Crybaby Ranch

by Tina Welling

  “All from this morning’s farmer’s market on the way to the airport.”

  “Good God,” he says, taking the asparagus. “Green. It’ll be six months before we see that color here.” The longing in his eyes reminds me of the hard, unknown winter stretching before me.

  As I spray water over the Florida produce, I gaze out the window. Though it is dark as deep night at ten minutes to six, the evidence of winter’s presence thickly pads my windowsill; icicles sparkle off the eaves. As I admire the downy beds of snow laid tidily on each bough, I realize abruptly that the pines by the drive are flooded with light. At first, I think my attention has lit up the outdoors; it takes a second to realize that a car has arrived outside my window. I’m not used to the way snow muffles the warning signals of someone’s approach. Before I put it together that it’s a car with delayed headlight dimmers, Caro stomps snow off her boots as she opens my back door.

  “I know you two don’t want any company for dinner tonight, but I want you to invite me anyway.”

  Caro has seen too many therapists. Express your needs clearly and assertively. People not only appreciate knowing your needs—they are eager to meet them. And the worst that can happen is they’ll say no.

  Wrong. The worst is that they’ll wish they could say no, but they’ll smilingly rush in with yes. That’s what I do—rush in with yes. Bo provides the smiles.

  We try to make her company seem more than welcome, even desirable. This is probably easier for Bo than it is for me. I’d like her to melt into the same rag rug her snowy boots are dripping on. We both blather cover-ups for not inviting her in the first place.

  Caro waits until Bo and I run down. “What are you fixing?” she asks, swinging off her hip-length suede jacket like a runway model and tossing it onto my kitchen bench.

  Bo explains I’ve brought home yellowtail snapper.

  “It’s thawing near the woodstove,” I add, in the thrall of nervous chatter, “under a colander for protection against any mice that moved in since hearing I was away.”

  “Fish?” Caro’s question hangs in the air. From her tone I think she’s misunderstood, thinks we’re having mice for dinner, and the snapper is merely a lure to catch them. I don’t jump in and assure her. I give her a moment to change her mind and leave.

  Or is another agenda emerging? Bo seems to think so and waits expectantly.

  “Love,” Caro says to Bo as she stuffs her leather driving gloves into her coat pockets, “I put those beautiful steaks in your freezer last week and forgot to pick them up again when I left. Why don’t you run over and get them?”

  Bo turns toward me, ready to back up my Florida treats.

  Resignedly I say, “Go ahead. The snapper will keep.” But my nasty thoughts begin tracing Caro’s moves. It’s too preposterous to think she plans such things: stops at store, buys steaks, leaves in Bo’s freezer, waits one week, invites self for dinner, retrieves said steaks—nah.

  Still, I ask, “How many steaks are there?”

  Caro says, “Oh…I don’t know.”

  “Three, aren’t there?” Bo says before going out to his truck.

  The door slams behind him, and Caro settles herself in a kitchen chair. I assume Bo’s usual position against the counter with my arms folded.

  “How were your parents?” she asks.

  “Managing.” I quickly search for another topic so I don’t have to talk about my trip. “What have you been doing the last three weeks?”

  “First, I want to tell you that I couldn’t stop thinking about what a boring time you were having. Dickie and I made a quick trip to Sun Valley one weekend. This wonderful needlepoint shop, Isabel’s, is located there—hand-painted screens, glorious Persian wools, a canary sings its heart out from an ornate cage at the entrance. I saw Mariel Hemingway there, and she said all the movie people worked needlepoint because it’s so boring between takes. So I decided that’s what you needed for your next visit home. Sick people are much more boring than movie sets.”

  I’ve never been able to tell anyone about the excruciating boredom of caring for my mother. How did Caro know this? I feel understood. “You amaze me,” I say. I unfold my arms, lean over, and kiss her cheek.

  “I picked out a design by Mariel’s favorite artist. It looks just like you—feathers, bird’s nests, and eggs. I’ll bring it over and teach you how to do it.”

  Caro and I meet for lunch once a week in town when I’m working. Since she does most of the talking, I have assumed that she doesn’t know me as well as I know her. Every once in a while she startles me like this with her insight.

