I didn’t know what Lorelei and Rose had expected, but surely they looked disappointed, or something else was bothering them, I didn’t know what. Along the way, we stopped at various good observation spots for butterflies, but by now, with fall’s night chills quickly beginning to scare insects away, we found none of them. It wasn’t until we arrived in a spare woodland sheltered by canyon walls that things began to change. The dancing leaves and bright colors of fall had always made the world feel fanciful to me, as if dressed for a party. Orange and crimson, hanging on to the branches for life, the leaves flitted and twirled about whenever a breeze came through. Leaves already fallen to the ground crunched beneath our feet as we walked along the canyon floor. I searched the walls for any petroglyphs left behind by ancient Indians. Deeper into the canyon, rock walls cracked by tree roots sheltered us from the wind.
The mood began to change when Rose stumbled on a Fritillary sunbathing, wings open, on a bare branch exposed to sunlight. The Fritillary was another butterfly of orange and black color, but unlike the Monarch and the Viceroy, its pattern was spotted. While Lorelei was still sketching in the notebook, Rose found another butterfly This time it was the Purple Hairstreak, the same butterfly they had been seeking on the day we first met. On an orange oak leaf, the butterfly opened and closed its wings, letting us see the gray-brown undersides of its wings contrasted to the purple topsides.
Lorelei only whispered, “The Hairstreak,” for me to know this sighting was of great importance to them. She completed her drawing quickly, and then we stood still and watched. Surely the butterfly would take notice of us and be on its way. The Purple Hairstreak remained on the same leaf, however, for longer than I would have liked to stay in one place, particularly if I had owned wings.
Rose was reading my mind again. She asked, “Did we ever tell you about their wings?”
When I shook my head, she continued, “The wings of a butterfly are made up of millions of tiny scales, not one solid part. All the scales come together to form the wing and give the butterfly its color. And every time one flies, some of the scales fall off as dust. By the time the butterfly is old, much of its scales and color are lost.”
Lorelei touched the ground with a pointed toe. “All around us is butterfly dust.” She looked up and smiled. “We just can’t see it.”
That butterfly sighting changed everything. Soon Rose and Lorelei were humming favorite tunes and talking in layers again. I shrugged off their earlier solemn disposition. We sat down on some dry buffalo grass that snapped beneath my new heaviness.
“You’ll need more clothes soon,” said Rose. “We’ve already begun to make you a suit.”
“You can come out for a fitting and meet our parents,” Lorelei said.
I had accepted the dress, but a suit was too much. “You shouldn’t go to so much trouble on account of me.”
Both of their faces fell. Refusing their offer meant something to them, something I didn’t understand but could sense anyway. “Well, if you really want to....”
“Oh, we do,” Lorelei said as her face brightened.
“Come out as soon as you can. We want you to meet our parents and grandparents anyway, and we’ll also be able to mark the fabric for a perfect fit.”
I remembered shopping for clothes with Abby and Bea, spending half a day in and out of dressing rooms, then dining out for lunch.
Rose asked, “Where are your parents, Livvy?”
The words came out of my mouth, but no longer from out of me. I was somewhere else, free of it. “My mother died this year. My father and sisters are in Denver.”
“Do you see them often?”
“Not since I married. But I’m hoping to visit for the holidays.”
Rose folded her hands before her. She had a look in her eyes of years much older than her age. Her voice became even softer. “Livvy, is something wrong?”
For a moment, I considered telling them, telling them all of it. That I had made a mistake, the kind I was supposed to have been too well raised, too smart, too full of good common sense to make. That I had fallen prey to the most feminine of failings.
But in the end, I said, “Of course not.”
And on the long ride back, the girls and I had switched places. They were now giggling and jousting with each other, whereas I couldn’t get memories of growing up with all my hopes still intact to stop prodding me down deep into the bones.
