by Jill G. Hall
Scout must be hungry. She climbed the loft, forked down hay, and brushed his hair until it shone. She struggled to get the bit into his mouth and had to use all her muscles to heft the saddle onto his back. She hopped on him and kept at it until she mastered mounting him and riding around the pen.
The next day, she gathered her courage and rode him out onto the meadow. She practiced shooting her gun. She rolled up the hooked rug, laid it on a fence railing, and beat it clean. Opening the trunk, she pulled out the green satin. She thought about the saloon girl’s outfit and began to dream about what she could make with the fabric and how it would feel on her skin. She wrote poetry and ate leftovers for supper. By nightfall, Cliff still hadn’t returned.
He didn’t return and didn’t return. Determined to shoot as well as Annie Oakley, she practiced for hours, breaking many bottles. She rode daily until her body merged with Scout’s rhythms while he trotted, loped, and galloped. After the fifth day, she could have easily kept going, but didn’t. She had to wait to make sure Cliff returned safely.
Nights were lonely and dark. It was now too warm to make a fire, so she lit the lantern and wrote more poems.
One night she took out the green fabric again, held it up to her body, and considered her options in the mirror. There wasn’t nearly enough to make a dress or a top and skirt. Instead, she devised a design that just might suffice, cut the material, and started sewing a sort of frock.
She had another poem dashing through her head but had run out of stationery. She grabbed her Bible and turned to the 23rd Psalm—her favorite. She dipped her pen in ink, and from her heart to her hand, words spilled onto the Bible’s margin.
Where are you?
Sunset blushes
mountainside
deep pink.
Where are you?
Stars dot dark
velvet sky,
silver sliver
moon rocks like
an empty cradle.
Where are you?
Crickets sing to
welcome night,
owl calls echo,
a coyote wails,
loneliness hovers.
Free to finally go,
but do I want to, though?
39
After Labor Day three weeks later, the first day of residency arrived. Now that Anne was in her second trimester, her belly bulged, but, fortunately, the nausea had passed. To greet museum guests, she should dress more professionally. She opened the closet door and smiled. Maybe she should let out the back strings on the corset and wear that. She donned soon-to-be-too-tight pants and a tentlike top. She folded an old blue dress shirt of Sergio’s she’d brought back from New York into her backpack, brushed her hair, and pulled it back with a headband.
Her phone pinged with a text from him—Bigfoot, good luck today!—along with a gif of a cool Obama in sunglasses that said, You got this! He really knew how to make her smile.
Since the finance-jar incident, he’d checked in daily and sent presents that totally made up for that denigration—sweet gifts like a 100,000 Baby Names book, a rattle charm for her bracelet, and fuzzy slippers that she loved. Her favorite, though, was the miniature fedora just like Sergio’s own. The card had said, Because it’s gonna be a boy.
Even though they weren’t back together, she was lucky her baby would have such a thoughtful father. She didn’t argue with him, even though she was certain it was a girl. The eighteen-week sonogram appointment wasn’t for another three weeks, and Anne couldn’t wait to confirm her sex.
With a sigh, she reread the e-mail Priscilla had sent over the night before: Shared Residency Guidelines from Dr. Priscilla Preston. Oh, for Pete’s sake.
1. Anne will be on the right side and Karl on the left.
2. Arrive thirty minutes before museum opens.
3. Assist each other as needed.
4. Materials are to be kept in an orderly fashion.
That last one was such a dig. Why was Priscilla so horrible to her? Even though at first the discipline plan had been hard to establish, the Saturday group was humming along nicely. Even the twins were behaving. Plus the kiddos seemed happy, and their skills were improving. As much joy as their progress brought Anne, nothing seemed to impress Priscilla.
Just the other day, she’d come in to observe, clipboard in hand and scowl on her face. Spa music was playing. All students were on task, adorning cigar boxes. Anne called them “gawdy boxes” because every inch was extravagantly covered with found objects. The kids and even their parents said this was one of the best projects ever. Still, Priscilla left a note saying the room was a messy disgrace. Hello lady, that was how creativity was done. Clearly, Priscilla had never created anything of substance in her life.
