She opened the cabinet door in her own bathroom and arranged Henry's bath supplies inside. She had kept them here ever since Henry became bedridden. No one but Minerva used this bathroom now since it was located in her and Henry's bedroom. And she wanted things kept in their place. Minerva checked herself in the mirror and ran a tortoise-shell handled brush through her hair. She'd have to concentrate more on her looks again soon. She had let herself go. She observed the new lines forming around her upper lip and the purplish arcs under her eyes. She hadn't had these when Henry was well. Not most of the time.
Lew yapped at Minerva's heels when she passed through the kitchen and into the living room. The thought of napping appealed to her and she wanted to be rested when the preacher arrived. She looked down and found Lew chewing on a small rubber hot dog beside the chair. She lifted the dog with one hand and padded toward the spare room. Lew needed to say goodbye to Henry.
Piper moved to the other side of her father's bed, eyes fixed on Lew and her mother. Minerva lifted herself to sit by Henry, moving his arm from his side to his chest to make more room.
"Look Lew, here's your friend," she said, pressing the dog's tiny nose to Henry's chin, "the man who loved you." She dipped her head level to Lew's; her own nose was close to Henry's chin. Minerva glanced up at Piper and saw she was staring out the window, a grim line on her lips, eyes narrow and unblinking. She looked back at Henry. "See him? You can say goodbye."
Minerva didn't expect Henry to respond, and he didn't. She lingered with Lew for a minute, a wan smile on her lips. She imagined unspoken words between Henry and Lew—words of love and goodbye. She glanced at her daughter again and saw her face, uninterested. She obviously didn't understand the tender love between them.
Minerva sat Lew on Henry's chest and helped herself down off the tall bed. Short as she was, she was glad they no longer used this bed, especially after Henry hit fifty years old a few years ago. His back hadn't been up for his sometimes frequent trips to the bathroom. Minerva worried about him falling. She lifted the dog off his chest and left the room without speaking to Piper.
***
When she rounded the corner of the hall, she saw Pastor Averil stomping his boots on the welcome mat in front of the door and John holding the door for him. She wanted to sneak herself down the hall and retreat to her room. Too late.
"Hi Mrs. Day," he said. Minerva only nodded her head and moved to Henry's recliner. John would see to Averil tending Henry. She had supervised his visit a week ago and said everything she needed to say and listened to everything she needed to hear. Besides, the preacher's sermons had always made her sad. His visit here last week was no different.
Why was death so sad? She didn't understand the need for people to wallow in their grief like pigs in mud. She understood sorrow over losing someone all right, but why the extra fuss? Death was death. The ultimate and final journey in anyone's life, something no one could escape and no one could live again to tell about it. Minerva knew that when she died, she would want no extra hullabaloo surrounding it. "Just throw my ashes across the pasture," she would say to anyone listening. "Don't spend a lot of money on some big funeral. I won't know the difference anyway." Then she'd laugh and wink. When Piper heard her, she would grin at her mother as if she agreed with her every word. Or, Minerva guessed, didn't take her seriously.
She poured herself another cup of coffee. John had made more for the preacher but Averil declined a cup, saying he'd had his coffee for the day. Minerva thought he'd go into an impromptu sermon on over-indulging in pleasurable things and was glad when he didn't.
"Mother, you coming with us?" John asked from down the hall.
"I'll be there in a minute," Minerva said.
Ten minutes later, Piper appeared and stood in the kitchen. Minerva's thoughts were interrupted and she snapped her lashes at the intrusion. "The pastor wants us all in the room for a prayer," Piper said. She turned and headed back to the room.
Minerva sighed and rose from the chair. Despite all of her musings about death and sermons, she still didn't want to miss a prayer. Everyone needed prayer for their overwrought grief and sinful natures. And she needed prayer to get through these last hours of Henry's life. She would ask for forgiveness. She needed the strength to face being alone for the rest of her life. She needed help coping with her children, who refused to understand how she grieved for her husband.