That night in bed, shafts of dusty worry lit up by the moon came streaming into the window. I threw back the covers and looked at my changing body. I touched it for the first time, the hard mound expanding between navel and groin. Then I lay back and closed my eyes.
I remembered seeing newborn babies at church. Tucked into their mothers’ elbows, swathed in blankets, sometimes even their faces covered, they had been difficult for me to study. During christening ceremonies, my father had described healthy infants as incredible gifts from God. Always I had had the impression that babies were precious, fragile, and easily infected. Even as the minister’s daughters, we weren’t allowed to get close.
How, then, could something so valuable be entrusted to a mother who didn’t want it?
Fifteen
On the day of my scheduled obstetric appointment, Ray drove me to La Junta to see Dr. McCutcheon. In the morning, the skies had been cloudy, threatening rain, so we left early and ended up arriving in town almost an hour before my appointment time. Instead of waiting in the office, we went into the Fred Harvey House at the train depot and managed to snag a table by the window in the dining room. We ordered coffee and slices of pie.
Ray sat across from me. He fingered his keys on the tablecloth and stole looks out the window. As the waitress came to deliver our plates, I noticed that he gazed up at her with an expression I could only guess to be pride. I saw it again when he looked up as I was returning to the table from the ladies’ room. Then it occurred to me. A married man sitting with his pregnant wife, and all in public to witness his accomplishment. Under normal circumstances, his pride would be understandable. But what of our situation? Wouldn’t some people inevitably question the paternity of this child? But I wasn’t sure if that kind of tawdry thought ever occurred to Ray.
“What is it?” I asked him as I sat back down at the table.
“Nothing,” he answered.
“You looked happy.”
Now he smiled. “Something wrong with that?”
I looked around at the other customers. Couples, mostly couples, sitting together, smiling, eating, and chatting away. Probably they had done things the right way. Most likely they had met, dated, fallen in love, then gotten married. If they had both wanted a baby, they had probably sat down and planned it.
Ray’s voice was low as he began to speak. “After the baby comes ...” But then the waitress returned with our bill. Ray looked over the check, up at me, then out the window. People stood outside waiting for tables, and by then, it was time to be on our way. Therefore Ray paid the bill and never did finish his sentence.
My checkup began with an examination that detected no problems or abnormalities. Then the nurse ushered me into Dr. McCutcheon’s office for an opportunity to ask questions. After the door closed behind me, I sat on the edge of the chair and stated the truth. “I’m nearly four months.”
Behind the desk, Dr. McCutcheon rocked back in his chair. “That’s about what I would have guessed. Were you told a date?”
“Early March. And not a bit premature.”
“March looks about right.” The old doctor smiled. “And we never want premature babies.”
“No, I suppose not.”
“You know, Mrs. Singleton ...” He looked me over as he toyed with a pen on the desktop. “I doctor both young and old. And I’ve had countless wonderful experiences during all these years of caring for families.” He paused. “But the best of all things is getting to bring babies into this world.” He glanced over at a wall of newborn infant photos. “A healthy baby is always a blessing.�
�
I shook my head. “This was a mistake.”
He looked at me with resolve. “Once the baby gets here, you won’t see him or her as a mistake anymore.”
I’d heard this before. I remembered one of Mother’s friends, at least her age or older, who had become pregnant just about the time her two sons went off to college. Mother had whispered to me that the baby was unplanned, obviously. But once that little girl had arrived, she had stolen everyone’s heart with her flashing dark eyes, auburn hair, and smile. Mother’s friend never missed an opportunity to show her daughter off in public, always dressing her in the finest clothing from shops in downtown Denver. I took a short breath. “I’d like to believe you.”
“Then do so, Mrs. Singleton.” He picked up his pen and tapped it once on the desktop. “I’ve cared for others in your situation, and many times the babies turn out to be some of the most loved of them all.”
For a few minutes, we sat in silence. Then he asked, “Any questions?”
When I shook my head, he slipped the pen into his chest pocket. “Then we’ll give you a booklet to read, and we’ll see you in a month.” He rose from his chair. “See you out?”
