Rachel's Blue

by Zakes Mda

  “Blue! My Blue! Where’ve you been?”

  Blue is still in the blue frock as Rachel remembers her. A blue frock, a black cape and a black bonnet.

  She holds her close to her bosom. She had forgotten all about Blue since she went missing a few years back. Just like she forgot all the others who had disappeared. She had mourned, and then moved on. But here’s Blue, she has come back. None of the others did.

  She was four or five when she first got Blue. She had always wanted a Raggedy Ann and had badgered her father for it. One day he – an itinerant musician and teller of tall tales – was travelling through Amish country when he chanced upon a roadside stall covered with different sizes of rag dolls. He bought one for his little girl.

  The first time Rachel saw the doll it freaked her out.

  “It ain’t no Raggedy Ann, Pops,” she had cried.

  “It’s a rag doll, what’s the difference?” asked her father.

  “It ain’t got no eyes or mouth or nose or ears or nothing. It’s creepy.”

  “It ain’t got no face because it’s an Amish doll, baby. Them Amish believe all folk are the same in the eyes of God. So they don’t do no faces on their dolls.”

  This explanation, however, did not comfort Rachel. She couldn’t bring herself even to look at the doll without a face. Until her father drew eyes, a nose and a mouth with a ballpoint pen. Though they were crude, like those one would see on a stick figure drawn by a child, Rachel accepted them, and gradually she learned to love the doll. It became her constant companion.

  As a kid Rachel showered all her love on Blue. All her anger too. When she had tantrums she repeatedly hit the floor with Blue, and Blue took the abuse uncomplainingly. She was made of sturdy stuff. The Amish stitches were tough and Blue did not fall apart.

  After her father died in Operation Desert Storm, Rachel grew even more attached to the doll and held on to it everywhere she went. Even to kindergarten. Though they didn’t allow kids to come with their own toys to school the teacher made a special exception for Rachel and her Blue because “this kid has issues”. As a result she was picked on by bratty kids. When Nana Moira and Rachel’s mom met Rachel at the bus stop she was in tears.

  “They called me a routter,” she cried.

  “What the fuck is routter?” asked her mom, who was not quite sober at that time of the afternoon.

  “That’s what they call hillbilly kids in Athens. After some poor family called the Routters way back in the day,” explained Nana Moira, whose work at the Jensen Community Centre exposed her to all sorts of gossip.

  “This ain’t no hillbilly doll. It’s an Amish doll. They’re too dumb to know the difference,” said Rachel’s mother, glaring at her mother-in-law as if Nana Moira was the originator of the “routter” idea.

  “It ain’t about no doll. It’s about us ’cause we poor,” said Nana Moira.

  That was before Rachel’s mom lost her teeth to meth, and then her mind, and wandered away with a fellow meth-head never to return. The people of the township said it was a result of a broken heart after she lost her husband who had enlisted because, as he said, “The music business ain’t paying no bills and some bad folks are crapping on America in Kuwait.”

  When everyone was gone, Blue was the only one that stayed. There was Nana Moira of course, but she didn’t count that much. She spent the whole day working at the Centre’s Food Pantry, or travelling to Logan to get more food from the food bank. Blue, on the other hand, was always with Rachel. She was not apt to die in a war or disappear in a fog of drugs.

  Although Nana Moira tried to be with Rachel as much as possible, she spent most of her time at the Centre unloading food from the trucks, dividing the cans and vegetables into many equal parcels, and then giving them out to long lines of people who would otherwise not survive without the Food Pantry. Or cooking in the kitchen of the Centre for the senior citizens of the township. Or sewing quilts with the women of the Quilting Circle. Or poring over papers and receipts and vouchers. And all that time Rachel played alone under the long tables, or on the porch, weather permitting, inventing games with Blue.

  It is after nine when Nana Moira hobbles in with a small pot of bean soup.

  “I know you gonna bitch about my driving at night,” she says. “Save your breath already and eat the bean soup.”