***
It was early evening and Minerva reclined on her bed, a worn patchwork quilt pulled to her chin. Outside it was freezing, but inside the trailer was toasty warm, too hot sometimes for Minerva's liking. But now she was chilled, her toes so cold they refused to move. She rubbed her feet together and curled one around the other the best she could. Lew was asleep by her side and the twins were with Henry.
The visit from the preacher exhausted her and she had escaped down the hall to her own bedroom before he left. She scoffed at the accusing look on Piper's face before she exited the room. She wouldn't have noticed this kind of look, as usual, if John had not moved next to Piper and drawn attention to her. Minerva never questioned her ability to decipher what people's expressions really meant.
A soft rap on the front door brought everyone into the hall, where Minerva met up with John and Piper. Lew sat up in her bed, barking. "Hush, Lew," Minerva said quietly. She turned toward the door. "Who is that?" Minerva asked. "Don't answer it."
"I'll see who it is," John said, taking long strides to the front door.
Piper was behind him, peering through the kitchen window at the driveway out front. "I don't see anyone out there...must be parked on the other side, or someone in the neighborhood." She let go of the curtain at the same time John opened the door. Minerva stood holding her breath just out of sight in the hall.
"Mr. and Mrs. Smith," she heard John say, "come in."
"We've come to check to see if everything was okay. Gloria here saw Mr. Averil leaving this morning. So thought we'd come over and ask if ya'll need anything."
"We're doing all right, considering," Minerva said, emerging from the hall. "Henry's dying—as you know—but he's still hangin' on right now." She didn't bother to say hello, or thank you for stopping by, but turned and walked down the hall. She could feel Mr. Smith's eyes on her while she entered the bedroom and closed the door.
Minerva stood at the bedroom door straining to hear. She opened the door an inch and craned her ear. She never cared much for Gloria. Always found her a meddling type of person, prone to stick her nose where it didn't belong. She only heard muffled voices, though, so she shut the door. Let them talk about her if they chose to. They had nothing better to do. Minerva swiped a hand back and forth across her nose like she smelled something bad then went into the bathroom and sat on the edge of the tub. She looked around and reached for a lipstick on the counter. She stood, uncapped the top, and smeared the crimson color across her lips. She would work on her face until the Smiths were gone.
***.
"Mother?" Piper said after she opened Minerva's bedroom door, "I think it's time." Minerva raised her head to check the time. Eleven-thirty p.m.
She turned on a small table lamp and slipped from bed. When she stood her shadow hovered over her and crept along the wall while she moved. The floor creaked in its usual spots when she walked to the closet and tugged a robe over her gown.
John and Piper were standing over their father, an arm around one another's back, when Minerva walked in. Henry's labored gurgling brought Minerva to attention and she looked at him, then at the twins. Piper's hand was clamped over her mouth, eyes misted, and her other hand squeezed part of her brother's shirt as if she were trying not to fall. John stood in silence, watching his father.
Minerva stood on the other side of the bed. The acrid odor of urine assaulted her nose and she turned her head before looking at him again. She wondered if he had also shit himself. The nurse had told her these were some signs that the end was there. Minerva placed two fingers on Henry's wrist. She couldn't f
eel a pulse but Henry's eyes were still open and the sound — a wet, gurgling wheeze — emanated from his chest and throat.
They knew not to call a doctor this time. Henry had instructed long ago he wanted no life support, but only to die naturally and without fuss. He and Minerva thought alike on this, and she obeyed his last wishes. He was beyond life support now anyway, and Minerva knew Henry was being delivered to his almighty God.
There were no preparations to be made. Minerva had bathed him not long before and there wasn't a strand of hair out of place on his head. Even his mouth smelled clean, like spearmint. Minerva brushed his teeth after his bath and had rolled fresh sheets under him. They couldn't do anything about the urine smell. He needed to die in peace, without having his bedclothes changed again in his last moments.
"I hope he's not in much pain," Minerva said. "He's been doped up so much lately he probably isn't feeling a thing." She placed her palm on Henry's forehead. "He's barely warm now."