Anne put on her wingtips, tossed on a sweater, picked up her backpack, and ran down the stairs. She certainly couldn’t be late today. She hoped all would go well. At least the fall sky was clear.
She hiked down California Street with her hands on her stomach. She needed to make a firm plan for the future. Come mid-January, her responsibilities would shift. She could barely take care of herself, and the thought of taking care of a baby, too, overwhelmed her.
She didn’t know how much longer she’d be able to hide her pregnancy from the museum staff. Firing her or taking away the residency was probably illegal, but even so, Priscilla would look for any excuse to disparage her.
And how would she ever pay for day care? If she moved to New York, Sergio would take care of them. And if she moved home to Michigan, her family would help. Neither of these options appealed to her. But her apartment was so small. Maybe she should let Sergio buy a San Francisco condo where they could all live. But they weren’t together anymore.
Their chemistry made it impossible for her to resist him, and if he started seeing someone else in front of her, she would be devastated. Worse yet, she couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have him in the next bedroom, doing it with another woman while she and the baby were trying to sleep.
And what kind of mother would she be? Her mom had loved her unconditionally. But would Anne have that kind of devotion and patience? Plus, she’d need to make more money. Her Gallery Noir sales were inconsistent. Maybe she should get a second job. But if she worked more hours, when would she have time to be with the baby?
She didn’t want to go back to valet parking or gallery sitting. Maybe after she completed the residency, she could add on another class at the museum. Maybe observers during the residency would like what she was doing and would want to sign up themselves or their children for more classes with her.
But without Priscilla’s blessing, that wasn’t going to happen.
Perhaps Anne should double down and create more pieces to sell. She could find another gallery, but far enough away not to compete with the Noir. If she started an online account, she’d need to manage the site and wrap and ship purchases. Many of her pieces with found objects and trays were fragile and heavy and would cost a fortune to mail. One artist she’d known sold a lot of work on Etsy but didn’t make a profit because of all the costs involved.
So many maybes. How was Anne going to manage it all?
Even though she arrived at the museum in the nick of time, Karl wasn’t there yet. What a relief. She could get her bearings before she had to deal with him.
“Ready, Freddy?” She patted the life-size concrete buck she’d bought on sale at a nursery for twenty-five dollars. When she’d told them what she was going to do with the deer, they had even agreed to deliver it to the museum for free. Still, it hadn’t been easy. It had taken three men with a dolly to get it here. At least the studio was on the ground floor.
Anne put on Sergio’s discarded shirt as an artist smock and rolled up the sleeves. She hoped it would bring her luck and scanned the space, five times bigger than her whole apartment. It would still have been a dream to have even half this much space in which to do her art. She lit a gardenia votive candle, played Enya on her phone, and co
nnected it to the Bluetooth speaker Sergio had recently sent her.
“Hello.” Scruffy in a knit hat, plaid shirt, and unshaven face, Karl rolled in a giant log on a dolly. “Can you help unload this sucker?” The log was as tall as he was.
She wasn’t supposed to lift anything heavy.
“Of course.” Since she didn’t want the museum to find out she was pregnant, she needed to follow Priscilla’s rules and get along with him no matter what. She trudged over, bent her knees and helped him move the log into a metal trash barrel.
“I’ll be right back.” Without even saying thanks, he rolled the dolly out of the studio.
She lined up her art materials on a shelf: chipped plates, old tiles, rags, cutting board, paper bags, hammers. On the floor she put a big bucket, thinset, and a mixing drill.
Karl returned with a chain saw. A frickin’ chain saw! Then he turned on some awful rap full blast on his phone that drowned out Enya.
Anne walked over to his side of the room and pantomimed turning it down, but he shrugged. She returned to her side, opened a paper bag on her cutting board, put a plate inside and broke it with a hammer, and emptied the shards into a box on the counter. She put a tile into the bag and broke it. She put another plate into the bag and broke it.
