Kimberly Stuart

by Act Two: A Novel in Perfect Pitch

  We slowed at the end of the Hartleys’ drive and turned toward the house.

  “Mac,” I said carefully. “It’s been really fun flirting with you. I haven’t felt this … girly … in years. And I like you. I do.”

  “Flirting,” he said, almost to himself as he pulled the car to a stop in front of the house. He shifted into park but returned both hands to the wheel, eyes straight ahead.

  I swallowed. “But this won’t work. It can’t work.”

  He let his right hand drop to the key and shut off the ignition. He pulled off his ball cap and ran one hand through his hair. He fixed his eyes on my face. “Is this about Richard?”

  I stopped short and then burst into laughter. “Richard?” I shook my head, still laughing. “Definitely not.”

  Mac looked offended. “I don’t think it’s unreasonable to ask. You talk to him more than I talk to any of my former flames, let’s just say that.”

  I bristled. “Listen, while it may seem ridiculous to the average Maplewood resident, in less provincial parts of the country, it is not uncommon for people to (a) get divorced instead of suffering through decades of unhappiness and (b) even maintain friendships with their exes.”

  Mac shook his head and bit his lower lip. “That line is tired, all right? The whole victim complex about being among the savages for a semester? You should never have come if you couldn’t muster up more respect for us than that.”

  A sharp rap at my window made me jump. We turned to see Jayne with Emmy on her hip. Drew and Joel hopped up and down in tandem, not very interested in keeping dry under Jayne’s umbrella.

  I opened the door. “Hi, everybody.” I tried sounding relaxed and casual, though no one else seemed interested that Mac and I were having a heart-to-heart in the semidarkness of a rainstorm.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Jayne said hurriedly. “Mac, can you come out to the barn? Cal’s having some trouble with a sow.”

  Mac bounded out of the truck and was halfway to the barn in a matter of seconds. The boys raced after him, jumping in puddles as they went.

  “You want to come?” Jayne said. She looked uncertain. “I’m pretty sure this is something you won’t see in Manhattan.”

  “Of course,” I said, suddenly flush with courage and free of the difficult conversation she’d interrupted. “I’m here for the whole experience, right?” I jumped down from the cab like a cross between Ginger Rogers and Annie Oakley. I put my arm around Jayne’s waist and held onto Emmy’s little leg to knit our threesome together under the dripping umbrella. “Girls,” I said, “show me to the barn.”

  24

  Birthing Pains

  If the odor outside the house had accosted me to the point of trembling those first days at the Hartley farm, it was a darn good thing I’d never stepped inside the barn. I knew from Jayne and Cal’s conversations that Cal spent a fair amount of time clearing out manure (pronounced mih’ nurrrrr) from wherever hogs saw fit for bowel emptying. I stood in the shelter of the hulking building, listening to the roar of rain on the metal roof. I made it a point to take shallow breaths and wondered if Jayne would loan me her umbrella to go retrieve my air purifier out of the house. The sad truth, however, was that the place would need a purification system appropriate, say, for a fleet of Boeing jets, to even make a dent in the problem.

  The building stretched long and low, stall upon stall filled with plump and snorting pigs. The sheer size of the place dizzied me. These animals were living in an edifice that, in terms of square footage, would make Donald Trump’s skin tingle. We were talking at least one city block, all devoted to ham and bacon in the making.

  Jayne hung her umbrella on a hook by the door and motioned for me to follow her. I’d decided against my Jimmy Choos that morning, what with the afternoon forecast, and had opted for a cute but flimsy espadrille. The soles were made of cork and I feared they were no match for the walk to the barn. I tiptoed behind Jayne toward where the men and children stood.

  “… So we’ll have to help pull,” Mac was saying. He stood over a huge and heaving animal that lay on her side between him and his brother. Mac cleared his throat when he saw me reach the edge of the group.

