Jean felt closer to her children for these glimpses into their private lives.
She felt further from them when they didn’t obey. And that usually centered around chores. Animal feeding was a chore. And with two horses, chickens, Roosty the rooster, Rusty the dog, Jean’s parrot, ducks, Angelina the cat, and Hap’s array of guinea pigs, there were plenty of animals in the Holly menagerie to feed. When Faith was seven, Angelina was her responsibility, which meant that Angelina was frequently hungry, and would eat anything, particularly human food.
March was often a rainy month, and Easter vacation that year was near the end of March. Rain drummed monotonously on the roof for a week and kept everyone indoors. When it rained a lot, the adobe soil around the house became slicker than ice. Feet slid out from under running children, and even Jean fell once just walking. So, for the whole week, the children were inside. The house seemed as small as the old frame cottage.
“When’ll it stop, Mom?”
“I don’t know, Forrie. When it gets ready to, I guess.”
“I’m ready for it to now. I gotta go see my fort.”
“It’s probably all washed away,” Faith chimed in.
“What do you know, dumbbell?”
“Mo-om. Forrie called me a name.”
“And you’ve never called him one?”
“Your fort’s probably a big pile of mess, all caved in.”
“What do you know about forts, stupid?”
“I know you’re not supposed to have ‘boys only’ forts. That’s what I know.”
“Who says?”
“President Eisenhower.”
Their bickering had started earlier and earlier every morning this week. Probably more than they did, Jean hoped the rain would stop so they’d go outside. “When it lets up some, you can go feed the animals.”
The next day it let up. Jean opened the windows in the stuffy house. Peacock and turkey droppings smelled foul and pungent in the wetness. In a steady stream of hallway clatter and doors slamming, the children headed outside.
“Ugh, it’s all slippery gush,” Billy said.
“Then stay inside.”
“No. I’m going to the barn.”
“Close the door, Billy.”
“Me, too,” Faith said and headed out the door followed by Hap.
“Not me, I’m not going where she’s going,” Forrie said. “I got to go see my fort.”
“Wear a jacket. Not your new one, Forrie.”
He came back inside, raced through the kitchen and down the hall, then back outside again. “Close the door,” she said again.
All day, in and out. But it was better than having them cooped up. By midmorning she wondered what her floor looked like. She couldn’t keep track of who was in and who was out. “Close the door,” she kept repeating, like a stuck record. They’d have to get a spring-loaded closer. Why they hadn’t before this, she didn’t know.
When Forrie came in for lunch, Faith squealed. “Mo-om, Forrie’s got mud all over his jacket.”
“Quit it.”
“And it’s his new one, too.”
“Keep your mouth shut, dumbbell.”
“Forrie, didn’t I tell you not to wear it?”
“I couldn’t find my old one.”
She took the tomato soup off the burner and started in on a lecture about school clothes and play clothes. It was tiresome, even to her, so she stopped abruptly. She went back to the stove. Feeling for the pan of soup, she found the cat on the counter, her head in the pan. “Dammit! Stay out of our lunch!” she yelled. She grabbed her by the scruff so roughly that Angelina squeaked. Jean headed for the door and felt with her foot. Open, of course. She pitched the cat as hard as she could outside. Angelina’s jangling two-note shriek as she hit the adobe wall across the breezeway was the stuff of nightmares. Four children sucked in their breath in unison.
“Mom!” Faith cried.
“If you’d keep the door closed, and that means you, too, Billy, the cat wouldn’t come in. And Faith, if you fed her when you were supposed to, she wouldn’t be so hungry that she eats our food. You didn’t feed her yet, today, did you?”
A meek little, “No.”
“If you don’t start doing what you’re supposed to, that cat’s going to the Humane Society, do you hear?”
“Yes.” Even softer.
The rest of the day the children walked on tiptoe, quiet as mice, closing the door without a slam.
But the effect of Jean’s outrage didn’t last. Before long, Faith again began forgetting to feed Angelina. After four days in a row of that and another discovery of Angelina on the kitchen counter indulging in the family’s dinner, Jean was determined. On Monday when the children were in school, she asked Ed Nelson to take the poor, neglected cat to the Humane Society.
