The Mothers of Voorhisville

by Mary Rickert

  We took him to the barn, and, though he was tied up, he seemed under the impression that we were taking his advice. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You ladies won’t hear a thing. Well, maybe the shots, but no crying or anything. Timmy didn’t cry but for thirty seconds at the most.”

  Elli went to her room, where she found Tamara and Raj Singh curled up in her bed, both still fully clothed but sleeping soundly. She eased in beside them, pressing against Raj the way he was pressed against Tamara.

  ELLI

  I remember being in my bed with Tamara and Raj Singh. All three of us suffering like we were, it didn’t even feel like we were three people, but more like one. The way I felt inside, I was Elli Ratcher, fifteen and on summer break, and I was a mommy with leaking breasts, and I was the monster who thought I wanted my baby to die, and I was a hundred years old like one of those women they show on TV in the black cape and hood, screaming over my dead baby, and I was the girl with the beautiful bones wrapped around the man with skin that smelled like dirt and I was the man who smelled like dirt and I was his wife dreaming the dead.

  That saying kept going through my head. We are such stuff as dreams are made on. When I heard screaming, I thought it was a dream, and I thought I was a dream, peeling the girl I was away from the man laying there beside me. I walked my dream feet over to the window and the man got up and stood beside the girl and said, “What is that horrible noise?” I turned to that part of me, while the other part continued to sleep, and said, “It sounds like my father.” That’s when we noticed the babies flying out of the barn, swooping through the night sky. We watched the mothers, in a disarray of tangled hair and naked breasts. We heard their screams of blood as they ran into the house. I said, “This is not happening,” and went back to bed. I heard the man saying, “Tamara, wake up, we must leave this place. Tamara, wake up,” but as far as I know she didn’t wake up until the morning.

  TAMARA

  There are certain mornings in Voorhisville when the butterflies flit about like flower seraphs and the air is bright. Tamara woke up to just such a morning, taking several deep breaths scented with manure and the faintest hint of roses, all the way from town. Sweet, she thought, before she rolled over and saw the empty crib, which brought her back to the nightmare of her son’s death and the other baby murdered by his own grandfather. It did not seem possible that such a reality could exist in this room, papered with tiny yellow flowers.

  Tamara sat at the edge of the bed listening to the breathing of the girl who still slept there and the murmur of voices below, raised in argument, then hushed. She had to go to the bathroom. It did not seem possible that such a simple bodily function would take precedence over her sorrow, but it did. She shuffled to the door, the chair she had used to discourage visitors shoved to the side. She remembered Raj, pushing at the door, asking her to let him in. Vaguely, she remembered doing so. But where had he gone? She suddenly missed her husband, as if he had taken part of her with him, as if she suffered the ghost pain of a severed limb. She stepped into the hall, which was dim and hot.

  The words “police,” “reporters,” “prison,” “murder,” “self-defense,” “justice,” “love,” “fear,” “danger,” and “coffee” drifted up the stairs. Tamara stood in the hot hallway and listened.

  MADDY

  I got to the Ratcher farm right at the end of the funeral, which is okay, ’cause I’m not sure—even as solemn of a event as it was—that I could of kept a straight face through “Silent Night.” Stooker dropped me off out by the road ’cause there was so many cars parked in the driveway and on the lawn.

  “Looks like some kind of thing going on,” he said. “You sure you wanna get out here, Maddy? We could go to the graveyard.”

  The graveyard, case you were confused by Elli Ratcher’s spaced-out words (But what do you expect from a girl who tried to hang herself; I mean, it only makes sense there would be some brain damage, right?)—the graveyard is where kids in Voorhisville hang out, and if that don’t give you the right idea about this shithole town, nothing will. Anyway, I got out of the car, and, like I said, got there right at the end part, where Elli was going, “We are here,” like she was high or something. For all I know, maybe she was.

