Valentine

by Elizabeth Wetmore

  In my twenty-six years of living, I only have been out of Texas twice. The first time, Robert and I drove up to Ruidoso for our honeymoon. It feels like three lifetimes ago—I was seventeen years old and three months pregnant with Aimee—but I can still close my eyes and call to mind the Sierra Blanca peak standing guard over that little town. I can still breathe in long and slow and remember the pine trees, how their sharp, stinging odor grew stronger when I folded a handful of needles in half and squeezed them in my hand.

  We returned home three days later after a stop to see Fort Stanton, and for the first time in my life I noticed the way the air smelled in Odessa, something between a gas station and a trash can full of rotting eggs. You never smell it when you grow up here, I guess.

  The only other time I smelled those trees was two years ago, when I told Robert that Aimee and I were driving up to Carlsbad for three days to visit an elderly second cousin he didn’t even know I had. We left town to the news on the radio that nine people in Denver City had died from a hydrogen sulfide leak.

  What’s hydrogen sulfide, Aimee wanted to know, and I told her I had no idea. Who’s the Skid Row Slasher? she asked. What’s the IRA? I changed the channel to the college radio station, and we listened to Joe Ely and the Flatlanders. When we reached Carlsbad, I kept driving.

  Aimee—I looked in the rearview mirror at a pickup truck that had been tailgating us for the last five miles and eased my foot off the accelerator—how about you and me go to Albuquerque?

  Aimee looked up from her Etch A Sketch and frowned. How come?

  I don’t know, see someplace new? I hear there’s a brand-new Holiday Inn downtown that’s got an indoor pool and a pinball arcade. Maybe we’ll drive up to the mountains and see the Ponderosa pines.

  Can I have a souvenir?

  No souvenirs this time, just memories. The words stuck in my throat and I eased toward the shoulder to give the truck as much room as possible. When the son of a bitch finally passed, he pulled up right next to me and laid on the horn and I nearly pissed myself. Eight years earlier, I would have given him the finger. Now, with my child sitting in the front seat next to me, I gritted my teeth and smiled.

  People who live in Odessa like to tell strangers that we live two hundred miles from anywhere, but Amarillo and Dallas are at least three hundred miles away, El Paso is in a different time zone, and Houston and Austin might as well be on a different planet. Anywhere is Lubbock, and on a good day, it is a two-hour drive. If the sand is blowing or there’s a grass fire or you stop for lunch at the Dairy Queen in Seminole, it could take you all afternoon. And the distance from Odessa to Albuquerque? Four hundred and thirty seven miles, a little more than seven hours if you don’t get caught in the speed trap outside Roswell.

  We had just enough time for a cheeseburger and a quick swim in the pool before bed. While Aimee was in the bathtub, I called Robert to let him know we were safe and sound in Carlsbad and my old cousin was still full of piss and vinegar. He grunted and said something about the difficulties of reheating the King Ranch casserole I had left thawing on the kitchen counter. Cover it with aluminum foil, I said, and put it in the oven. After we hung up, I sat on the bed and looked at the receiver. I was ten weeks pregnant and just the thought of another baby made me want to hang myself in the barn. Robert wanted a son, maybe even two of them, but Aimee was enough for me. I’d been thinking about trying to get my GED, maybe take some classes at Odessa College.

  Three miles from our hotel, on a street lined with adobe houses, in a red-brick and cinder-block building so nondescript that it might have housed anything from a bearing supply company to an accountant’s office, there was a women’s clinic. It had a front door made of heavy glass and there were no windows. The parking lot could accommodate no more than a dozen cars and pickup trucks, and behind the building, completely exposed to the sun, there was a picnic table with two wooden benches and several overflowing glass ashtrays. We sat down at the table, and I explained to Aimee that she was going to stay in the waiting room while I spoke with a man about building us some new furniture for our front porch, which was the least interesting subject I could dream up. My appointment was at 10:00, but we lingered in the sun until a few minutes past the hour. There was no doubt in my mind about what I was doing, but I was loath to move off that bench. Look at that pickup truck with a rooster painted on the side, I said. Do you smell meat cooking? Is that little old lady walking a pig? When Aimee said she needed to pee, we went inside.