As Ray and I later walked down the sidewalk, he asked, “Everything go okay?”
I looked at all the people bustling by on the sidewalk. Groups of soldiers, married couples, children. “Everything’s right on schedule.”
“Did he tell you when the baby’s coming?”
“March,” I replied, then looked his way. “I could have told you that before.”
Ray led me to the truck. He opened my door and helped me in. Then he walked around, slid in himself, and sat focusing out the windshield. “I guess I couldn’t ask you before. I could see it hurts you.” He glanced my way. “Salt in a wound, you know.”
I’d been thinking lately of the pyramids, not the ones in Egypt, but the ones closer by in Mexico. The ancient civilizations of Mexico had been much more advanced than what early explorers ever realized. The Mayans and their culture were some of the most mysterious and misunderstood. And the ruins of their cities often perched on rises overlooking blue-green seas and surrounded by big-leaf jungles holding parrots in the trees.
I said, “It can’t be changed.”
Ray seemed reluctant to start driving, as if he had more to say or to hear. After almost two months together, he was finally breaking out of his shyness around me. And I decided that he might as well hear thoughts from the darkest corners of me, this woman he thought he loved. “Early on, I kept praying to lose the baby.”
He didn’t move in the seat. Even his hands were motionless on the steering wheel. “But then, you wouldn’t have come here.”
Of course, I wouldn’t have. Because of Mother’s illness, I had missed my summer classes, but by the end of the fall term, I would’ve caught up again. I would’ve finished my master’s degree and started planning field studies. “People will notice, Ray. People will notice that the baby is early. What will they think then?”
“I don’t care what people think.”
“That’s impossible,” I said. Why did people pretend to be immune? “Everyone cares. The child was conceived before we were married. Soon that will be apparent to everyone. People judge, people gossip.” I stopped. “Even here.”
“They won’t say anything.”
I turned away. “How do you know?”
“I lived here my whole life. Trust me. No one will say anything to you.”
I wanted to understand. “Out of respect to your family?”
“Something like that.” I heard him take a big breath and felt him look my way. “Livvy,” he said, “when Reverend Case got that call from your father, he could’ve picked any number of ole bachelors living out here on their own. But he picked me.” Now he whispered the words, “This is the best thing to ever happen to me.”
I fought back the sting of fresh tears. At first this whole scheme of Father’s seemed as if it would hurt only me. I hadn’t planned to hurt anyone else. When Father said I would marry a bean farmer, I was in such a state of worry for my own self, I couldn’t imagine any of the consequences. I’d never even pictured a real person, a real family, not until I arrived here. My own pain was acceptable, but the pain I was causing Ray was too awful to face.
Closing my eyes, I said, “Ray, I don’t know what this is.”
I could barely hear him say, “It’s a beginning.”
Then I started sneezing and couldn’t stop until my head felt as if it would blow right off of my shoulders. After that, Ray drove us away, and we didn’t talk about it anymore. But by that night, any reserve I had left started to crumble away. My own selfishness at accepting Father’s plan, such an easy way out and at others’ expense, ate at me like termites in the marrow. After midnight, I was still listening to the clock ticking on my nightstand, and from miles away I heard a train whistle calling out like a lure, telling all of us lost souls to jump on board and run away.
Perhaps the sterile conditions of the physician’s office had sent the visions flying back to me. As I lay there, I remembered back to the days in May when I had to put Mother to bed for the last time, and how Father had found so much church work of dire importance to do that he left Mother to suffer out her last days on her own, alone except for me. I was the one who learned to inject the morphine that would relieve her pain. I was the one who got up with her in the night. I cleaned and cared for her while he went about his business caring for others and not his own.