  “When you’re finished working the screen, I’ll have a pillow made out of it for you. It will fit right into your pagan motif.” Caro shifts a thistle in a jar of dried weeds on the table to emphasize her joke.

  I laugh, then say, “I’ll start working on it during that long flight next trip.”

  “That’s how I got started, on an airplane. You know Dickie. Go, go, go. The little runt.”

  “Travel anywhere else while I was gone?” I’m used to her calling Dickie names.

  “Mozambique. I’ll tell you both later. I haven’t seen Bo much either.”

  “Oh, really?” Pleasure lifts my voice. “Oh,” I say again, correcting myself with a down-curved tone.

  Caro rises from the kitchen chair and comes to hug me in a loose-armed way. “I know you care about him.”

  “I do. He’s…a good neighbor,” I say, sounding as insincere as an insurance-company ad. I laugh to cover up.

  “You know what I mean. You’re so generous. You don’t let it come between us. That’s what I like best about you.” She gives me another small hug, then sits back down. “Another woman might hate me.”

  “I hate you sometimes,” I say to prove how really generous I am. See? I hate you and still find room in my great big heart to be your friend. Which, confusing as that is, expresses how I actually feel—a situation for which Hallmark has failed to create a greeting card.

  Caro shrugs. “Most women hate me. You’re sweeter about it.”

  “Thank you,” I say.

  “Thank you,” she says. “You and I remind me of an old joke Dickie told once.”

  It seems a wife is confronting her very rich husband at a party about a beautiful woman the wife caught him kissing earlier. The husband says, “That’s my mistress. You have the choice of either accepting my mistress or leaving the marriage without a penny.” Another beautiful woman enters the party, and the wife says, “Who is that?” The husband says, “That’s Frank’s mistress.” After a moment, the wife says, “I like ours better.”

  Caro and I laugh. But I am struck by how 1950s the marriage arrangement sounds in this joke—and in Caro’s life. It occurs to me that the rich are often undeveloped in the way of relationships. The money must hold them back.

  Caro says, “I always picture the wife and the mistress having lunch together, like us.”

  I dislike the idea of playing either the role of the wife or the mistress in this joke. I turn my back to her and open the refrigerator, just to have my face to myself a moment.

  “You could fix a salad,” Caro suggests from behind me. “Use that raspberry vinegar I like.”

  This amazes me about Caro: how she turns her position of supplicant so swiftly into queen of the arena. Fifteen minutes ago she was apologizing for barging in uninvited. Now she’s advising me how I can best please her. I should say, We’re planning strawberries and asparagus—no leafy greens tonight, doll. But I pull out the romaine Bo has stocked for my return and reluctantly begin washing the leaves, my wrists lingering beneath the cool stream of water to lower my body heat. Around Caro, I often think I’m possibly entering premature menopause: I have hot flashes and radical turns of temperament.

  “Caro? Are you and Bo still…lovers then?” I hate asking questions I don’t want answered. I can’t turn around to face her; she’ll see that white line around my mouth that shows my fear.

  “T
ell you the truth, things are a little iffy.” I glance over my shoulder. She’s plucking the crispy edges off my weed arrangement. “He suddenly got morals or something last summer.”

  I turn to face her, cupping relief against my heart as if it were a captured bird in my palms. She looks up at me.

  She says, “I need him in my life and I intend to keep him there on whatever terms are offered. So far that’s worked.”

  I return to the sink. I long for the glow of Bo’s headlights outside my window. At last I see them.

  Bo hesitates slightly inside the storm door. It appears as though he’s just waiting to buffer the slam with his heel, but he catches my eye momentarily. “I just brought one steak. We’ll stick it under the broiler for Caro and it’ll be done in a few minutes. She likes it rare.”

  Is it possible I adore this man more than I even let myself suspect in weaker moments of daydreaming? Suddenly, I’m ashamed of my pile of romaine leaves.

  “Great.” I smile hugely, but try not to let the smile linger on my face too long or look directly at anybody with it gleaming there. I gather up all the romaine, except one serving, and stuff the leaves into a plastic bag. I sprinkle sugar on the strawberries, slice the tomato, and steam the asparagus.