  This is legal, I kept telling myself, has been for nearly two years. But it was hard to feel that way with a pack of lies, four hundred miles, and a state line under my belt. I stepped up to the window and spoke as quietly as I could, all while sliding three hundred dollars that I had taken out of my private savings account across the counter. I might have been buying cocaine, I was so covert.

  The receptionist smiled and slipped the money into a drawer. She handed me a clipboard and looked over my shoulder at Aimee. Mrs. Whitehead, who is driving you home after the procedure?

  No one, I said. I am driving myself.

  You need somebody who can drive you home. You have somebody?

  I drove up from Texas.

  Ah, I see. She paused and began chewing lightly on her fingernail. Are you spending the night here in town?

  We’re at the Holiday Inn, I said, keeping my voice low.

  The new one that’s downtown? She smiled, speaking a bit more quietly, and I nodded.

  Okay, good, she said. Some women try to drive all the way home, and that can cause some complications. You’re lucky, she said. You’ll be in for about two hours.

  Two hours! I looked back at my daughter, who was sitting on a chair with a bag of potato chips and her Nancy Drew book. The woman reached across the counter and touched my hand. This happens all the time. We’ll keep an eye on her.

  I stood there blinking hard and trying to bring the woman’s hand into focus. Her fingernails were painted the color of pink tea roses and she wore a plain gold band on her left ring finger. Thank you, I said. Her name is Aimee.

  To my daughter, I smiled brightly. I’ll be back in a jiffy.

  Don’t worry, the woman called as I pushed open a swinging door and nearly walked into another woman, a patient, standing just on the other side. We’re going to have a fine time! Would you like an ice-cold Dr Pepper, she asked my daughter.

  Yes, ma’am, Aimee said. Have fun with the furniture man, Mama.

  We stopped at Whataburger on our way back to the Holiday Inn. Aimee watched cartoons while I threw up in the bathroom and waited for the cramping to pass. That hamburger didn’t agree with me, I said when she knocked on the bathroom door. Just give me a few minutes.

  That afternoon, she swam and played the pinball machines while I sat on a lounge chair and drank a couple of salty dogs. Early the next morning we headed up to the Sandia Mountains to smell the pine trees. Piñon, spruce, fir, juniper—I closed my eyes and imagined us living in a small wooden cottage deep in a forest full of creatures without intent or malice, a place where you might get hurt, but not because anything meant to harm you.

  Between stopping every hour at a filling station so I could change my pads—and twice more so Aimee could throw up some of the candy I let her eat at the hotel—we didn’t get home until nearly midnight. To my daughter, I said: I won’t ever ask you to keep anything from your daddy unless it’s really important, and this is really important. To my husband, I said: I have a bad yeast infection. Don’t touch me for a while. Four months later I was pregnant again, and this time, hardly believing my own stupidity, I decided to have the baby.

  When I was a little girl, time really did seem to fly. Summer days, I’d get on my bike after breakfast and in three beats of my heart, it was time for supper. Now I look at the kitchen clock and can hardly believe how early in the day it still is. It is not even ten o’clock and I have nursed the baby three times since he woke up at six. My right breast aches a little, and when I touch my
nipple it feels hot and hard. While the baby quietly fusses in his crib, Aimee jumps up and down on her bed yelling, I am bored, day in and day out. I am bored!

  It is the third day of summer vacation.

  When the phone rings, I almost jump out of my own skin, but it’s only Keith Taylor’s secretary. There’s been some trouble with Gloria’s mother, she tells me, but they are hoping Gloria will still be able to testify. When I ask what the trouble is, she won’t say. When I ask if I can see Gloria, maybe talk to her and see how she’s doing, Amelia is silent for a few seconds. How are you doing, Mary Rose?

  Oh I’m fine, I say brightly. Don’t worry about me!

  I want to tell her that my kids are safe here in town, in this house. Men call me at all hours of the day and night, and some women too, but every nasty thing they say is about them and not about me. I have my old rifle at home, and a new pistol in the glove box of my car. Instead, I thank the good lady for her call and say my goodbyes.

  On the floor in front of the washing machine, the laundry is breeding like a coterie of prairie dogs. We are out of milk and eggs, and I have promised the Ladies Guild at our new church that I will be at their meeting later today. The baby screams like he’s just been stung by a yellow jacket, and then, as if on cue, Aimee falls off the bed and hits her head against the dresser. A howl rises up from the bedroom. A goose egg is already starting to form on her forehead, but mostly she is pissed off that I won’t let her out of the house alone, not even for a minute.