Karl turned up his music even louder, causing a horrible tinny sound. He donned goggles, plugged in the chain saw, and revved it up. Sparks flew as he cut into the wood, the noise as loud as a helicopter. Sawdust flew across the room into Anne’s hair and sifted into her materials. Dear God, how was this whole arrangement going to work?
Priscilla teetered in on high heels, wearing a leopard-print miniskirt. Her hair had been cut in a punk rock style and was dyed platinum blonde. What a ridiculous transformation. She stared at Karl with a gaga look on her face. What was going on with these two? Did Priscilla have a crush on him or something?
A docent escorted in a group of gallery guests. Priscilla didn’t even notice that they put their hands over their ears and ran out. The cacophony battered Anne’s brain. I will get along with him. I will get along with him. She put her earbuds in, connected them to her phone, and tried to put it in her back pocket, but it wouldn’t go in, so she slid it into a shirt pocket. She turned on some Indian flute music and bashed plates in bags.
She poured thinset into the bucket and poured water on top. She needed to plug in the mixing drill, so she crossed the space where Karl was manhandling the chain saw and motioned that she needed to access the outlet. He ignored her, so she pulled the chain saw cord from its socket and the saw lost power.
He turned off his music and yelled, “What happened?”
Priscilla’s heels clicked on the floor as she walked toward them.
“My project is pretty cool, isn’t it?” Karl asked her.
“Oh, yes.” She shot him a big smile. “It’s the bomb.”
It certainly was as loud as one. Was Priscilla deaf?
“Obviously, sharing the studio isn’t going to work.” Anne kept her voice calm.
“What do you suggest?” Priscilla twirled a pen.
Anne looked out the sliding glass doors. “How about if he works out on the patio?”
“How about if you work out there?” Karl sneered at her.
“That’s a good idea. Anne, move your things outside, and we’ll send guests to you.”
You kidding me? She glared at Karl, stared aghast at Priscilla, and set her eyes on the concrete stag. How was she supposed to move such a heavy object outside on her own?
40
Three weeks later, Anne lay down on the examination table, curled onto her side, and fell asleep. The door opening woke her.
Lori stepped inside. “Hi, Anne. It’s good to see you. How’re you feeling?”
Anne sat up with a yawn. “Pretty good. I’m just so tired all the time.”
The midwife put a hand on Anne’s knee and looked at her with kind eyes. “That’s to be expected. Have you been taking your supplements?”
“Yes.”
“Any more nausea?” Lori wrote in the chart.
“Nope, thank God.”
“Have you had anything to drink in the last twelve hours?”
“Only vodka,” Anne joked.
“Very funny. Ready?”
“Yep.” Anne lay back down. Please be a girl.
“This will be cold.” Lori lifted Anne’s shirt and spread gooey gel on Anne’s stomach. “Now, this won’t hurt, but you might feel some pressure. Ready?”
Anne braced herself. Lori began to move the wand over the bump. It didn’t hurt, but it was cold.
Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump. The heartbeat was loud and clear. There really was a baby in there. “Sounds like it’s playing the drum solo for the long version of ‘In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida.’”
“Haven’t heard that one before.” Lori laughed as she continued to move the wand and turned the screen so Anne could see it. “Congratulations. You have a big, healthy baby in there.”
Such a surreal feeling to see in black and white something growing inside her, an actual human, sucking its thumb and wiggling, that she couldn’t even sense. Anne had already loved her so much, but seeing the ultrasound intensified those feelings and she started to weep. “I’m sorry.”
“Nothing to be sorry for.” Lori handed her a tissue. “Most women cry seeing their baby for the first time.”
Anne blew her nose and stared at the image. “What’s the verdict? Is it a boy or a girl?”
“It appears to be a girl.” Lori pointed at the screen.