  JoJo and me were there when Mr. Ratcher tried to convince us to let him kill our babies, like that was the reasonable thing to do, and I was one of them that voted to tie him up in the barn. That’s as far as we got, I swear on my own brother’s grave. So we all went out there, or I guess most of us did, and tied him to the center pole. He kept saying we were nuts. Back at the house, a bunch of the mothers called up husbands and kids and shit and said how they were at the Ratchers’ and going to spend the night. I called my mom and told her me and JoJo was staying with Elli Ratcher. My mom goes, “Well, I suppose it would make sense you two girls would become friends.”

  We laid down on the floors in the living room and kitchen. I slept in the yard and some other mothers were out there too. We had our babies with us. Nobody slept upstairs ’cause nobody wanted to make Tamara or Raj or Elli have to hear the sound of a living baby. I would say that proves we were not evil, like some people say.

  Mr. Ratcher was sort of upset. He kept saying he had to take a piss, so Mrs. Ratcher stayed behind to unzip him and hold him so he wouldn’t wet himself. I was half-asleep when she came back up to the house with Matthew. I didn’t see no blood on her and that’s something I would of remembered if I did, but it was dark. I told the mothers this. I told them the screams came later, after I saw Mrs. Ratcher come back to the house. The screams woke me up. I reached for JoJo, but he ain’t anywhere around, and I think somehow that monster, Mr. Ratcher, got a hold of my baby, so I run out to the barn.

  After my brother got killed in Afghanistan, I was amazed to find out that some people—and I am not just talking teenagers here—wanted to know details, like, was he shot or blown up, and what body parts did they send us?

  Anyway, my point is, I ain’t going to get into details about what happened in the barn for all you sick fucks that like to say you gotta know out of some sense of clearity, like that reporter said, and not because, let’s face it, you get off on it somehow. But I will say this: I screamed really loud, and I am not someone who screams at scary movies and shit.

  All of them were in the barn. Even the ones that had been in carriers. Somehow, they figured out how to unbuckle straps and shit. Just like that, they were no longer babies. We no longer had control over them. Some of the mothers say we probably never did, that they just fooled us for a while.

  So the mothers come out and they see blood on the babies and they start undressing and the babies come swooping down and the mothers are screaming and everyone runs into the house and starts washing their babies—wiping the blood off, you know, to see where the actual wound is. I’m trying to tell them; I’m saying, “Mr. Ratcher is dead,” but nobody pays attention. Some of them are screaming that they’re going to kill him.

  Then Mrs. Ratcher comes in and she’s crying and screaming, “Who killed my husband?” and that’s when she sees all the mothers wiping blood off their babies. She’s all covered in blood herself, which she says was from trying to get him untied. “Give me a knife,” she says. “I gotta get him untied.”

  Someone goes, “Theresa, you are better off. He was a child molester and a murderer and you are better off without him.”

  Mrs. Ratcher says, “He’s no child molester—we had a misunderstanding, is all. And he’s no murderer, either. Not usually.”

  The whole thing was so horrible I guess none of us could believe it. I mean, even now, after all this time, I still sort of expect to see Billy sitting on the couch, eating pistachios. I know how crazy a person’s mind can get when something so terrible happens that you can’t even believe it.

  Mrs. Ratcher said, “Where’s Elli? He didn’t molest her. She can straighten this whole thing out.”

  But Elli was upstairs in bed—mourning, we assumed, her life and murdered child
.

  “My mother did the same thing,” Evelyn Missenhoff said. “When I told her about my dad she said I was lying.”

  Mrs. Ratcher stood there, holding Matthew tight. In spite of all that day had brung—her grandson and husband both dead, not to mention the surprise of finding Tamara Singh asleep on her couch just that morning with her own dead baby—Mrs. Ratcher had a pretty face. She made a point of looking at each of us, shaking her head until that dirt colored hair of hers brushed her freckled cheeks. “We have to call the police,” she said.

  A mother’s love is a powerful thing. It can direct a person to behave in ways they never would of thought possible. When Billy got sent to Afghanistan, I overheard my mother telling him he didn’t have to go.

  “Yeah I do,” he said.

  “You could quit. You know Roddy Tyler? He got a honorable discharge from Vietnam. Why don’t you do that?”

  “Ma, I wanna go.”

  “Well, if you want to.”

  I heard it in her voice, but didn’t really understand until I had my own child. Being a mother, I figure, is like going a little bit crazy all the time.

