught her in his arms. “Take a break.”

  So close to him, inhaling his musky scent, she felt a bit weak and sat in a kitchen chair. “Okay.”

  He heated up last night’s stew, ladled some into cups, and handed one to her, along with a spoon. “Eat up, now,” he said.

  She’d decided to quit arguing with him about eating and swallowed a bite. The stew was even tastier than it had been the day before.

  He sat across from her, holding his own cup. “Been snowing all day.”

  She took another bite. They each had a second helping and continued to eat in silence. Darkness began to hover as the storm brewed, and he lit the lamp. When they finished their food, she yawned, picked up her cup, and tried to take his, but he held it tight. “I’ll do the cleanup. After all that laundry, you must be tuckered out.”

  “I’m not really that tired.”

  He smiled at her, his brown hair slicked back, blue eyes reflecting the firelight, cleft chin a wonder. “Close your eyes, and soon you’ll be in the arms of Morpheus.” With that, he washed the dishes, and left her alone in the cabin, taking the lantern with him.

  She climbed into bed. How could he stand it out there in the cold? Did he sleep up in the hayloft or down with the horses? Did he have plenty of blankets? Her eyes soon drooped, and before she knew it, she was asleep.

  The sound of rattling dishes in the cupboard woke her in the night, and a scra
tching noise ensued. The fire had gone out, and the room was pitch black. She was too cold and afraid to investigate. Even if she got out of bed, she wouldn’t be able to see anything. The noise continued off and on all night. She didn’t get another wink of sleep.

  At daybreak she followed the dark droppings, probably mice, to the cupboard. Darn it. She knew how they could take over. She’d had them in Missouri too.

  Inside the cupboard, a nest of straw and thread had been made in the bottom shelf. She reached for it, and a mouse skittered out and across the dirt floor. Sally Sue jumped back with a scream and grabbed the broom. She shouldn’t be afraid of a little mouse.

  Cliff came running in. “What is it?”

  She stood up with the nest in hand. “Just a little mouse is all.” She kept her voice even; leaned over to make sure there weren’t any more; and checked the flour, cornstarch, and other supplies.

  “That’s to be expected.” He opened all the cupboard doors, and together they took everything out. “Fortunately, no more droppings here. I’ll see what we’ve got in the barn to take care of it,” he said.

  She swept up the droppings from the floor, poured water and soap flakes in a bowl, dunked a rag, and cleaned out the cupboard.

  Cliff carried a small bottle inside, pulled out the cork, and shook some powder along the bottom of the cupboard. “This should do the trick. A little bit goes a long way.”

  “Let’s hope so,” Sally Sue said.

  He put the bottle on the cupboard’s top shelf and climbed up to finish cleaning the chandelier.

  “I’ll do that.” Sally Sue reached out to pull him back but quickly felt her face turn red and sat down.

  “No, I’ll do it. I don’t want you falling and breaking a leg. Then you’d be no help to me.”

  She couldn’t help but laugh. She knew she wasn’t much help to him anyway.