Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian

by Newall, Liz;

  I’d still be there if it wasn’t for the next album. It was a woman singer, a screamer. As good as it felt to hold Joanne, I kept getting distracted by that voice. “Who is that?” I asked Joanne, straightening up a little. “I know I’ve heard her. I think I’ve even seen her.”

  “Janis Joplin,” she said. “Remember her group, Big Brother and The Holding Company?”

  Something stirred in my memory, like pieces of a bad dream. I could see her on stage. The voice kept screaming.

  “Her album’s ‘Cheap Thrills,’” Joanne said, pulling me closer. “She’s dead now.”

  The singer went into “Break it … another little piece of my heart” and it hit me like a bolt. I felt a rush of emotions I could barely hold back. I stood straight up. “I’ve got to go,” I told Joanne.

  What I couldn’t tell her is that the other time I heard Janis Joplin was at a jam or concert—or whatever the hell you want to call it—with Sarah, on our honeymoon.

  I look at Sarah, still sleeping. “Damn you, Sarah!” I say out loud. “You screwed my life up without even being here.”

  I meant to call Joanne the next day, apologize, and ask her out for dinner. But that was the same night Sarah’s mother died. I didn’t even know she was sick! I’d quit going over to the Crawfords’ after Sarah left, but Donna Jean should have called. Of course, I don’t put a whole lot of stock in what she says. If she had told me her mother was deathly ill, I’d have taken it for a bad cold. Donna Jean’s still cute-looking but dingy, one hundred percent. And quite a talker. Half the time about nothing, like what’s going on at the beauty shop or who she read about in one of those grocery-store newspapers. Don’t know how Andrew stands it. Sarah says the same thing about Andrew and Donna, only the other way around.

  The whole family babies Donna Jean to death, Sarah included. They should have named her Prima Donna Jean. When she had the twins you’d have thought she died and came back to life. And Andrew made like he delivered them. The way the Crawfords carried on, I don’t see how Sarah stood it. She’d already lost two. And all she’d heard from her family was “It was probably for the best” or “You can always try again.” And there was Donna with one she expected and one she didn’t. Sarah lost so many.

  Lying here, she looks like she did in the hospital after she lost the first baby, so thin and frail and tired. Maybe that’s it! Maybe she’s been too weak to leave. Or brainwashed! Like with Patty Hearst where the victim identifies with the captor. And maybe it took her mother’s death to snap her out of it. Or maybe it was just a guilty conscience.

  I heard about Mrs. Crawford the morning after she died. “Heard” nothing, I read it in the paper. How do you like that? I’m in the family for twenty years, then I have to read about my own mother-in-law’s death in the newspaper. Vivienne was the closest thing to a mother I ever had. I should have at least gone to see her. By the time of the funeral I was feeling all kinds of emotions—guilt, sadness, regret, and anger, anger mostly at Sarah.

  But I wasn’t prepared when I saw her this afternoon at the funeral. Sarah was thinner, eight pounds at least, and she looked strung out. That’s when I started thinking again that she might be on something. When she fainted, I was almost convinced. I carried her out by myself. Had to. Mr. Crawford was too grief-stricken to notice and Andrew looked like he was about to pass out too. I just scooped her up in my arms. The church was packed but I elbowed my way through the crowd. Then I drove straight here. The whole time I could hear Janis Joplin screaming in my head, “Take another … piece of my heart …”

  Carrying her like that, all limp and helpless, reminded me of our honeymoon. I had an uncle in Palm Beach, Tommy’s brother. He didn’t come to the wedding, but he offered Sarah and me a place to stay for the weekend. I’d planned for us to go to a big auto race down there, but it was the wrong weekend and there was a rock concert instead.

  Sarah wasn’t nearly as disappointed as I was about missing the race. She begged me to go to the concert. My uncle called it a love-in. It was more a smoke-in. Throughout the day and half the night all kinds of groups performed, names I can’t remember now. Most have split up or died since. But there was this one singer, a gal of about twenty, I can still see and hear her in my mind. Her singing was more wailing or mournful screaming than anything I’ve ever heard. She was wild—her hair, songs, voice, antics everything about her. Janis Joplin. I’d forgotten her name until the other night at Joanne’s. I remember her more than the other performers because of the wild sadness in her voice and because Sarah kept singing her words.