  THE MOTHERS

  The mothers want you to understand. We are not bad people, we are mothers. When Mrs. Ratcher insisted we call the police, we saw it as a threat, and did the only thing we knew to do: we took Matthew out of her arms and tied her up to a pole in the barn—facing away from her husband, ’cause we’re not evil.

  “Someone murdered Pete,” she said. “And whoever did it is still among you.”

  Did she know? It’s hard to believe she didn’t. But it’s probably just as difficult to understand how it is that we knew and didn’t know at the same time. Who could believe such a thing?

  Later, when we heard the screams again, we tried to ignore them. We rolled over. Closed our eyes. We tried to believe it was a dream. We tried to believe we weren’t even awake, but the screams pulled us back, and we fell to the earth. And when we went to the barn, we saw all our babies there, and Mrs. Ratcher, dead.

  They flew out of the barn into the sky, up to the bright stars. We weren’t sure if we should call them back or not. We stood there, our mouths hanging open, tears falling on our tongues.

  Later, they came back, lunging at our breasts and drinking with selfish, insistent sucks and tiny bites, until they finally fell asleep, and we realized we had a problem.

  ELLI

  I wake up on my birthday thinking about how I dreamt I had a baby. With wings! And my mom did too! I dreamt almost all the mothers came to our house for a funeral. I dreamt my dad killed my baby and the mothers tied my dad up in the barn. What’s that saying? We are such stuff as dreams are made on.

  When I open my eyes, the first thing I see is the empty crib. This nightmare is my life.

  “Mom?” I call. “Mom?” She doesn’t come. She’s probably busy with Matthew. When I look at the crib, my breasts drip milk. What does it mean, anyway? “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” Does he mean the dreams of sleep, or the dreams of hope? And how are they made on us? Are we, like, scaffolding? I can’t figure it out. I can’t figure anything out. “Mom?” My breasts hurt. My arms hurt too. My whole body hurts. Maybe this is what happens to old people. Maybe it starts to take its toll, holding up all those dreams.

  But I’m not old! Today is my sixteenth birthday! When I open the bedroom door, I can hear the voices of the mothers downstairs. Why aren’t they gone? I can’t decide how I feel about them tying my dad up in the barn, even though he killed Timmy. “Mom?” The voices go quiet. “Mom, could you come up here?” I don’t want to see the mothers. I hate them. I don’t want to see the babies, either. I hate them too.

  “Elli?” someone says.

  “Could you tell my mom I want to talk to her?”

  There is all kinds of whispering, but I can’t make out the words, before one of them hollers, “She’s not here right now.”

  That figures, right? This is how my mom has been ever since Matthew was born. But then I think maybe she’s out getting my presents, or something. I feel better for about two seconds, until I remember Timmy is dead. I can’t celebrate today. What is she thinking? “Could you get my dad for me then?” The whispering starts again. The mothers are really starting to get on my nerves.

  I go downstairs. There are mothers everywhere—in the living room, in the kitchen. When I look out the window, I even see some in the yard. Babies are flying everywhere, too. One almost hits me in the head, and I have to clench my fists and hold my arms stiff so I don’t hit it. The mothers sitting at the kitchen table look shocked to see me. “Your dad can’t come right now, either,” one of them says.

  I don’t know why, but I feel like I shouldn’t let on that I know how strange this all is. I shrug like, okay, no big deal; and say, “We are such stuff as dreams are made on.” This gets them looking at each other and raising eyebrows. Maybe it wasn’t the right thing to say. I walk to the refrigerator and take out the orange juice. I open the cupboard, but all the glasses are gone. Then I see the dishes drying on the counter. I try to find my favorite glass—the one with SpongeBob SquarePants on it—but I don’t see it anywhere. I finally take my mom’s glass, the one with the painted flowers. I pour myself a tall orange juice. When I turn around, all the mothers are staring. I take a big drink. The mothers act like they aren’t watching, but I can tell they are. When I put the glass down, they all pretend, real quick, to look at something else. “I think I’m going to go to Timmy’s grave,” I say. They look up at me, and then down, or at each other. They look away as if I am embarrassing. I shrug. I have to be careful, because I can tell that this shrugging thing could become a tick. Martha Allry, who is a year behind me in school, has a tick where she blinks her right eye a lot. People call her Winking Martha.