  But Rachel is in no mood for a confrontation.

  “Where was she at?” she asks, holding Blue up.

  “In the storeroom. I found her when I was looking for something else.”

  “You knew all the time where she was at?”

  “I forgot where she was at.”

  Nana Moira reminds her that there was a time when Rachel was collecting and piling up stuff. She didn’t want to part with anything, however useless it was, so Nana Moira began to take things away from her as soon as they seemed to accumulate. Empty ice cream containers, plastic spoons and Styrofoam boxes all found their way into the garbage can despite Rachel’s tantrums. That gave Nana Moira the idea about the doll; if she could take away the stuff she could take away the doll too.

  “You was at middle school already, still attached to that raggedy thing. Everyone said it was unnatural, so I hid it away.” Soon Nana Moira forgot in which of the many boxes she had placed the doll.

  Rachel has a vague memory of her hoarding days which are a far cry from who she is today, a woman obsessed with neatness and clean surroundings. She remembers how devastated she was when Blue went missing. Blue was with her when she was a latch-key kid. She had given her comfort and security in times of loneliness and longing. And then all of a sudden Blue was gone. Like all those who left. Fortunately, middle school had become hectic with new friends who did not call her a routter, among them Schuyler who is still her best friend to this day. And lots of social activities. Choral society, drama club, boys, birthday parties, sleepovers, you name it. Blue became a fading memory.

  And now she has returned. The ballpoint-pen eyes, nose and mouth have long faded off and Blue is faceless again. But Rachel is not scared of her any more; Blue is no longer creepy. She tells Nana Moira so, and they both laugh at what a silly kid she was to be spooked by a faceless doll.

  “I hope you ain’t gonna start obsessing on that rag doll again,” says Nana Moira jokingly.

  “Come on, Nana Moira, I’m not a kid any more. She’s just a good keepsake now because Pops bought her for me.”

  Nana Moira is pleased to hear this. When she discovered Blue she debated with herself as to whether she should give the doll back to Rachel or keep it hidden forever or even get rid of it. What if she became fixated again on the darn thing? She decided to take the risk since Rachel is now a woman of twenty-three who has developed other interests. Thankfully, Rachel is confirming that her decision was the right one.

  Some of those “other interests” that she has developed over the years, however, worry Nana Moira. She had hoped that Rachel would go further with her learning after completing high school at eighteen with mostly As and one or two Bs. She would have been the first in the family to go to college. But Rachel was taken up by music; something that runs in the family but that Nana Moira had hoped would by-pass Rachel.

  “This singing thing ain’t working out; you been doing it for five years and it ain’t taking you nowhere,” she nagged Rachel.

  But Rachel had a highly romanticised notion of her father singing and telling tall tales at county fairs. She wanted to be like him or, better still, be a recording star.

  She had an even more romanticised view of her grandpa, Nana Moira’s husband, who people still talk about with nostalgia to this day, more than a decade since he passed on. Nana Moira has inadvertently reinforced that view by narrating with great relish at the slightest provocation the good old days when Robbie was a country and western singer who played a guitar in his own group known as the Jensen Band. He played in dance halls and on social occasions, and Nana Moira and the other young ladies of the township went square-dancing every
weekend in their colourful gingham square-dance dresses and circle skirts. The fifties were crazy years for Moira and Robbie Boucher and for every young couple in Jensen Township. It didn’t matter if it snowed or not, the Jensen Band travelled to dance halls all over the county and even as far as Meigs and Washington counties. On occasion they would stop in the middle of the road and square-dance in the snow.

  But Robbie also played his guitar – sometimes the mandolin or the fiddle – at home for Nana Moira and the kids. It didn’t matter whether there was an audience or not, he sat on the porch and played and hummed and sang and yodelled and field-hollered. Neighbourhood kids often came and joined in sing-alongs until their moms yelled for them because it was already dark and the stars were shining in the sky.