  On the day of the concert my eyes were still recovering from oats Kate threw at the wedding, and after hours—about eight—of looking through a sea of smoke I was almost blind. I told Sarah I had to get some air and left her for a while. It was a mistake. All day long the joints had come by, one right after the other. I just passed them on. Now I don’t mind some wine or beer or smooth bourbon, but I’m not into killing my brain through my lungs. Never was. But while I was gone, Sarah took her turn, mine too evidently, because when I got back she was walking around in circles, stepping high like she was in briars.

  She said she couldn’t get her feet down and she kept yelling “Take another little piece of my heart!” She finally passed out. I could have strangled her, then and there. At the same time I would have fought anybody and anything to protect her. That’s the way I felt at the funeral, too.

  Sarah moves. It’s almost dark. I must have dozed off too. “Sarah,” I whisper, “are you okay?”

  She doesn’t say anything. She just looks at me. Those green eyes I thought I’d never see again.

  My throat tightens but I say, “You’re home.”

  She pushes her hair back from her neck. “I know,” she says.

  “I’ll get you some water,” I say and start to get up. But she catches my arm.

  “Hold me,” she says. “Please, just hold me for a little while.” Before I can think, my arms go around her, pull her to me. I feel her hair underneath my chin, soft against my neck. The control I’ve worked on for so long explodes and a whole year’s emotions come falling down on me. She clings to me like she’s drowning. It’s like we’re both drowning. And I’m not sure if we’re saving each other or pulling each other down. We make love, desperate love. A year’s worth of passion rips me apart.

  The next morning I wake up in Sarah’s arms. I want to stay in bed, start over, but I have to clear my head. I don’t want to wake her until I have control of myself. So I slip out of her arms, pull the sheet back over her, and dress quietly.

  Breakfast. We’ll need breakfast. Then we can talk. I head out for the Dixie store. Eggs, bacon, bread, butter, milk, grapefruit. I’ve got coffee at home but I remember tea. Sarah always loved hot tea, the expensive kind in little tea bags like Earl Grey. I throw in a box. I reach for a jar of orange marmalade. She used to like that too. Before I know it, I’m going through Joanne McJunkin’s checkout line. I should have avoided her and would have if I hadn’t been so wrapped up in my thoughts of Sarah.

  “Morning, Jack Brighton,” she says, with that sweet smile, but watching me closely. “You’re out awfully early this morning.”

  “Yes,” I say, feeling kind of guilty, “guess I am.”

  She fluffs her hair back from her ears. Then she starts sliding my groceries across the bar scan. She’s slow, slower than I’ve ever seen her, turning each item two or three times like she’s studying it or can’t find the bar code. She reaches for the silver tea box. “Earl Grey?” she says. “I never figured you for a hot tea drinker.”

  “I’m not,” I say. “It’s for—for someone else.”

  Joanne’s smile disappears. She doesn’t look me in the face again. “That’ll be $12.58,” she says, stuffing everything into one bag. At that moment I hate myself. And I hate Sarah. Damn it! She’s screwing up lives of people not even kin to her! I plan to say that to her, too. To tell her what she’s done. Right after we finish breakfast. And if I’m sure s
he’s not drugged or brainwashed.

  When I get home, Sarah’s already up. She’s wearing one of my shirts. She’s sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with Bilo. My throat lumps up again and I want to fall all over the two of them, to hug them long and hard. But I keep control.

  “Good morning,” she says, looking up but not directly at me. “Hope you don’t mind.” She pulls at the shirt. “Couldn’t put that black suit back on. Synthetic. Hot as blazes. Nice of Donna to get it, but I hope I never wear it again.” She goes back to playing with Bilo. “I think he’s grown some,” she says.

  “He was full grown when you left,” I say. She doesn’t answer. “Got some breakfast stuff, here,” I say, sliding the bag on the table. She starts to get up. “No, I’ll cook.” I look into the grocery bag. “You catch up with Bilo. He’s probably missed you.” She still doesn’t say anything. I reach for the eggs and notice they’re on top of the bread. So are the grapefruit. I wonder if Joanne realized the way she packed.