Nothing happened the rest of the week. Just as Jean suspected, Faith didn’t even notice. On Saturday they had pancakes for breakfast. Faith cooked them. After the meal, Faith took the remnants outside on a plastic plate. “Here, ki—” Suddenly, truth dawned. She turned on her heel, flung the plate in the sink and raced through the house, bawling. The door to her room slammed. She didn’t come out all day.
By late afternoon, Jean wondered if she’d done more harm than good.
Chapter Thirty
The 1928 pickup was a rusted hulk, skeletal and barren. It had no distinct color, no windshield, no fenders, no sides, no division between cab and bed. A wooden bench served as a seat for driver and passenger. Forrest sat behind the wheel, shoulders squared to the task ahead, unaware of any discomfort as they bounced over the deeply rutted dirt road. By gum, he thought, I’m taking my family out to dinner just like any other father, risks be damned. Excitement pumped hard in him, and his muscles were tense, though his feet worked the pedals slowly and accurately. On his lap sat eight-year-old Forrie.
“Stretch up tall now so you can see everything ahead of us.” Forrest rested his hands gently on Forrie’s skinny arms, tight with the responsibility of holding onto the man-sized steering wheel.
“Have we passed the three big pepper trees on the right yet?” Forrest asked.
“Yup,” said the boy.
“Then we’re right by Lance’s.”
“Yup.”
“Do you see that bad place in the road yet?”
“Nope. Slow down.”
Forrest let off on the gas pedal.
“Oh, yeah. Now I see it.”
Forrest felt the muscles in Forrie’s arms grab on tighter as he prepared to steer around the ruts in the road. He let off on the gas a little more and the jalopy inched along. When it hit the ruts, it lurched and Hap grunted.
“Those were some nasty ones,” Jean said. She sat bracing herself on the seat with one arm, holding Hap in her other.
“No cars up ahead?” Forrest asked.
“Nope.”
“Po-op. Of course there’s no cars. This is private property,” Faith said from behind. “And this is our own private road.” The smugness in her voice coat the dry air.
“What’s that mean, private?” Hap asked.
“That means we have to pay to have it smoothed out.” Forrest chuckled. “That’s why it isn’t.”
The end-of-day sun slanting at a low angle made Forrest’s face warm. He tasted dust. Hap squirmed next to him and leaned down to look between the wooden slats that served as a floor.
“Mommy, you can see the road go by.”
“Tell me what it looks like,” she said.
“Just dirt.”
The truck jolted again and Forrest grunted. “As if we didn’t know.” After a pause he asked, “Do you have shoes on, Forrie?”
“Yes.”
“Do you, Hap?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you know if the others do, Jean? I don’t want them looking like a bunch of moth-eaten ragamuffins.”
“I think so.”
Hap wiggled out of Jean’s grasp to look behind. “Yeah, they do.”
&nbs
p; “Are they holding on?” Jean asked.
“Yup.”
“What’s up ahead now, Forrie, the big gully?” Forrest asked.
“Pretty soon.”
Forrest loved the closeness of driving with his son. He would do it with each of them, when they got old enough. He knew Forrie was hardly old enough now, but need made him grow up fast. Forrest felt the truck head down the incline. “We’re just about there, aren’t we?”
“Yeah.”
“This is good enough. Pull off to the right.” Forrie steered off the road and Forrest put on the brake. “Now, set it in reverse so we won’t slide down.” He guided Forrie’s hand on the gear shift and together they set the handbrake.
When they got out, Forrest tussled with Forrie a bit, ruffling his hair. “Pretty good job, buckaroo,” he said. “Billy, can ya find a rock to put under a wheel?”
The children walked half a step before their parents and guided them the surest way down the gully and up the other side. Forrest held Forrie’s hand and Jean held Faith’s. A furrow in the hardened dirt threw Jean sideways into Forrest. “Careful. Pull her back on course, Faithy.” He was feeling exultant, just like he used to as a teenager after a track meet when he’d vaulted well. He talked heartily while they made their way slowly up the half mile of dried-up Santa Maria Creek to town. He liked the way the heels of his boots dug into baked silt, crunching at every step.