  “Anyone playing or just loving music was right up his alley,” Nana Moira said. “He took after his mom and pops because they played music too. For generations and generations the Bouchers was always music people.”

  At this, Nana Moira got misty-eyed, and then she broke out laughing.

  “We all loved Robbie’s music; it is one thing I miss about him. One of my favourite songs that he played was Burn Down the Barn and Boil the Cabbage. It was a very romantic song.”

  This brought derisive laughter from Rachel.

  “Yecchy! Boil the cabbage!” she screeched. “How did it go?”

  “It didn’t have no words. Just guitar. But, sweet Jesus, it was a mighty pretty tune.”

  The boys of the band often came to the house to play with him. Nana Moira loved to entertain and there would be lots of eating and singing and dancing. If it was too hot or too cold the festivities would be in the barn. Maybe that’s where she got the bug to entertain senior citizens and all the other folks of Jensen Township at the Centre with dinners and lunches on special occasions such as Valentine’s Day, Thanksgiving and Fourth of July.

  “No wonder I like music so much, I lived around it for years,” said Nana Moira. “That’s how your pops got infected with the music bug.”

  “That’s how I got infected too,” said Rachel.

  “Sweet grief, child, you was not there in them ol’ days.”

  “Pops got infected from good ol’ Robbie and I got infected from Pops. That’s how it goes, Nana Moira.”

  Rachel grew up with these stories and she loved them. They confirmed to her that she was born to follow the family tradition. No one had the heart to tell her that her voice was not nearly as easy on the ear as her dad’s and grandpa’s. It didn’t matter as long as she played the guitar and sang for the joy of it. But when she spoke of making music her life Nana Moira began to be concerned. The girl had so much potential to bring glory to the family in other ways, and she nagged her about going to college.

  But Rachel had a dream and was going to pursue it, no matter what.

  There was a time when Nana Moira thought she had finally prevailed on her, and she agreed to consider going to college. Nana Moira hoped that perhaps after years of struggling as a wannabe music star she had come to realise that the dream was not materialising. She brought brochures from Hocking College and they pored over them together until Rachel decided on a two-year associate degree in addiction counselling, because her mom was destroyed by meth.

  “Not that I’m giving up on my music altogether,” she told her grandma. “Otherwise I would be giving up on my heritage. I would be betraying my genes.”

  She was planning to be a singing counsellor, using her guitar as therapy to bring the meth-heads, pot-heads and crack-heads of southeast Ohio back to the road of clear-headedness and healing. She did not know if this was possible or even acceptable in that profession, but it was the only way to harness her heritage to this new cause.

  “Whatever,” said Nana Moira.

  As long as the girl went to school that was all that mattered to her. When she got to Hocking College and came face to face with the real world she would give up all the singing-counsellor silliness.

  Nana Moira got worried when weeks went by and Rachel was not completing the forms and submitting the application. She kept on finding this and that excuse. Until finally she confessed that her heart was not on college – not at that moment. Perhaps some time in the future she would consider it. Nana Moira knew that there would be no time in the future. She might as well give up on any notion of having the first college graduate in the Boucher family, and be stuck with another itinerant musician – albeit a very bad one this time.

  “Don’t be so sad about it, Nana Moira,” said Rachel. “Hocking College can do without my money. I’d rather use it to take care of you.”

  Rachel is the only one who brings some reasonable livelihood home, thanks to her busking. Everyone at the Jensen Community Centre is a volunteer, including Nana Moira. The only reward for her selfless work is the free food that she gets from the Food Pantry and a small stipend that is far below minimum wage.

  “Sweet grief, child, I don’t need nobody to look after me,” said Nana Moira adamantly. “I managed all right from the time you was little without your help.”

  It is not just Rachel’s music that Nana Moira worries about. After all, she is taking after the rest of the Bouchers before her and there is nothing anyone can do about that. Perhaps she should just accept it. But now Rachel – and Nana Moira blames Schuyler’s bad influence for this – has taken to running around all over the county at her own expense, attending meetings and yelling slogans against the government, which is none of her business. She has joined Appalachia Active, a group of concerned citizens of southeast Ohio who protest against fracking.