  I cook the bacon in a frying pan, like Tommy always did. Sarah used to microwave it, but it gets too hard and crunchy that way. At least for me. I twist the oven knob to broil and slide in a pan of bread slices. Toaster’s still at the office. Then I beat five eggs—three for me, one for Sarah, one for Bilo. He’s gotten used to having breakfast with me. Likes eggs and bacon better than Pop Tarts, but he’ll eat whatever I give him.

  I don’t fool with grits. Never did like them. Andrew and I have that in common, that and being married to two Crawford women. That’s enough.

  Sarah’s watching me so I say, “You can do the grapefruit.” I fix two plates and Bilo’s bowl. I keep it under the table. Then I fix a cup of coffee for me and tea for Sarah. The whole time I’m thinking what all I’m going to say to her after breakfast. But I’m having trouble figuring it out. She gets the grapefruit done and we sit down to eat. I don’t ask a blessing or say grace or anything. Haven’t in over a year. For some reason Joe’s blessing runs through my head.

  “Thanks for the tea,” she says, wrapping her hands around the cup.

  “You’re welcome,” I say with flashbacks of Joanne’s face at the Dixie store. We start eating, and the meal goes pretty well until I say, “Haven’t had grapefruit in a while.” Sarah stares at her half of grapefruit like she doesn’t know what it is. Then she starts crying. Quiet-like at first, then higher and higher and louder until she’s shaking with these high-pitched mournful sobs. I don’t know what to say or do. I’ve never seen her like this. In twenty years of marriage I’ve hardly seen her cry at all. She always said she looks ugly when she cries. Sitting there watching her, I have to agree. But she also looks like a lost child. She may not be drugged or brainwashed but something’s sure wrong with her. Our talk, I decide, will have to wait. I get up, go to her, and hold her again.

  SARAH

  “Sit where you want to,” Donna says, holding a platter of roast beef close against her like it might get away. We all sit where we’ve sat for the past four Sundays. Daddy on one end, the chair at the other end nearest the kitchen left for Donna, Andrew on the side next to Donna, Charlotte and Scarlet beside him, and Aunt Kate, Jack, and me across from them. A full table. Donna and Andrew’s table. Their dining room furniture is finished in antique white with deep pink cushions in the chairs. A huge arrangement of silk geraniums sits on the sideboard. The room has a garden-like look. A real switch from Mama’s mahogany.

  The first Sunday dinner without Mama was the hardest, but Donna insisted on us eating together “for Daddy” she said. She moved it to her house. “Smart idea,” Jack said. It surprised us both. His saying “smart” in connection with Donna.

  “Daddy, will you say grace,” Donna says more than asks. She sets the roast in front of him.

  “Let Jack do it,” Daddy says staring at the meat. Some slices are black, others are red.

  Jack hesitates. I wonder if he’s forgotten the words. Andrew glances at Donna but she’s not looking. Then Jack says, “Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, amen.”

  “Y’all start on the meat,” Donna says heading into the kitchen. “I’ll get the rice.”

  “Can I help?” I call after her. Jack looks at me but doesn’t say anything.

  “You get the corn,” Donna shouts over her shoulder, “and the string beans.”

  I slip back from the table. Jack holds onto my chair and gives my elbow a little lift as though I’m too weak to stand by myself. What’s he thinking? I wonder.

  I’ve wondered that over and over since I’ve been home. Since the morning after Mama’s funeral when I woke up in our bedroom. Jack was already standing, facing away from me. A wedge of sunlight slipped around the corner of the window shade and landed on his back. He’s thinner, I noticed, and that little roll around his waist is gone. The hair on his back looked gold in the sunlight. I was always amazed that a brunette could have that fuzzy light hair on his back, but Jack did. Michael was darker than Jack, yet his back was smooth, almost hairless. It didn’t make sense.

  I pretended to be asleep but I watched Jack get dressed, as though I hadn’t seen him dress a thousand times before. He pulled on his boxers, then stepped into his khakis. Michael didn’t wear underwear. Said he didn’t need it unless it was cold. Then he wore long johns, the thermal kind. Jack buttoned a striped shirt and slipped on his loafers. No socks. For some reason that seemed funny and I wanted to laugh. He turned toward me as though he heard my thoughts. I closed my eyes tight. He stood there about ten seconds more, then walked out. In a few minutes I heard him drive away.