Ramona was a one-street town, less than ten blocks long. Forrest knew it well. Main Street was lined by grayish green eucalyptus trees whose branches drooped from the heat. Toward the end of the day everything in Ramona was tired. Even though the street was paved, dust rose when a car went by and it made him swallow as they walked along the sidewalk. The shade of a row of eucalyptus trees gave only slight relief from the heat. Forrest felt whole and proud walking with his family down Main Street.
“Pop, there’s weeds growing right out of the sidewalk,” Hap said. “They’re scratchy.”
“What else do you see?”
“A dog.”
“What’s he look like?”
“Dead.”
They laughed. “He’s probably just hot. Have we passed Johnny’s drugstore yet?” Forrest asked.
“Just now,” Faith said.
“Did I ever tell you I worked there in high school?”
“Yes, Pop, at the soda fountain. We already know,” Forrie said with a sigh.
Ransom Brother’s Hardware was next, after the big crack in the sidewalk. Across the street was Whiting’s Feed Store.
“Is the feed store painted yet?”
“Nope. It’s still all peely.”
The roof of Riley’s Cafe, warped by years of sun and rain, sagged a little to the right, leaning toward the Ramona Four-Square Church. The screen door squeaked its customary high-pitched welcome. Inside, a ceiling fan with one paddle missing stirred up the air and the flies. It was just as hot inside, but at least the air was moving.
“Forrest Holly, where you been keeping yourself?” Pat Riley hollered from the kitchen like he always did.
“Jean didn’t give me any money this week. Can’t come in unless Jean gives me my ’lowance.”
“Then why don’t you get out and work, heh?”
“Don’t have to. Got Jean.”
Several voices in the restaurant laughed.
“Jean, Forrest. Come on over here.” Warren Kenworthy’s voice came from somewhere in the rear of the narrow cafe.
“Hey, hey. Sounds like my itty bitty buddy. Is your girlfriend here, too?”
“Sure am,” Betty said.
“Got room?”
“We can make room.”
The children led them onward and Warren slid two tables together. Often they’d meet a friend at Riley’s. Ramona had only one other restaurant. Forrest thrived on chance meetings with friends. This one felt especially good, a cap to his driving victory.
“I want a cheese sandwich and—”
“Grape soda. We know, Billy,” said Faith.
“Mommy, do you think Mr. Riley would make gingerbread man pancakes?” Forrie asked. “They’re my favorites.”
“I’m sure he would if you asked him nicely.”
Talk ranged over domestic events and local affairs, the move from turkeys to chickens in the valley, wells going dry, efforts to join the Colorado River Authority.
“I tell you, we’ve got to get into that or the whole town’ll dry up like a raisin,” Forrest said, keen on organizing.
“I know, but for right now, here she comes with your plate,” Warren said.
“Did you get your Nehi, Billy?” asked Forrest. He marched his first two fingers across the table until they bumped into Faith’s arm. He grabbed hold. Faith giggled at the attention. Then he did the same in Billy’s direction, but he couldn’t find him. He was sure he had the direction right. In others ways too, he couldn’t find him. Instead, Forrest’s fingers ran into Billy’s plate.
“Do you mind if I take the toothpick out of your dill pickle, Forrest?” Betty’s voice was solicitous.
“If you need a toothpick, Betty, for heaven’s sake, help yourself.” He explored his plate a moment, then said, “Hey itty bitty, would ya cut up my meat for me?”
Warren took the plate and cleared his throat. “How did you come tonight?” He spoke the question softly.
“Drove.” Forrest sat up straighter in his chair, ready to draw off the conversation from the one subject odious to him. “Forrie and I did together, didn’t we? He can manage that steering wheel just like a trucker. Show Warren your muscles, Forrie.” Talking about blindness would erode the vigor he needed to deal with it daily. Let others gain mileage out of their limitation, or use it as an identity. Not for him the tame shelter of some suffocating institution, some limited world apart. Instead, he competed in the construction business with people who could see. Forrest took another bite.