  “Would you like me to come with you?” one of the mothers says.

  She is a complete stranger. Even so, I hate her. She’s one of the ones that tied up my dad in the barn. She’s here when my mom is not. I say, “Thanks, but I’d rather be alone.”

  The mothers nod. They nod quite a bit, actually. I walk out of the kitchen. I don’t have on shoes and I’m still wearing my nightgown. This is how we do things on the farm.

  It’s a beautiful morning. The birds are singing and some babies fly by, which is totally weird.

  One of the mothers comes up to me and says, “Where are you going?” She sort of looks sideways at the barn when she thinks I’m not looking.

  Right away I know my dad is still tied up. The mothers are not my friends.

  “I’m going to Timmy’s grave.”

  The mother’s face turns into a bunch of Os—her eyes, her mouth, her whole face goes all round and sorry. I walk past her, already planning how I have to get into the barn and rescue my dad. I think I’m going to rescue him. I can’t decide for sure. He’s my dad, but he’s also my baby’s murderer. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe he was just trying to scare everyone. Maybe I hate him. I don’t know what I feel, but I should have some say in this; it’s my baby he killed.

  I walk down to the apple tree where there are two mounds of dirt. No cross or anything. Nothing to tell me which one is Timmy. This makes me angry. It’s like I get hit on the back of my shoulders, that’s how it feels, and I just drop to my knees and start crying, right there in the dirt. I can’t believe Timmy is dead. Nobody knows my horrible secret about how many times I wanted him to die. Nobody knows how evil I am. I am a very evil person. Nothing can change this. I wanted him to die and he did. That’s the whole story. It doesn’t matter that I’m sorry.

  My breasts are dripping right through my nightgown. The apple tree is buzzing with bees. A plane flies overhead. My whole body hurts. It hurts to breathe. I can’t stop crying. Will I ever stop crying?

  Then, just like that, I stop crying.

  The mothers are calling their babies. They are taking their tops off and spreading their arms and the babies are diving for their breasts. They go into the house. Some of
them glance at me, and then, real quick, look away.

  The yard is empty except for a couple of crows. I don’t see anyone looking out the windows. The mothers have forgotten about me. I stand up, check the house again, and then walk, real fast, to the barn.

  At first I can’t really see, ’cause it’s dark there. Not like middle-of-a-moonless-night dark, but shady, you know, and there’s a strange smell. I can sort of see my dad, tied up to the pole; I can see the shape of him. “Dad?” I say, but he is totally quiet. I can’t believe he fell asleep. I get a little closer. That’s when I see what they did to him.

  The mothers are evil; worse than me. He doesn’t even look like my dad anymore. There are flies buzzing all over him. I try to shoo them away, but they are evil too.

  We are such stuff as dreams are made on. I can’t carry the dreams anymore. I can’t hold them up. I am sinking under the weight. I can’t look at him anymore. The mothers are monsters. I need my mom. She’ll know what to do. She’ll make the mothers go away.

  I look at the beams my dad was always talking about. I look at the holes in the roof, showing bits of blue sky. I look at the tools by the door, the shovels, the hoe, the axe, nails, rope, Dad’s old shirt, and Mom’s gardening hat; I am spinning in a little circle waiting for Mom to find me, and that’s when I find her: tied to the other pole, her back to my dad, but chewed up just like him.

  I get the rope and the ladder. I make a noose in the rope and try to throw it over the beam that goes in between both of them, but it doesn’t work until I weigh down one end with an old trowel my mom uses for tulip bulbs. A couple years ago I helped her plant red tulips all around the house. Afterwards, we sat on the porch and drank root beer floats. We used to get along better.

  I finally get the rope over the beam and twist the rope around it a few times. I have to be careful, ’cause that trowel swings back towards me. I know it doesn’t make sense to be careful, considering, but the point is that I didn’t want to feel pain. By the time I stand on the ladder and check the rope, my arms are really tired.