  I got up, found one of Jack’s shirts thrown up on the dresser, and wrapped myself in it. It was deep red with tiny green lines crisscrossing all through it. One I’d bought a few years back. I was surprised he still wore it.

  I wasn’t hungry but thought I’d better try something, maybe toast. I checked the bread box. A crumpled bag with two moldy heels. I’d forgotten about bread mold. Things didn’t mold so easily in Texas. You could leave a box of Saltines open for a week and they wouldn’t even get floppy. Nothing in the cupboard except some canned spaghetti and a bag of chips, opened. I was almost afraid to look in the refrigerator. With good reason. Sour milk, slick lettuce, black tomato juice, and all kinds of beer. Probably whatever brand was on special at the time. Jack’s not cheap but he gets fascinated when he sees those discount signs that say “REGULAR PRICE $6.50, SALE PRICE $5.99.” He goes over to the display, figures out the price per can, then cents per ounce, then decides he’ll try it while it’s on special. Anyway, looks like he’d tried a lot of specials lately.

  I gave up on food when I heard scratching at the kitchen door. “Bilo!” I shouted, opening the door. If dogs can look surprised, he did. I sat down in the middle of the floor, threw my arms around him, and cried like a baby. I was glad Jack wasn’t there to see me. I was still hugging Bilo when he came back but I wasn’t crying anymore. He was carrying a bulging grocery bag. He gave the door a backward kick and set the bag on the table. Then he moved quickly unloading eggs, bacon, grapefruit, bread, and some other things I couldn’t see.

  I’m still thinking about our own kitchen as I walk into Donna’s.

  “Hope the rice isn’t sticky,” Donna says.

  “What?” I say.

  “The rice, hope it’s not sticky. You know Mama’s never was.” She hands me a bowl of corn and a bowl of green beans. Mama’s good china bowls.

  “Hers was sticky sometimes,” I say, “but yours isn’t.” Donna smiles pretty enough for a photogragh. She picks up the bowl of rice and the gravy boat and we head back into the dining room. Donna sets the rice and gravy in front of Andrew. He stares at the gravy boat like it may be dangerous.

  “Help yourself to whatever’s in front of you,” Donna says, “and pass it on.”

  I take a little corn and hand the bowl to Jack.

  He looks me in the face. “You need more than that,” he says. His eyes are soft and blue.

  We didn’t look each other
in the face, not right away, the morning after the funeral. Jack unloaded the groceries and started cooking the bacon. He used the heavy black skillet Mama gave us for our first anniversary. I always microwaved bacon but Jack fried it, turning and smashing the strips like they were snakes about to attack. Then he filled a cookie sheet with bread slices, spread them with margarine, and broiled them in the oven. I looked for the toaster. It was gone. I shot a quick glance in the direction of the microwave. It was still there.

  Jack beat and punched the eggs into shape while I fixed the grapefruit. I hadn’t had grapefruit in over a year. But now it seemed like I hadn’t missed a morning. Automatically, I went for the pointy spoons in the silverware drawer. They were pushed way back, cradled one in the other. Looking at those spoons, I almost cried. But I didn’t, at least not then. I put them on the table and sat down. My foot scraped against something. Bilo’s bowl. Jack had always made me feed Bilo outside. I wondered about the change. Jack set our plates down, reached under the table for the bowl, and filled it with a third of the eggs. Then he threw in a slice of bacon and a piece of toast.

  “He’s my buddy,” Jack said, a little defensively.

  “Should I fix him grapefruit, too?” I asked.

  Jack laughed. Looked me in the face for the first time all morning and laughed again. Then cleared his throat and said, “Let’s eat.”

  I made myself eat a little of everything on my plate even though the bacon was as chewy as Donna’s roast beef. But when I tried to spoon out a wedge of grapefruit, I began thinking about Jack and Mama and Bilo and little pointy spoons. The tears started pouring. I didn’t want Jack to see me cry. I tried to get up, but Bilo was woven around my legs, licking my toes like he was looking for fleas. I hid my face in my hands. Before I could shake free, Jack came to me, pressed his palms around my cheeks, and looked me straight in the face. Then he kissed me on the forehead. Like a father. Like Daddy never did.