by Scott Walker
After five months, Julia—who was pregnant but not showing and had yet to tell Art—accepted his proposal. They were married at the city hall in Clarksburg. She put everything she owned into her leather duffle bag and the suitcase Mercedes had brought from Asturias but never used again, and Julia and Art drove off to Cleveland that afternoon.
Richard refused to go with them. Despite his litany of psychological and emotional troubles, or perhaps because of them, Mercedes agreed to let Richard stay with her in Anmoore.
Chapter 23
Anmoore
September 1947
My dear brother and sister-in-law,
It is a miracle. Julia married today. Despite the many kind and accepting things you wrote to me after I told you about her behavior, it has continued to torment me until this day. I know that God is merciful and will forgive her, and I feel that I can forgive her now—and maybe myself, as well. Her husband has a good job as an auto mechanic in a big city in Ohio about five hours from here, so I believe they will have a decent life. It is as if a double bow ox yoke has been lifted from my shoulders.
What wonderful news from you also. I cannot believe your “baby boy” Manuel and África have now had their third child. And a girl this time! I remember when Luis, Julia and my Manuel were the same ages, and it is one of life’s sweetest times. Please tell Manuel that his Aunt Mercedes loves him every bit as much as the others, even though we have still only seen each other in photographs. Nothing against his brothers, but I believe he is the most handsome and dashing of them all!
I hope you are both healthy and well. I am only sixty-two, but I feel so old and worn out. I think back to the spinster aunts helping us with the harvests at Las Cepas, and I do not know how they did such work so far into their eighties. It must be something in the Asturian air.
Take care.
Mercedes González Conde
* * *
Anmoore, West Virginia
March 1948
At last, Mercedes was elated to be assisting Julia in childbirth. She still did not hold Art Kelley in particularly high esteem, but her oldest daughter was having a baby in wedlock, planned to raise it herself, and appeared to be genuinely happy with the entire situation.
Julia came down from Cleveland and stayed with Mercedes for the last month of her pregnancy. Many nights they sat up late, sitting in the kitchen and drinking coffee. Mercedes talked incessantly about Asturias. She told Julia stories her daughter had never heard, about her childhood exile from the farm, about her brother Antonio’s adventures in Cuba, and about life at Las Cepas after her return.
“That Christmas night when I met your papa seems like it was yesterday,” Mercedes told Julia one evening. “I can remember every detail.”
“What was he like then, mama?” Julia asked.
“I first thought, ‘What an odd little man,’” Mercedes said, laughing. “He didn’t talk much, and he was overwhelmed by the crowd of people. The house was full, and your Uncle Antonio was dragging him around by the elbow introducing him to everybody. But then, when we met, and he looked into my eyes and said, ‘Encantado,’ my heart just melted. Calmness and warmth and generosity radiated from him like heat from a fire. Everybody in my family always said he was the kindest, gentlest man they ever knew. And he could be so funny and charming.”
Julia was nine years old when the smelter closed, and eleven when the stock market crashed. “You know how much I loved papa,” she said, “and I remember some of the good times we had before the Depression, but I mostly remember him being quiet and sad for so long. I wish I could’ve known him then, back when you were in Spain.”
“I do, too,” Mercedes said. “I wish he could have stayed like that. Life didn’t treat him very fairly.” She reached across the kitchen table and took Julia’s hand. “There’s so much I wish you could know about Asturias, so many people there I wish you could meet.” Julia started to speak, but Mercedes pressed on. “You know how your sister is. She hates to be away from home overnight. And your brothers, well, after four years in the war, they’ll never set foot outside this country again. But you’re different.”
Julia laughed. “That, I certainly am.”
Mercedes had grown too serious to acknowledge the joke. “I know I was always angry about it, but you love to travel and explore.”
“I did, mama, but I have a husband now, and a baby on the way. Those days are over.”
“But it’s in your nature, Julia,” Mercedes said. “Of course, you’re in no position to do it now. But promise me, promise me, that one day you’ll go there, that you’ll go to Asturias and know our family, that you’ll walk along the high bluffs looking out over the sea, and through the eucalyptus groves at Las Cepas. Please, Julia, promise me you’ll go.”
Julia squeezed her mother’s hand. “If it means that much to you, mama, of course I will, if I ever can afford it. To be honest, sometimes I still miss my wanderings, most of them anyway. And even though it ended disastrously, I really liked Mexico.”
“You would love Asturias,” Mercedes said. “I know you would. I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed it, how much I miss it still.”
Not long after that night, Julia was back on her parents’ bed. Mercedes supportively talked her through the labor. Julia finally understood why her mother was the most popular midwife in every town for miles around for so many years. Pilar was in Ohio, so a young woman Mercedes was apprenticing knelt by Julia’s side. But Julia barely noticed the girl’s presence, she felt so connected to her mother.
Art paced and chain-smoked in the kitchen. Even had he been inclined to be in there with Julia, Mercedes firmly believed that men had no place in the birthing room.
“Okay, Julia,” Mercedes said gently. “Now, push. Push as hard as you can.”