He heard Warren shift positions in the rickety wooden chair. Knives and forks clanked for a moment against plates, and then Warren spoke softly. “I think I ought to tell you, I’ve heard some talk around town that people think you shouldn’t do that.”
Forrest kept eating.
“He doesn’t do it on the streets, only private roads,” Jean said.
Warren put his knife down against his plate. “You know, anytime you want to come to dinner here or go anywhere, Betty and I’d like to come along.”
Forrest lifted some peas on his fork, but when he reached his mouth, nothing was there. “Thanks, buddy.” He tried for a jovial tone, but the words sounded flat.
The next morning the house was a flurry of activity. “Bring your shoes here.” Forrest stood in the service porch, ready for the Sunday morning ritual of shoe polishing. It was essential to Holly respectability as well as to making the shoes last, at least until the children’s feet outgrew them. Discarding shoes that still had some sole left was against his doctrine of gratitude for present riches, so it was important that their tops be preserved as long as their bottoms lasted. He spit in the tin of shoe polish and scrubbed his rag in little circles in order to make just the right moist mix. The sweet, musky odor had always meant Sunday to him, even in his youth when his father did the polishing. He counted four little pairs and two adult pairs lined up on the washing machine top, and hummed intermittently as he worked.
While Jean cooked breakfast, Forrest got the children ready for Sunday School. He soaped the little-boy body of Hap, feeling the smoothness of the slippery skin under the soap film. Week by week, Forrest found the limbs growing stronger and more stable. He scrubbed the head, playing with the lather. He wormed his finger behind the ears, into the ears, making a funny slurping noise until Hap giggled. Forrest felt the toddler’s arm twine around his leg below the knee, infinitely precious at that moment, dependent in its wet nakedness. With tenderness he wrapped him in a towel and patted dry his round stomach, the plump bottom, the wiggly fingers. Preparations for Sunday church were among his most cherished hours in
the week. It was time for a fatherhood of touch.
One by one, he called the children to him to cut their fingernails. Billy hung back. Hap squeezed his hand into a tight fist. Forrest had to pry it open. After three fingernails, Hap’s giggles turned into wails.
“What are you crying for?”
“They’re going to bleed,” Hap whined.
“Does a tree bleed when you cut it? Nails are just like trees.” When Forrest had finished three pairs of hands, he called out, “Billy, where are you?”
He heard him down the hall. “Mommy, I don’t want Pop to cut my fingernails.”
“Why?” Jean asked.
“He always cuts them too close and they bleed.”
“Billy, come in here,” he bellowed. Letting one child go without would set a precedent. “Billy.”
Shoes shuffled toward him in the hall. “Here I am.” The voice was low and grumpy. Forrest reached forward, found a fist, and the struggle began again.
After breakfast they assembled outside when they heard Mother Holly’s car come up the driveway.
“Everybody here? Sound off,” said Forrest.
“One.”
“Two.”
“Four.”
“Where’s Billy?”
Forrie, the organizer, went off to look.
“Faith, check to see if Hap has underpants on,” Jean said. “I can never be too sure.”
After a while, Forrie came out with Billy in tow.
“Uh-oh.” Mother Holly’s voice sounded concerned. “I think Billy’s got the mumps. His cheek’s swollen out like a golf ball.”
“Guess I have to stay home.” Billy’s voice was bursting with triumph.
“That doesn’t impress me,” Jean said. “Come here.” She poked her finger into Billy’s puffed up jaw. “You packrat.”
“What are you doing?” Forrest asked.
“He had a soggy piece of sausage stashed in his jaw.”
“How did you know?”
“I knew I’d cooked enough, but the plate was empty in two minutes.”
Forrest laughed in amazement. “You just can’t fool your mom, Billy, so you might as well give up.”
After church the children had their shoes off before they got out of the car. “Change out of your good clothes before you go play,” Jean said.
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