And then there was this other group. These people did not seem to be broke, but they wore the kinds of clothes Mama's big-house ladies used to give away but you would rather go naked than wear to school. Poodle skirts and things of that kind. Standing in line at the lunch counters and coffeeshops they would rub the backs of each other's necks and say, "You're holding a lot of tension here." They mainly didn't live downtown but had studios and galleries in empty storefronts that had once been J. C. Penney's and so forth. Some of these still had the old signs on the faces of the brick buildings.
Which is to say that at first I had no idea what was going on in those storefronts. One of them that I passed by nearly every day had these two amazing things in the front window. It looked like cherry bombs blowing up in boxes of wet sand, and the whole thing just frozen mid-kaboom. Curiosity finally got the better of me and I walked right in. I knew this was no Woolworth's.
Inside there were more of these things, one of them taller than me and kind of bush-shaped, all made of frozen sand. A woman was writing something on a card under one of the sand things that was hanging on the back wall, kind of exploding out of a metal frame. The woman had on a pink sweater, white ankle socks, pink high heels, and these tight pants made out of the skin of a pink silk leopard. She came over with her clipboard and kind of eyed Turtle's hands, which were sticky I'll admit, but a good two feet clear of the sand bush.
"This is terrific," I said. "What's it supposed to be?"
"It's non-representational," she said, looking at me like I was some kind of bug she'd just found in her bathroom.
"Excuse me for living," I said. She was about my age, no more than twenty-five anyway, and had no reason I could see for being so snooty. I remembered this rhyme Mama taught me to say to kids who acted like they were better than me: "You must come from Hog-Norton, where pigs go to church and play the organ."
The thing was sitting on a square base covered with brown burlap, and a little white card attached said BISBEE DOG #6. I didn't see the connection, but I acted like I was totally satisfied with that. "Bisbee Dog #6," I said. "That's all I wanted to know."
Turtle and I went all around checking out the ones on the walls. Most of them were called something relief: ASCENDANT RELIEF, ENDOGENOUS RELIEF, MOTIVE RELIEF, GALVANIC RELIEF. After a while I realized that the little white cards had numbers on them too. Numbers like $400. "Comic Relief," I said to Turtle. "This one is Instant Relief," I said. "See, it's an Alka-Seltzer, frozen between the plop and the fizz."
On some days, like that one, I was starting to go a little bit crazy. This is how it is when all the money you have can fit in one pocket, and you have no job, and no prospects. The main thing people did for money around there was to give plasma, but I drew the line. "Blood is the body's largest organ," I could just hear Eddie Ricketts saying, and I wasn't inclined to start selling my organs while I was still alive. I did inquire there about work, but the head man in a white coat and puckery white loafers looked me over and said, "Are you a licensed phlebotomist in the state of Arizona?" in this tone of voice like who was I to think I could be on the end of the needle that doesn't hurt, and that was the end of that.
Down the block from the plasma center was a place called Burger Derby. The kids who worked there wore red caps, red-and-white-striped shirts, and what looked like red plastic shorts. One of them, whose name tag said, "Hi I'm Sandi," also wore tiny horse earrings, but that couldn't have been part of the uniform. They couldn't make you pierce your ears; that would have to be against some law.
Sandi usually worked the morning shift alone, and we got to know each other. My room in the Republic had a hot plate for warming cans of soup, but sometimes I ate out just for the company. The Burger Derby was safe. No one there was likely to ask you where you were holding your tension.
Sandi turned out to be horse-crazy. When she found out I was from Kentucky she treated me like I had personally won the Derby. "You are so lucky," she said. "My absolute dream is to have a horse of my own, and braid flowers in its mane and prance around in a ring and win ribbons and stuff." She had this idea that everyone in Kentucky owned at least one Thoroughbred, and it took me some time to convince her that I had never even been close enough to a horse to get kicked.
"In the part of Kentucky I come from people don't own Thoroughbreds," I told her. "They just wish they could live like one." The Thoroughbreds had their own swimming pools. My whole county didn't even have a swimming pool. I told her what a hoot we all thought it was when these rich guys paid six million for Secretariat after his running days were over, since he was supposedly the most valuable stud on the face of the earth, and then he turned out to be a reticent breeder, which is a fancy way of saying homosexual. He wouldn't go near a filly for all the sugar in Hawaii.