  In the weeks immediately after Dale Strickland raped Gloria Ramírez, people gathered in fellowship halls, bars, and break rooms. They stood in their front yards and lingered in the aisles at the grocery store. They held court in the parking lot at the cafeteria, and distracted football devotees at the practice field. I listened to it all. The rest I got from the radio or newspaper.

  Strickland’s mama and daddy are back home in Magnolia, Arkansas, and if you believe the local paper and some of the more vocal citizens in town, he’s a good kid. According to Pastor Rob on his usual Sunday broadcast, he had never received so much as a speeding ticket. If he ever missed a day of football practice or church, nobody in his town could remember it, and he had always been one hundred percent respectful to the local girls. His father, a Pentecostal preacher, had mailed letters and testimonials from members of his congregation to the DA’s office testifying to the quality of his son’s character. Rumor had it that Keith Taylor brought an extra card table into his office, just to have a place to put them all.

  An editorial writer noted that the accused had, on the night in question, been awake for two straight days after taking some amphetamine tablets his foreman had given him, a common practice in the oil fields, and while nobody condoned drug use—people were still talking about Art Linkletter’s daughter—the pace of work in the oil patch sometimes called for men to push themselves in unhealthy ways. Men are fighting out there, the writer noted, fighting to pull that petroleum out of the earth before the ground caves in around a well, fighting OPEC prices and Arabs. In a way, you could say they were even fighting for America.

  One week later, there were two letters to the editor on the subject. The Reverend and Mrs. Paul Donnelly of First Methodist wrote of their sorrow and disgust at the way this was being handled, both in the newspaper and in town. They prayed we would all do better and they asked, What if this had been your daughter?

  In the second letter, a fine, upstanding citizen reminded all of us that the alleged victim was a fourteen-year-old Mexican girl who had been hanging around the drive-in by herself on a Saturday night. Witnesses swore the girl had climbed willingly into that boy’s truck. Nobody held a gun to her head. We ought to think about that, this person wrote, before we ruin a boy’s life. Innocent until proven guilty. At that, I had thrown the newspaper across the kitchen, a wholly unsatisfying gesture since the pages traveled about two feet and then fell to the linoleum with a sad little rustle.

  In the weeks after we moved into town, in the parking lot at Furr’s Cafeteria, on the telephone with Aimee’s school, and in line at the DMV while I waited to have the address changed on my driver’s license, I found myself saying, I beg your pardon? Or, I’m sorry but I don’t think that is true at all. Mrs. Bobby Ray Price wanted to chat about what she called this ugly business while we waited together in the Piggly Wiggly checkout line. Aimee was whining for some new candy she said was going to explode in her mouth. I listened to Mrs. Price talk for a few seconds and shook my head. Bullshit, I was thinking. But I didn’t say anything.

  By noon, we have iced Aimee’s goose egg and gone outside for some air. While I stand in the front yard with the baby asleep in my arms, Aimee sulks and draws numbers on the sidewalk with a stick of chalk. The baby sighs and paws at my right breast, but the pain is sudden and stark, so I shift him to the other side, thankful when he settles down and stays asleep. We see Suzanne Ledbetter first. She wears a pair of thin white sandals and white shorts that fall to the middle of her thighs. A straw tote bag is slung over her bare shoulder, and a sleeveless white blouse shows off her red hair and pale, freckled shoulders. She looks like she got a shower this morning, I think wistfully. When Suzanne spots Aimee and me, she waves and pats her tote bag. Ding Dong, Avon calling!

  Mrs. Nunally pulls up in her old Chevy and joins us. Depending on which job she is going to, Mrs. Nunally usually wears a smock or an apron over her clothes, but today she wears a long black skirt and a light green blouse with sleeves that fall to her narrow wrist. A small name tag is pinned just above her left breast. She is on her way to Beall’s department store, where she works two afternoons a week. Mrs. Shepard told me that Mrs. Nunally stopped putting on makeup when she became an Adventist, but today she wears pale-pink lipstick and eye shadow that matches her blouse.

  Well, look at you, Suzanne tells her. You look real pretty.