A girl! Anne felt as if she were riding in a hot-air balloon up in a big blue sky. No, a pink sunset.
“It’s a pretty clear view, but you never know for sure.”
“Soon you’ll start to feel her kick. I recommend you count the flutterings,” Lori added. She gave Anne a pamphlet with information on how to do so. “Take care of yourself and the baby. Keep your stress to a minimum.”
Lori printed a picture and handed it to Anne. “Check in at the desk as you leave to schedule your next appointment. Keep up the good work.”
Once she was outside, Anne looked at the ultrasound photo and beamed. At home, she made a copy of it, a blurry image of the baby inside a cave, and sat at the kitchenette table. She ripped out magazine pages to make a collage for Sergio. She would surprise him with it when he came to visit next week.
Her phone buzzed.
“How was the appointment? Did you find out the baby’s sex?”
Anne had planned to surprise her mom with a collage too, but she couldn’t help herself. “It’s a girl!”
“That’s wonderful. I’m so happy.” Her mom’s voice broke.
“Me too.” Anne reached for a tissue.
“Has she started to kick?”
“No.”
“Really? Are you sure? By this point in my pregnancy, you were.”
Suddenly terrified, Anne put her hand on her stomach. “I’m sure she will soon. The midwife said it won’t be for a while.”
“Have you thought more about moving here?” her mother asked.
Anne sighed. “Your house is a two-bedroom. There’s not enough space.”
“If you take down the art-making card table, you’ll have plenty of room for the both of you.”
“Where would I do my work, then?”
“I’ll park on the street, and you can use the garage.”
Her mom must not remember Anne had tried that before. With those concrete floors, it was too cold to work in there during winter, even with a space heater.
“I know we don’t have a fancy museum in Oscoda, but you can teach at Crafts and Such on Main Street. I’ll cut back on my Avon parties and help watch the baby for you.”
The idea of being in that small house in that small town made Anne feel claustrophobic. “Mom, that would be such an imposition on you.” Her mother loved those parties.
“Oh, no. I’d love to spend time with my grandbaby.”
Anne finished the call and
cut around a magazine photo of a baby girl with a Pebbles Flintstone hairstyle with a pink bow.
Her phone buzzed with a text from Dottie, her former best friend from college. Annie, I miss you. Can we talk?
Anne’s heart sank. She never wanted to speak to Dottie again. She’d erased Dottie from her life a few years earlier, after she’d flown all the way to New York to celebrate Dottie’s solo art show, only to discover that her friend had completely changed and treated Anne like muck. Ugly tattoos covered Dottie’s body, she wore her hair in a Mohawk, and she lived in a filthy loft apartment. She’d even changed her name and insisted on being called Dorothea. She smoked weed and stayed out all night the night of her opening, even though she knew Anne was waiting for her at the loft.
Dottie texted again: Please FaceTime me.
Maybe she had cancer. What if she died and Anne saw it on Instagram and felt guilty for not replying? She dialed her. “Hi, Dorothea.”
“It’s Dottie again.”
On Anne’s screen, it looked like traces of the old Dottie had come back. Her hair had grown out and was cut in a simple bob, and her nose ring was gone. “Hello, Dottie.”
“I’m so, so, so sorry for the way I treated you. Will you ever be able to forgive me?” Dottie began to cry.
“Are you okay?”
“I am now. I’ve missed you so. Things got out of control, and I ended up in the hospital.”
“What?”
“I OD’d on heroin.” Dottie reached for a tissue.
“Oh.” Anne put her hand on her chest. She’d been afraid something horrible might happen to her friend. Maybe if she’d told Dottie her concerns when she’d been there, that wouldn’t have happened, or perhaps she should have contacted Dottie’s parents about doing an intervention.
“I could have died. My parents took me home and put me in rehab. They’ve forgiven my meanness. Will you?”
“Of course.” Anne wished her friend was there so she could hold her.
“I love you.” Dottie blew her a kiss, like they used to do in college.
“I love you too.”