  We sit with plates on our knees. A picnic. I am grateful to be eating yellowtail snapper, strawberries, and asparagus while sitting beside the woodstove, eleven inches of snowpack outside my window. Caro struggles at cutting bite-sized pieces of steak with her plate on her lap. She is not so pleased. Bo and I give her lots of attention to make up for our mutiny.

  After I refuse their help, Bo and Caro leave and I cart our used dishes back to the kitchen. I consider how difficult it is to be Caro’s friend. People are service modules to her; we play roles, fill slots. I am in her friend slot, Bo is in her lover slot—never mind the pun—Dickie is in her provider slot. She is real. We exist because of her. Except, of course, for those rare moments like earlier when she expresses such insight. Still, if she remembers to give me the needlepoint screen and yarns, I’ll be surprised. Slowly, I eat the two remaining strawberries with my fingers before rinsing the bowl.

  When Caro lavishes compliments about what a dear, close friend I am, I’m flooded with guilt that I haven’t exerted myself more in developing this friendship. My mind zips around in search of how I can fulfill her statement and make it true, and it’s never occurred to me before that I have no responsibility for her exaggerations. I drizzle the rest of the lemon sauce on the leftover asparagus in a storage bowl and stick it in the refrigerator.

  I squirt Ivory into the dishpan and slip in the silverware. Caro is impossible to nail down about her past. All I get from requests for further information is a flip of her wrist. She never remembers or will tell me later. I fish around for the sponge, then decide I can do this job tomorrow. I pour the last two inches of champagne into my glass, or rather dish, and carry it to the living room. So far I’ve only heard a single reference to her father. “Pa,” Caro called him, then remarked flippantly that this was, “Short for faux pas.” But refused further discussion about her family.

  I sit before my stove, fire door open to enjoy the flames, and I feel both relieved Caro is gone and lonesome because Bo left with her. I had been looking forward to tonight, which Bo said over the phone he especially cleared for my homecoming. Did he exhibit a shade of disappointment at Caro’s intrusion, or was it just that my own disappointment swamped the room so fully everyone’s feet got damp?

  I rise from the sofa and wedge a short, chunky log into the woodstove and stoop before the opened door to watch it catch flame. Why is Caro clinging to Bo and why is he letting her?

  Suddenly, a deep weariness floods my chest. I close the fire door and decide to undertake the task of finding my toothbrush, buried in my suitcase, so I can get ready for bed.

  I rifle through fruit-colored shorts and tank tops, ridiculous clothes held up against the backdrop of log cabin walls. Even in the peak of a mountain summer these thin cottons are useless; one snag on a Wyoming bull thistle finishes them off. A pair of these shorts houses my toothbrush in its pocket, if I can only remember what I wore early this morning, in that other life, that other season and land.

  “Once I was like you,” my mother said as I tucked her into bed last night. “Now look at me.”

  I didn’t shed a tear. In Florida, I seem to unconsciously assume an army nurse facade. Nothing shocks or dismays me. My mother put her used underwear in the dishwasher beside the silverware. The army nurse cheerfully sorted clothes from dishes and washed everything over. I should offer a name to this inner soldier of mine: Agatha, perhaps. Agatha, the army nurse. Even-tempered and nonjudgmental, Agatha absolutely loves her work.

  When I find my toothbrush and carry it to the bathroom, I recall buying this toothbrush back in October and picking one up for Bo at the same time. The toothbrush he kept in my bathroom had begun looking worn. While hiking later that same day, I found the skeleton of an elk tangled in sagebrush and I dragged out the jawbone. Back home I dug around, elbow deep, in the trash can to retrieve one of the old toothbrushes I’d tossed and surfaced with Bo’s red one. The elk teeth were caked with dirt.

  Bo walked in the back door, noticed what I was doing, leaned sideways against the sink counter beside me, and folded his arms. I glanced at him, and he nodded down into the sink, where I was scrubbing away on the inch-wide elk teeth with his toothbrush.

  He said, “Were you eventually going to tell me?”