Sandi acted kind of shocked to hear this news about Secretariat's sex life.
"Didn't you know that? I'm sure that made the national news."
"No!" she said, scouring the steam table like a fiend. She kept looking around to see if anyone else was in the restaurant, but no one was, I'm sure. I always went there around ten-thirty, which is a weird time of day to eat a hot dog, but I was trying to get Turtle and me onto two meals a day.
"What's it like to work here?" I asked her. There had been a HELP WANTED sign in the window for going on two weeks.
"Oh, it's fantastic," she said.
I'll bet, I thought. Serving up Triple Crown Chili Dogs and You Bet Your Burgers and chasing off drunks and broke people who went around the tables eating nondairy creamer straight out of the packets would be fantastic. She looked about fourteen.
"You should apply for it, really. They couldn't turn you down, being from Kentucky."
"Sure," I said. What did she think, that I was genetically programmed to fry chicken? "What's it pay?"
"Three twenty-five an hour. Plus your meals."
"What am I even talking about? I've got this kid," I said. "I'd have to pay somebody more than that to take care of her."
"Oh no! You could just do what I do, take her to Kid Central Station."
"You've got a kid?"
"Yeah, a little boy. Twenty-one months."
I had thought Pittman was the only place on earth where people started having babies before they learned their multiplication tables. I asked her what Kid Central Station was.
"It's free. See, it's this place in the mall where they'll look after your kids while you shop, but how do they know? See what I mean? The only thing is you have to go and check in every two hours, to prove you're still shopping, so I just dash over there on my breaks. The number five bus just goes right straight there. Or I'll get some friend to go. The people that work there don't know the difference. I mean, they've got these jillion kids crawling all over the place, how are they going to know if somebody's really one of 'em's mother?"
Sandi was sliding the little white buckets of cauliflower and shredded carrots and garbanzo beans into the holes in the salad bar, getting ready for the lunch crowd. For some odd reason they had artificial grapes strewed out over the ice all around the buckets.
"I'll go check it out," I said, although I already had a good notion of what it would be like.
"If you're going right now, could you check in for my little boy? His name's Seattle. I'm sure he's the only one there named Seattle. Just make sure he's okay, will you?"
"Like Seattle, Washington?"
"No, like Seattle Slew, the racehorse. He's a little towhead, you can't miss him, he looks just like me only his hair's blonder. Oh, they have a requirement that they have to be able to walk. Can your daughter walk?"
"Sure she walks. When there's someplace she wants to go."
A celery stick fell out of the bucket onto the floor, and Sandi swiped it up and took a bite. "Well, I couldn't very well let a customer eat it," she said.
"Don't look at me," I said. "It's no skin off my teeth if you want to eat the whole bucket of celery, and the artificial grapes besides. For three twenty-five an
hour I think you're entitled."
She munched kind of thoughtfully for a minute. Her eyelashes were stuck together with blue mascara and sprung out all around her eyes like flower petals. "You know, your little girl doesn't look a thing like you," she said. "I mean, no offense, she's cute as a button."
"She's not really mine," I said. "She's just somebody I got stuck with."
Sandi looked at both of us, her elbow cocked on her hip and the salad tongs frozen in midair. "Yeah, I know exactly what you mean."
FOUR
Tug Fork Water
Lou Ann's Grandmother Logan and Lou Ann's new baby were both asleep in the front room with the curtains drawn against the afternoon heat. For the last two weeks Granny Logan had stomped around the house snapping the curtains shut just as fast as Lou Ann could open them, until finally Lou Ann gave up the effort and they all moved around in the gloom of a dimly lit house. "You'd think somebody had died, instead of just being born," Lou Ann complained, but the old woman declared that the heat was unnatural for January and would cause the baby to grow up measly and unwholesome.
When she woke up, Granny Logan would deny she had been sleeping. She had said she only needed to rest her eyes for the trip back to Kentucky, three days on the Greyhound.