The baby slid into Mercedes’ hands. “It’s a boy!” she announced with relish and lifted him up for her daughter to see.
“Can I hold him?” Julia asked.
“Of course, you can,” Mercedes said. She was amazed and relieved that Julia had asked. “Let us clean him up a bit for you, and then you can hold him for as long as you wish.”
“Thank you, mama,” Julia said.
“You’re welcome, sweet girl. It’s good to see you so happy.”
* * *
November 1948
Antonio González Conde sat in his favorite armchair in the parlour at Las Cepas and wept. The letter from his brother Ramón in St. Louis lay in his lap.
“What is it, Antonio?” María asked when she came into the room with his evening tea.
“My dear sister is gone,” he croaked.
There was not much of Mercedes to waste away when the cancer came, just after Julia and Art’s son Harry was born. She had taken great pleasure in the baby boy and in Julia getting some direction to her life. But a leaden feeling remained at her core to the end, the emanation of unaddressed traumas stretching all the way back to Casilda’s death and Bernardo’s abandonment.
Pilar returned from Ohio to help care for her mother. Mercedes died four days before Halloween 1948, in the bed where she gave birth to her children and where Antonio passed away. She had not seen her brother or Las Cepas in thirty-four years, but her two daughters and three sons were there with her in the little bedroom when she slowly exhaled a last, rattling breath.
They buried her in the Clarksburg cemetery, next to Antonio. Luis insisted on putting “Martha” on her gravestone.
Chapter 24
Cleveland, Ohio
August 1953
Harry knew he was not in his room when he woke, but it took a few seconds for him to remember they were at the neighbor’s apartment. His three-year-old sister slept soundly beside him in the twin bed. The bluish glow of the television faintly illuminated the hallway. He got out of the bed and followed the light to the living room.
The rotund, elderly woman dozed in her big, threadbare armchair. Her knitting had fallen to the floor. Harry tugged at her skirt, and she st
irred. “Mrs. Miller, where’s my mom? When are we going home?”
She pulled the five-year-old boy onto her lap. “I don’t know, dear. They said they’d be back hours ago. I hope they come before too long. I gave the baby the last of the formula, and she’ll be hungry again soon.”
“I want to go to my own bed,” Harry said. “It’s dark in there. The streetlight shines through our bedroom window.”
“I’m sorry, Harry. I didn’t know you were afraid of the dark,” the old woman said.
“I’m not afraid!” he said, bristling. “I just don’t like it.”
“I understand,” Mrs. Miller said, smiling. “When my boy was your age—that was his room you’re in—he was afr … he didn’t like the dark either.”
“Where is your boy, Mrs. Miller?” Harry asked.
She paused and looked away. “He didn’t come back from the war, dear.”
Harry did not know what that meant, but he had heard his father say it about friends of his. A lot of men must have stayed somewhere after the war.
“But we should get you back into bed, Harry. It’s late.” He slid off her lap. Mrs. Miller slowly hefted herself from the armchair. “And I’ll put the bathroom light on for you. It makes the hall nice and bright.”
As she tucked him in, Harry asked: “Where do my mom and dad go when they leave us here? They’re always loud and their breath smells when they come back.”
Mrs. Miller sighed. “They just go out and meet their friends, dear. You know, the way you see your friends at the playground, except they go to … to restaurants.”
“I wish they’d stay home and play with me more,” Harry said as he nestled under the wool blanket.
“I know, Harry,” the woman said. She patted him lightly on the shoulder. “But I’m always glad when you and Laura and Elizabeth come to visit.”
“I like it too, Mrs. Miller. You always make us good food. Mom doesn’t like to cook so much.” He rolled over and then sat halfway up. “And cookies! Can I have another cookie?”
“You really shouldn’t, Harry,” Mrs. Miller said, though her tone indicated she was not firm on the decision.
“Please?” he begged. “I won’t tell.”
She hated to deny any request from Julia and Art’s children because she knew they frequently went without so many things children should have in their lives. “Well, I suppose half a cookie won’t hurt,” she said.
When Mrs. Miller returned from the kitchen, Harry already was asleep again. She switched on the bathroom light for him and returned to her armchair in the living room.
* * *
November 1954
“For Christ’s sake, Julia, can’t you do something with those kids?” Art shouted. “They’re tearing the place apart.” Six-year-old Harry and four-year-old Laura were playing a raucous round of tag in the cramped apartment.
Julia, with two-year-old Elizabeth on her hip, came into the living room. “Are your legs broken?” she snapped.
“I’m trying to watch TV here,” he moaned. Art motioned toward the flickering black and white screen in its big, wooden casing.
“Well, I’m trying to wrestle some food into her, and I’m fucking exhausted,” Julia said.
“You’re always fucking exhausted,” Art grumbled. “Maybe you ought to go to the doctor. I’m tired of listening to you complain about it.”
“I am, Art,” she said bitterly. “On Tuesday.”
He had not actually meant it. Art knew she was constantly occupied with the children, and it weighed on her. Mothering did not come easily to Julia. Still, whenever Art tried to express his frustration, it came out as an attack. “You are?” he asked, his tone shifting from anger to concern.