  I realized Bo didn’t know about the new toothbrush and I followed his mind pictures of me sneaking his red one back into the medicine cabinet after I’d brushed the elk’s encrusted teeth with it. I burst into laughter.

  Now, as I undress for bed, I remember how Bo’s face softened watching me laugh, how he seemed to absorb me, stripped to pure glee, into himself. I remember how I needed to dip my head to encourage my hair to fall alongside my face and hide my psychic nudity from his eyes. I smile now at how easily his wit can set me off. Bo knew that day I wouldn’t actually sneak his toothbrush for such a job, and he knew that the mental picture he was pretending to carry could be transferred to me with one brief remark and trigger my laughter. To me, this is the utmost in intimacy. This is about as sexual as two people can get, with or without their clothes on.

  I lift my comforter and check for the tiny black spiders that are wintering near my ceiling beams. Occasionally, one will travel down and chance sleeping with me. All is clear, and I slip between my flannel sheets and stretch out stomach down, grateful to be home in my own bed.

  sixteen

  It is taking me days to unpack my suitcases and move back into my life, into my feelings and body rhythms. I’ve been home a week, but after being housebound—or carbound—so long with my mother, I can’t get back into my habit of spending time outside. When I ran into Caro at Fred’s getting groceries this morning, she claimed I looked “like a goddamn marshmallow.” So I dig around for my twelve-year-old blusher, cracked and orange, hoping it will lend some life to my face. Suddenly in the mirror my mother’s cheeks come to mind, rouged by my father’s heavy hand, and I burst into whole-body sobs.

  “Zann, what’s the matter?” Bo’s voice, full of alarm, is punctuated by the slam of the back door.

  “Nothing,” I call, as if I’m farther away than two short steps into the bathroom. I wish I’d heard him drive up. I reach for a tissue from the box on the back of the toilet, but Bo is there first. Knees bent, he dabs at my face with the wadded-up tissue as if repairing a canvas marred by unsightly blobs of paint.

  “Aw, Zannah, tell me what’s the matter.”

  To my horror I begin bawling all over again. Bo puts one arm around my back and presses his cheek on top my head. “You’ve been so goddamn cheerful all week.” He peers down at me and shakes his head like he’d never believed in that act all along. “You haven’t said shit about it since you got home.”

  “About what?” I sound as much like a creaky
door as I do a coy, weepy woman.

  “Florida.” Bo dabs at my face again. “I know it wasn’t any picnic down there.”

  As my crying snuffles to an end, tears congest and words flow instead. “We did every little thing together, all three of us, once my dad got back from the Keys.” I reach for Bo’s Kleenex. “We went to Bay Harbor on Sewall’s Point for Mom’s hair appointment together, and my last night there, we all lined up in front of the bathroom mirror trying to remember how Andre said to back comb.”

  Bo reaches for my washcloth and holds it under the hot-water faucet. I recall the nose-stinging fragrance of hair spray filling my parents’ large mirrored bathroom back in Florida. “You’re a beauty, Elizabeth Arden. Look at that.” Dad had teased Mom’s dark hair until it stood on end like lightning-filled cumulus around her face. “The prettiest girl in town and I’m in her date book. Of course, we have to drag along this homely kid.” Dad tipped his head my way. Mom rolled her eyes at me in the mirror, and for a moment, she was back again, sharing humor with us. “Next step,” Dad said, hairbrush high in the air like a sickle, “we form this hay into a stack so we don’t scare everybody at Gentleman Jim’s Restaurant.”

  Now, in my own medicine cabinet mirror, my eyes sideways to watch Bo wash my face, I tell him that may have been our last shared joke. I never know what losses my mother will experience before my next visit. “She’s moving through this so fast. The doctor doesn’t know how to help her.”

  When Bo finishes, I see more color in my face. It’s just in all the wrong places—my nose and my eyes. I feel better though or, if not better, more at home in myself. Coming alive once again, the birth each time I return home to myself no less painful than the last. But I tell Bo, “I’m getting faster. It was two weeks before I cried last time.”

  I haven’t polished the knack of fully acknowledging my mother’s symptoms while caring for her at the same time.