In the kitchen Ivy Logan and Lou Ann were packing a paper bag with baloney sandwiches and yellow apples and a Mason jar of cold tea. Ivy's heavy arms and apron-covered front moved around like she was the boss, even in her daughter's unfamiliar kitchen. Under her breath she hummed one line of a hymn, "All our sins and griefs to bear," over and over until Lou Ann thought she would scream. It was an old habit.
Lou Ann pushed her damp blond hair back from her face and told her mother she wished she would stay a few days more. Whenever Ivy looked at her Lou Ann could feel the tired half-moons under her own eyes.
"You haven't hardly had time to say boo to Angel. He'll have Tuesday off and we could take the truck and all go someplace. We could all fit in some way. Or otherwise I could stay here with Dwayne Ray, and you all go. It's a shame for you to come all this way from home and not see what you can see."
Surprisingly, Angel had agreed to move back in until after her mother and grandmother's visit. He might be hard to talk to and unreasonable in every other way but at least, Lou Ann realized, he knew the power of mothers and grandmothers. If Granny Logan had known they were getting a divorce she would have had an apoplectic. At the very least, she and Ivy would insist that Lou Ann come back home.
"Oh, honey, we seen plenty from the bus," Ivy said. "Them old big cactus and every kind of thing. Lordy, and them big buildings downtown, all glass it looked to me like. I expect we'll see a good sight more on the way home."
"I guess, but it seems like we haven't done a thing since you got here but set around and look at the baby."
"Well, that's what we come for, honey. Now we've done helped you have him, and get settled with him, and we're anxious to get on home. The heat puts Mother Logan in a mood."
"I know it." Lou Ann breathed in slowly through her nose. She was beginning to believe that the hot, dry air in her chest might be the poison her grandmother claimed it to be. "I wish I could have put you up better than we did," she said.
"You put us up just fine. You know her, it wouldn't make no difference if it was the Queen a Sheba a-putting us up, she'd be crosspatch. She just don't sleep good out of her own bed." Ivy untied the borrowed apron and smoothed down the front of her navy-blue dress. Lou Ann remembered the dress from about a hundred church potluck suppers. Just the sight of it made her feel stuffed with potato-chip casseroles and Coca-Cola cake.
"Mama," she said, and then started over because her voice was too low to hear. "Mama, when Daddy was alive..." She was not sure what she meant to ask. Did you talk to each other? Was he the person you saved things up to say to, or was it like now? A houseful of women for everything, for company. Ivy was not looking at her daughter but her hands were still, for once. "Did Granny Logan always live with you, from the beginning?"
Ivy peered into the brown bag and then rolled the top down tightly. "Not her with us. We lived with her."
"Is that how you wanted it?" Lou Ann felt embarrassed.
"I guess I always thought it would have been something to go off on our own, like you done. But there was so much work in them days, no time for fun, and besides I'd of been scared to death out someplace all by myself."
"It wouldn't be all by yourself. You would have been with Daddy."
"I s'pose," Ivy said. "But we didn't think about it that way." She turned back to the sink to wash her hands, then pulled the dish towel down from the wooden ring over the sink, refolded it, and hung it back up. "I want you to run on in there now and tell Mother Logan we've got to get ready to go."
Ivy and her mother-in-law were not speaking, on account of one thing or another. Lou Ann could never keep track. She wondered what the trip would be like for them, all those days and nights on the Greyhound. But they were sure to find some way of having a conversation. In the past, in times of necessity, she had seen her mother and grandmother address one another through perfect strangers.
"Granny Logan." Lou Ann put her hand gently on the old woman's shoulder, feeling the shoulder bones through the dark, slick cloth of her dress. At the same time she opened her eyes the baby started to cry. "You have a nice catnap, Granny?" she asked, hurrying to pick up the baby and bounce him on her hip. She always thought he sounded like he was choking.
"It was just my eyes, needed a rest. I weren't sleeping." She held tightly to the arms of the chair until she knew where she was. "I told you, the heat's done put that baby into a colic. He needs a mustard plaster to draw out the heat."
"Mama says tell you it's time to get your grip packed. She says you all are fixing to leave tonight."
"My grip's done packed."