Piper gasped, her hands pressed close to her chest, and she stepped closer to her father. She had told John she wouldn't cry when the time came, but now she fought back tears. "This is so hard," she said, "just so hard."
"Yes," John said, "it is."
When Henry drew his last breath at midnight, Piper was holding his hand on one side while John held his hand on the opposite side. Neither spoke. Their father's eyes remained half open until Piper reached to close them.
Minerva watched Piper tuck the blanket under her father's chin and smooth his brow. John left the room to call the coroner.
"Would you like to say goodbye to Daddy before the coroner gets here?" Piper asked. "Maybe be alone with him for a minute? I can leave if you'd like." Minerva didn't say anything. "John and I both have said goodbye."
Minerva saw Piper's jaw tighten while she moved around the bed and stood a short distance from her mother. Her hands were gripped around each other and her feet moved heavy on the floor. "Mother? Are you all right?" Piper asked. She waited for an answer, but none came.
In the half-light Piper's features melted into a mask of indignation and horror, the corners of her mouth struck downward and her widened eyes morphed to hardened slits. "Why are you just sitting there, watching me?" Minerva slowly turned her face toward the window, which seemed to fuel Piper's anger. "You're a monster, and you wanted this to happen. I know you wanted Daddy to die."
Minerva didn't speak, but was sitting in the rocking chair, staring out the black window. She wasn't about to talk to her daughter now, not after what she had said. She had said her goodbye to Henry, and it wasn't any of Piper's business meddling like that, telling her what she needed to do with her husband. Damn her. Someday things will be different. She wasn't about to talk to John, John Peter, again either.
Outside the wind stirred. The tree's bare branches screeched across the window pane again. Like they were trying to divulge some great secret, thought Minerva. Their insistent scraping grew louder when the biting wind shifted, then grew softer when the wind died. But Minerva focused on nothing but the black outside the window, her mind whirling with disconnected thoughts.
The trailer walls shook from the wind and the light in the spare room flicked off. Minerva didn't move, nor did she seem to notice that other lights had been knocked out in the storm; the heater no longer grinded off and on.
The only sound in the room was the clawing of the branches against the window.
Minerva sat in the dark, rocking in the chair, her toes tapping on the carpeted floor.
Chapter Two
Four Years Later
Minerva didn't want to linger over lunch. She had business to attend to with Piper. The bologna, slices of yellow onion, Wonder bread, ketchup and mustard, were placed on the table before Piper got there. When her daughter arrived, they hurried for their plates as if they were uncomfortable, each commenting on the weather, or Piper's husband, George, or their foster child, Fellow.
Fellow was three years old when the Johnsons took him in. He was given life by an unmarried nineteen year old girl who vowed she would go crazy if her wealthy parents forced her to turn him over to an adoption agency, which is what they did. The agency was far enough away to ensure the parents' privacy. The only connection the girl had with her newborn, after giving birth to him in another town, was to accompany her parents on the heartsick journey to the agency. Her mother helped contain the screaming girl in the car when the beautiful, black-haired baby was swooped from her arms by the girl's father and whisked inside. "Tell them his name is Fellow— after Grandpa, please," she had said to her father while he walked away with the boy, her tear-stained face scrunched in pain.
Minerva chewed each piece ripped from the sandwich like she had some place to be. She ate like this when something weighed heavy on her mind. She watched the young woman sitting across from her do the same, seemingly on cue. Well, Minerva thought, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree. Somehow, Piper managed to slip into some of her mother's peculiarities without much provocation. Of course, Minerva didn't consider them peculiarities, just personality traits.
Piper finished her sandwich first and Minerva polished off what remained of the potato chips. The two moved to the living room and Piper sat upright on the couch, eyes wide. The conversation had been pleasant but now tension hung in the air like a dull fog.
Minerva shuffled in her seat, her heavy bottom settled deeper into the couch. When she moved, the end table shook and the mustard stained Daisy bowl left there from last night's snack made a tinkling sound. She patted her belly, meaning she finished another satisfying meal.