Mother appreciated every last thing I did for her. But she never ceased longing for Father’s company. Sometimes she would startle herself awake, having heard some noise, real or imaginary, that came from within the house. Then she would whisper to me, “Is your father here?” And I would have to tell her that no, he wasn’t. Abby and Bea made time to come and spend hours during the day with her, holding her hand or trying to feed her soup or pudding, but Father, for all good purposes, vanished before our very eyes.
On one of her last days, she asked me to take her outside in the garden where she could feel wind and sunshine on her skin. I carried her brittle cage of a body and set her on a cushioned chair among the flowers. Mother was dying in May, when the irises were blooming. Irises, which took their name from the Greek goddess of the rainbow, whose duty it was to lead the souls of dead women to paradise.
A moan came out of my throat, startling me awake. I hadn’t realized I was dreaming, hadn’t even realized I’d fallen asleep. In my dream, Mother was in the arms of the goddess of the rainbow, flying off to heaven, but something had gone wrong, and then she was falling, falling down to earth with no one there to catch her. I could still see the speck of her, so insignificant against a huge yellow sky. A snivel of pain escaped out of me.
Ray was in the room. I could see his shadow in the moonlight that shafted in from the window. “Are you okay?” he whispered.
“Yes,” I answered.
Then I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and pretended to go back to sleep. Instead, within the dark closet of my closed lids, I listened to him breathing. I expected him to turn around and leave, but for reasons I couldn’t imagine, he stayed in the doorway and watched over me for a long time.
Sixteen
In mid-October, while General MacArthur was in the midst of battle for the Philippines, several visitors dropped by to look at the antiques. Some of them held private collections, and others gathered for the historical society or for local museums. I let my visitors select and take anything they found useful. I also offered refreshments, and we chatted on the porch if weather allowed, sharing thoughts about the history of the area. Most of my visitors were friendly enough, but I noticed fairly soon that conversation beyond niceties was out of the question. I also found it interesting that few people mentioned my obvious pregnancy. Every day now, I wore maternity clothes, and there could be no doubt as to my condition, but most people chose to ignore it. Speaking of pregnancy acknowledged that women were sexual beings
, after all. I was reminded of the Spanish word for pregnant, embarazada, meaning embarrassed.
I received only a few shy congratulations, and one woman offered to host a baby shower for me as the date drew nearer. Lingering on the porch sipping lemonade, she had said, “We could hold it at the church or at my home, whatever you prefer.”
It was a gracious offer, but to my surprise, I found no relief from my loneliness. Perhaps I even felt worse, even more disconnected. I said, “Perhaps the church would be more convenient.”
She looked relieved. “Yes, probably.”
I was experiencing the strangest mix of feelings. Treated with instant respect because I had married into one of the old-generation farming families, I found myself wanting to scream at her, to shout out the truth. I’d become a woman who dreamed of yelling at people who didn’t even know how infuriating I found them.
One day during the sugar beet harvest, Ray came back in the middle of the day, which startled me. I knew something had to be wrong. He had with him a middle-aged male Japanese intern who had a piece of cloth wrapped around his left hand. Through the cloth, I could see blood. Ray quickly explained to me that the man had cut himself while chopping off the top of a sugar beet and that we needed to drive him to Santa Fe Hospital in La Junta to see a doctor. “He’s going to need stitches,” Ray said to me.
The man smiled at me and bowed. He had leathery, tanned skin that furrowed away from his eyes as he smiled, and he wore suspenders over a work shirt, scuffed pants, and scarred shoes.
I untied my apron strings and grabbed my handbag off the counter. “I can drive him over.”
Ray looked relieved. “That’d be great. Then I can get back to the fields and make sure nothing else happens.”
I led the man to the truck, got him settled inside, and drove us off. On the way I found out that the gentleman spoke only broken English. But he spoke the language better than he understood it. We managed to carry on a conversation anyway, and I learned that he had been a farmer in Sonoma County, California, that he had arrived here with his wife and three sons via the Merced Assembly Center, that his sons were in junior high and high school, that he hoped to return to his farm at war’s end.
The Magic of Ordinary Days Page 11