"All right then. You want a bite of supper before you go?"
"Why don't you come on home with us, honey? You and the baby."
"Me and Angel and the baby, Granny. I've been married now for practically five years, remember?" She felt like such a sneak, letting on as though her marriage was just fine. It was like presenting her mother and grandmother with a pretty Christmas package to take back with them, with nothing but tissue paper inside. She had never lied to them before, that she could remember, but something in her would not let them be right about Angel.
"Angel's got good work at the bottling plant," she told Granny Logan. This, at least, was true. "We like it here."
"I don't see how a body could like no place where it don't rain. Law, I'm parched. Get me a glass of water."
"I'll get it for you in a minute," she said, switching the baby to her other hip, knowing that in a minute Granny Logan would have forgotten her request. "You get used to it. When we first moved out I had sore throats all the time. I was scared to death I'd caught throat cancer like that what's her name on TV. You know, that had to stop singing?" Lou Ann realized Granny Logan wouldn't know NBC from pinto beans. "But I turned out to be fine, of course. And it don't bother him one bit, does it?" She crooked a finger under the baby's chin and looked into the foggy blue eyes. "Dwayne Ray's a Tucson boy, aren't you?"
Lou Ann's baby had not been born on Christmas, or even the day after. He had come early on the morning of January I, just missing First Baby of the Year at St. Joseph's Hospital by about forty-five minutes. Lou Ann later thought that if she had just pushed a little harder she might have gotten the year of free diapers from Bottom Dollar Diaper Service. That was the prize. It would have come in handy now that her washing-machine fund, which was meager enough to begin with, had been parceled out to all the neighborhood kids.
"I don't see how a body can grow no tobaccy if it don't rain," Granny Logan said.
"They don't grow tobacco here. No crops hardly at all, just factories and stuff, and tourists that come down here for the winter. It's real pretty out in the mountains. We could have showed you, if you hadn't had to go back so soon." Th
e baby coughed again and she jiggled him up and down. "And it's not usually this hot in January, either. You heard it yourself, Granny, the man on the radio saying it was the hottest January temperatures on record."
"You talk different. I knowed you was going to put on airs."
"Granny, I do not."
"Don't talk back to me, child, you do. I can hear it.I expect you'll be persuadin' the baby that his people's just ignorant hill folks."
Ivy brought in the bags of food and her suitcase, which was held together with a leather belt. Lou Ann recognized the belt as one she had been whipped with years ago, when her father was alive.
"Honey," Ivy said, "tell Mother Logan not to start in on you again. We've got to git."
"Tell Ivy to mind her business and I'll mind mine. Here, I brung you something for the baby." Granny Logan retrieved her black velvet purse, purpled with age and wear around the clasp, and rummaged through it with slow, swollen knuckles. Lou Ann tried not to watch.
After a minute the old woman produced a Coke bottle filled with cloudy water. The bent metal cap had been pushed back on and covered with cellophane, tied around and around with string.
Lou Ann shifted the baby onto her hip, pushed her hair behind her ear, and took the bottle with her free hand. "What is it?"
"That's Tug Fork water. For baptizing the baby."
The water inside the bottle looked milky and cool. A fine brown sediment stuck to the glass bottom when she tipped it sideways.
"I remember when you was baptized in Tug Fork, you was just a little old bit of a thing. And scared to death. When the reverend went to dunk you over, you hollered right out. Law, I remember that so good."
"That's good, Granny. You remember something I don't." Lou Ann wondered how Granny Logan was picturing a baptism in one bottle of water. Of course, the original plan had been to have Dwayne Ray sprinkled as a Catholic, but Granny would die if she knew that. And everything was up in the air now, anyway, with Angel gone.
"Doll baby, I reckon we're all set," Ivy said. "Oh, I hate to go. Let me hold my grandbaby again. You see he gets enough to eat now, Lou Ann. I always had plenty of milk for you and your brother, but you're not as stout as I was. You never was a stout girl. It's not my fault you wouldn't eat what I put down in front of you." She gave the baby a bounce on her pleated bosom. "Lordy mercy, he'll be all growed up before we see him again, I expect."
The Bean Trees Page 6