  Nana Moira complains that Rachel spends too much time attending anti-fracking demonstrations instead of focusing on the more important things in her life. She is afraid that one day the law will come knocking at the door to tell her that her granddaughter is in jail for chaining herself to fracking equipment. That’s the sort of thing these crazy people do; you read such stories in the Athens News all the time. Or worse still, she may end up like Schuyler.

  Although Rachel refuses to discuss Schuyler, Nana Moira has heard the gossip that she is either doing time or has done time for some crime and is now crippled for life because of her wayward behaviour with men. Not that Rachel is one of those man-crazy girls you see running around with other people’s husbands. No, not her Rachel. She is raised too well for that. But with a friend like Schuyler, who knows what bad influence she may exert on her?

  Rachel is very headstrong. Stubborn just like her father. Whenever Nana Moira talks to her about this anti-fracking business and about Schuyler’s bad influence she throws a tantrum and tells her grandma to mind her own business, that she is not a kid any more and should be left alone to make her own decisions. She says she is entitled to her own mistakes. Whoever heard such moonshine?

  2

  Members and supporters of Appalachia Active, and some curious citizens, have assembled in the Arts West theatre building. Rachel sits in the front pew – this used to be a church some years back before the community bought it as a multipurpose performance space; it still has rows of pews for theatre seats. She is among a group of young women from the city and outlying townships. She sits next to Schuyler, her best friend from Rome Township. Occasionally they throw a glance at the two men and two women at a table on the stage, but most of their attention is on the people who are trickling in, filling the pews.

  “Hey, there’s Jason. You remember him, don’t you? We called him the stinky kid,” says Schuyler, glancing at the two men walking down the aisle and looking for space in the opposite pews. One of them is Jason and the other is Genesis de Klerk, his father.

  “I didn’t. You and the other yapping yentas called him that,” says Rachel. “Is that him? Where has he been?”

  “Yapping yentas” elicits screams of excitement from Schuyler, and the girls forget all about Jason as they reminisce about high school and the lisping teacher who gave Schuyler and her friends that label because indeed they were busybodies. They mimic th
e teacher and the other young women in the pew join the conversation with their own memories of the trouble they used to get into as a result of not minding their own business.

  One of the women on the stage, the older one, uses her clenched fist as a gavel to call the meeting to order and the assembly falls silent. She welcomes everyone to the workshop, especially the visitors from West Virginia who have come to help the people of Athens organise against the fracking companies.

  “I always have a flashback to the sixties when I’m with members of Appalachia Active,” she says, rubbing her hands together with glee.

  She then introduces everyone on the stage: the young woman is from the university where she recently graduated with an engineering degree; and the man is a legal practitioner in Athens, “a lawyer to love” because he fought for the Wayne Forest. Everyone laughs at the characterisation of the handsome middle-aged man because lawyers are generally reputed to be unlovable. This is quite a good generational mix because the fourth facilitator on the stage is a young man, Skye Riley, perhaps in his early twenties, who is a coal miner from West Virginia.

  The young engineer is the first to address the meeting. She is using Microsoft PowerPoint to illustrate what hydraulic fracturing is all about. She tells the assembly that fracking technology has been in existence for sixty years, but horizontal drilling is a new technology.

  “You get oil and gas, but you also get a lot of waste water that no one knows what to do about,” she says.

  She shows slides of the different classes of wells and explains in detail how water is injected into them, and the potential for pollution this presents. And then she talks about the abandoned and orphaned wells throughout southeast Ohio and the ground water contamination that they cause, besides the fact that they are great conduits of this poison to the surface.

  Although this is called a workshop, it is really a lecture. All the technical stuff cannot hold Rachel’s attention for much longer and she begins to fidget. Her eyes wander and catch Jason de Klerk gazing at her. He smiles. She smiles back.