  Goodness, Mrs. Nunally says, look at that baby’s hands. That’s a football player. The two women hover over the baby for a few seconds, making goo-goo eyes and blowing kisses. Suzanne plucks him from my arms and pulls him to her chest. Eyes closed, she sways back and forth for a few seconds before gently handing him to me. I think of my burning nipple and sleepless nights, and for a few seconds, I think about giving him back to her. Hang on, I would like to say. I’ll go fetch his diaper bag.

  Where’s Lauralee? Aimee whines from the sidewalk, where she has been drawing a hopscotch board in a desultory way.

  Swim lessons, Suzanne says. I’m picking her up in a little while to take her to dance school.

  Mrs. Shepard stands in her front yard holding a water hose that is not turned on.

  Is she okay? I ask Mrs. Nunally.

  Suzanne leans in and lowers her voice. I heard Potter killed himself.

  What? I say. Oh my God, no. It was a hunting accident. The baby sighs in his sleep and tries again to nuzzle, but the pain radiates from my nipple to my arm and I shift him to the other side.

  Potter never hunted a day in his life, Suzanne says. That man couldn’t shoot an animal if he was starving to death.

  Mrs. Nunally purses her lips and frowns a bit. I hope that’s not true, she says, for both their sakes.

  When Mrs. Shepard starts across the street with her mason jar full of iced tea, Ginny’s girl appears from behind a long hedge that runs along the front of Mrs. Shepard’s house.

  Debra Ann and Aimee stand in the front yard sizing each other up for a minute or two, then Debra Ann, who has scratched a mosquito bite so much her arm is bleeding, asks if Aimee wants to go ride bikes with her. No, I say. Y’all stay right here in the yard, please.

  Oh, hell, Mrs. Shepard says. They’ll be fine.

  No, I say sharply. Mrs. Shepard takes a long sip of iced tea and smacks her lips.

  I have already thanked Suzanne for the casserole and Mrs. Nunally for the lemon cake. Now I thank Mrs. Shepard for her casserole, which, I noticed as I scraped it into the trash, still has a sticker with Suzanne’s name on it.

&nbs
p; Oh, it’s my pleasure, honey. Ladies, she tells us, I know a little gal who’s looking for some babysitting jobs. She feels around in her pocket and pulls out three slips of paper, handing one to each of us. Here’s her phone number. Karla Sibley. I highly recommend her.

  Suzanne looks at the piece of paper and frowns. And from where do you know this girl?

  Church, Mrs. Shepard says without hesitation.

  Oh? Suzanne says. Have you returned to church, Corrine?

  I sure have, Suzanne! It’s such a comfort, since Potter’s accident.

  I see. Suzanne narrows her eyes and shifts her tote bag to the other shoulder. Well, we are all praying for you at Crescent Park Baptist.

  Bless your hearts, Mrs. Shepard says.

  Mrs. Nunally frowns and turns toward Suzanne. How are you feeling?

  The pregnancy didn’t take, she says, her cheeks flushing red. But I’m fine! We’ll try again in a few months.

  Oh no, Mrs. Nunally says.

  You have lots of time, says Mrs. Shepard. You are only twenty-six years old.

  Thank you, Corrine, but I’m thirty-four.

  Really? Because you don’t look a day over twenty-six—Mrs. Shepard pauses and glances at Mrs. Nunally—Do y’all mind if I smoke?

  I’m sorry, I say to Suzanne.

  Don’t be sorry, she says. I have a beautiful, talented, and smart daughter. And look here, at what else I have! She reaches into her tote bag and pulls out a handful of Avon samples—perfume and face cream, eye shadows, even tiny lipsticks—and hands them to us.

  Mrs. Shepard passes hers to Mrs. Nunally without looking at it and pulls a cigarette from the pocket of her blouse. When she exhales, the smell is so warm and rich that I want to pluck it from between her fingers and suck with all my might.

  Are you still preparing for the trial? she asks me.

  Yes, I am. I shift the baby again from one side to the other and glance over at Aimee. She and Debra Ann are sitting under the dead tree, talking intensely and looking over at us from time to time.

  Suzanne leans forward a bit and swats at the cigarette smoke. I’ve heard that the girl’s uncle is attempting to blackmail Mr. Strickland’s family.