"You cain't take care of Fellow," Minerva said, "don't know why you and George want to adopt him now." Her southern accent defied she lived in Pinewood, New Mexico, a small town fifteen miles from Ruidoso. She especially loved Pinewood for its small town warmth and hospitality. She and Henry had moved here from Ruidoso after they married so that Henry, a construction foreman, could help build the town.
Minerva's two stubby fingers pushed the Daisy bowl about an inch from where it sat. Again she heaved and both legs curled knee-bent on the couch beside her. The position strained her and she moved them both back to the floor, an inch from the tattered carpet. Minerva thought of that poor dog Piper and George used to have. "Pea died because of you," she said. "If you didn't care for him, how can you adopt a kid?"
Piper snorted and her impish face scrunched. "Momma, we've done just fine as foster parents. Adoption will make Fellow ours. And you talk like Pea was a real kid. It was an accident that took Pea." Piper sat adjacent to her mother on a plaid couch, an old family heirloom she refused to inherit. She gripped the matching pillow closer to her chest. This was the same faded pillow on the same couch that resided in this trailer for more than thirty-five years. A few said the trailer, still intact after so many years, must have known its owner well; it wouldn't have dared crumble on top of Minerva Day.
She peered at Piper over her tortoise-shell reading glasses, pink lips agape. "What do you want from me? You come over here wanting trouble, telling me you and that...that husband of yours, are adopting Fellow. That's the last thing you two need."
Piper laughed, her legs kicked out, her voice strained and too high pitched. At times like this, she became child-like: her small frame would fold in, her blue eyes hungry. The effect would be of a small girl huddling in a corner, begging for bread. "Please... answer me." She slapped her forehead. "You do think we killed Pea. You think we killed our dog." Piper turned serious and once again sat rigid, her hair disarrayed, like her mood. "It was an accident, like I said."
Minerva picked Ritz cracker crumbs off her housedress. She searched for another and another and flicked each one. She took her time doing this, as if to make a statement. Piper stared at her then rose, grabbed her purse, and stomped out of the trailer, slamming the tired screen door behind her. Minerva yelled out after her, "You murdered your dog, and you'll hurt this kid, too—in some way or another." But Piper didn't hear. The tires ha
d already crunched across the icy mud puddles in the driveway.
***
Minerva's heavy breathing slowed. She pushed herself from the couch and headed to the kitchen for more Tator Cuts with mustard. She hoped there would be more of the baked potato wedges left in the fridge.
She expected this kind of treatment from both her children and they never disappointed her; John Peter and Audrey Piper, her beloved twins. After they were born, Henry used to say a change came over his wife, her voice softened, she was kinder, and she would complain less. But thirty-six years passed since then, and things beyond her control had changed.
Minerva remembered Piper's first haircut. Years ago, after hours of her daughter arguing with her about cutting her hair, she had tiptoed in the six year-old's room while she slept and snipped off her long blond locks. This didn't take much effort, and afterwards, she had refused to look at what she'd done. Piper deserved it.
After blinking these thoughts from her mind, she remembered Old Man shaking a pair of shearing scissors over her own young head, spit flying while he spoke. The assault had terrified her. People hated Minerva's father.
Fully awake now, she raised a hand to her face and realized her eyelashes were soaked. She could not force the images of her children from her mind and the leftover emotion caused her brain to plummet deeper into the past.
Minerva thought of her dead husband and pushed that thought out of her mind, too. Thinking of those days sometimes depressed her and she didn't know why. She only knew when she thought of his slow death it warped her mind and made her feel uneasy. She took a swig of elixir and laid down for a nap.
She dreamed John and Piper were two shocking-white haired kids with glowing eyes going around town and killing the people. As usual in this dream, when Piper lifted the hammer to slam her own mother in the forehead, Minerva woke. The thought of being murdered by one of her kids horrified her, and she thanked God she awoke before the deed was done. She yawned and thumped down the hall to the living room.
Minerva Day Page 2