“Yes, Art, I am.” Julia was still angry. “Something’s just not right. My stomach is killing me all the time, I ache all over, and every little thing tires me out.”
“Well, with this gang of kids, I’m not surprised,” Art said. “I’m sorry, Julia, for sniping at you like that.” He got up and extended his arms. “Give me Lizzy. I’ll finish feeding her. You sit down here and have a rest.”
Julia’s tone softened as well. “Thank you, Artie.” She shivered as she sat down. “And I’m always cold. Or burning up.”
Art awkwardly clutched Elizabeth in one arm and handed Julia the flannel throw from the sofa with the other.
“I hope the doctor can figure it out,” she said. “Surely, I’m not going though the change of life already. I’ve been having a lot of female problems, too.”
“Oh, hell, Julia, of course you’re not,” Art scoffed. “Your mother was only halfway through having babies when she was your age. You’re just worn out by this pack of wild animals. Harry! Laura!” he yelled back through the apartment. “Knock it off! Your mom doesn’t feel good.”
* * *
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Kelley,” the doctor said. Julia had returned to his office three days after her initial appointment to learn the results of the battery of tests. “I … this is always so difficult, especially with a woman of your age.”
“What? Spit it out, doc. You’re scaring the shit out of me,” Julia said.
“Mrs. Kelley, I wish more than you can know that there could be some mistake, but the tests are clear.” He paused. “Where is your husband, by the way? Are you here alone?”
“Yes, doc, I’m here alone,” Julia said impatiently. “He’s at work. For Christ’s sake, you act like I’m dying.”
The doctor took a deep breath and looked at his hands resting on the desk, his fingers interlaced. He looked back up at Julia. “I am afraid you are, Mrs. Kelley.”
As Julia had lain awake in bed the past three nights, that possibility kept worming its way into her mind, but she immediately pushed it away. “No, no,” she said slowly to the doctor. “There must be some mistake. I … I’m only thirty-five. I’m just tired from the kids. You know I have three under the age of six.”
“Yes, I know, Mrs. Kelley,” the doctor said. “I am very, very sorry. But the tests are definitive.”
Julia felt as if she were sitting in a vacuum chamber with all the air sucked out. “But how? What? What is it?”
“We really should get your husband here,” the doctor told her. “Nurse!” he called out from his office then looked back to Julia. “What is the telephone number for your husband’s workplace, Mrs. Kelley? Nurse Davis here will call him for us.”
“Uh, it’s, uh.” Julia could not call it to mind. “Oh, that’s not necessary, doctor,” she said.
“Please, Mrs. Kelley,” the doctor insisted.
She thought about it hard and came up with the number at the garage. The nurse wrote it down and returned to the reception desk.
Regaining some of her composure, Julia asked: “So, what is it?”
“Wouldn’t you prefer to wait for Mr. Kelley?” the doctor asked.
“No,” Julia replied. “I want to know now.”
“I really believe it would be best—” the doctor began.
“Damn it, doctor, just tell me,” she ordered
“Okay, Mrs. Kelley,” the doctor relented. “It is cervical cancer. This is the source of your extreme abdominal pain. And I am sorry to say it has metastasized.”
“What does that mean?”
“It has spread, to other organs, and to the bones, which is why you have been aching generally.”
Julia began to cry. “I don’t understand, doctor. Why’s this happened to me?”
The doctor reached into his pocket and handed her his handkerchief. “There is no explanation, Mrs. Kelley. I know it is little comfort, but it seems to strike randomly, and often among women around your age. There is nothing you could have done to prevent it.”
The doctor was correct. His explanation provided no comfort. “So, what do I do now?” Julia asked.
The doctor’s calm faltered. “In a less advanced case, I would recommend surgery and chemotherapy.” He paused.
“But?” Julia said.
; “But in your case, with it so advanced, I think this route of treatment would merely deprive you of any quality time you have left, with your husband and your children, without offering any real hope of extending your life.”
The nurse stuck her head through the doorway. “I reached Mr. Kelley, and he is on his way.”
“Thank you,” the doctor said. He rose from his tufted leather chair, came around the desk and sat in the seat next to Julia. He always tried to maintain a certain distance and detachment from his patients, but her distress was overwhelming. He took her hand and looked into her eyes. “I promise you, we will keep you as comfortable as we can and give you as many good days as possible.”
* * *
Pilar came to Cleveland to care for her sister. Julia’s son Richard had joined the Air Force the day he turned eighteen, and he made no effort to get leave to come see his mother. Julia died on a bitterly cold January day in 1955 at a hospital in Cleveland. She had just turned thirty-six.
For half a year, Art struggled to care for their three children by himself. He and Julia had generally been poor parents when they were trying to do it together. Alone, he was a disaster. By June, he could not go on.
Jim and Pilar were out in their back yard, working on the fish pond they had dug the summer before. Pilar dashed into the house when she heard the telephone ringing.
“Hi, Pilar. It’s Art.”
“Hello Art,” Pilar said, out of breath from her sprint to the kitchen. “It’s good to hear from you. How are you? How are the kids?”