  Cal looked past Jayne to me. His eyebrows shot upward. “Miss Sadie, this might not be the best time for a barn tour.”

  Mac ran a hand across his mouth in an effort to hide a smile.

  I stood as tall as I could, pulling my chin up as I straightened. Unfortunately, the fence or whatever that surrounded the men and squealing pig was unusually high and my good posture merely positioned my nose above the top rung. “Don’t worry about me, boys,” I said, sure I was evoking the bravado of Laurey in Oklahoma. “I’ll be fine watching from over here.”

  Cal glanced at his wife. She turned to me and put an arm around my waist. “Are you sure about this?” she said into my ear. “This kind of thing can get a little hairy.”

  “Ha, ha!” I said like a magician at the end of his trick. “Even I know a baby pig’s not hairy. Get it?” I scrunched my nose, gay and lighthearted as any farm-bred, good old Iowa girl. “I am certainly not afraid to witness one of life’s miracles.”

  Cal shook his head slightly. “Suit yourself. Kids, go stand by your mother.”

  Joel and Drew scampered over to Jayne and climbed the fence to have a better view. Emmy had a toy in each hand and hit herself hard on the head with a plastic reproduction of the Cookie Monster. She began to wail and Jayne looked at me, exhaustion registering on her face.

  “I think I’d better put her to bed,” she said. “Are you okay here without me?” Jayne swayed and bounced back and forth as Emmy’s cries got louder.

  “Absolutely,” I said, trying hard not to roll my eyes. What did these people think I was, anyway? An incurable prima donna? I’d made it through Met auditions three times without one tear shed. They did not know the depths of my strength.

  “Okay.” She looked entirely unconvinced. “Boys, stay back here by Miss Sadie, all right?”

  Joel bounced up and down on his perch. Drew nodded without taking his eyes off the sow.

  “I’ll be right back,” Jayne said and hustled toward her umbrella and the door. Emmy’s cries became absorbed in the cacophony of rain.

  Mac turned from a small table in the corner of the stall. He wore long gloves and was spreading a goopy substance onto them, all the way up to his shoulders. He caught me watching and said, “Good, old-fashioned dish soap.” He didn’t smile, just returned to the task at hand. I felt my heart drop, so accustomed was I to his warmth. I turned my gaze deliberately from Mac and looked down at the pig.

  Her sides heaved and though I was no expert in interpreting the intricacies of pig body language and facial expressions, I was willing to bet she was miserable. Beyond miserable, pushing straight on into desperate, maniacal, perhaps even suicidal. I certainly would have been, considering what she was enduring.

  “How many babies are in there?” I asked Cal, watching her mammoth belly rise and fall. The longer I watched that animal breathe, the more adrenaline coursed through my system. Her girth struck me as something not fit for drawings of Noah’s ark. Hapless children in Sunday school would never get over the image and would swear off church and Bible stories forever.

  Cal pulled off his hat and tossed it to Drew, who proudly donned it and smiled at Joel. Joel’s lip started to tremble but Mac saw the exchange and tossed his own cap to the younger brother. Mac winked at the boy, looked at me and turned away.

  Cal stood with his arms crossed, still pondering the glories of hog reproduction. “Sows can have anywhere from seven to fifteen. I’d guess this one will have ten or eleven in her litter.”

  I nodded and gulped. I wasn’t very good at sharing my bathroom much less sharing my uterus with ten squirming beings. I shuddered and tried to think of what Oklahoma Laurey would do if Curly shared a pig birthing with her, sometime after “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’” and before “The Surrey With the Fringe On Top.”

&nbs
p; Mac kneeled at the pig’s head and talked quietly to her. What, now he’s the Pig Whisperer?

  “What’s he doing?” I asked Cal softly.

  “She’s a gilt, which means this is her first birth. The first of the litter is sitting breech and she can’t get it out. Mac’s trying to calm her because she’s a bit riled up.”

  I nodded, feeling a tad guilty for thinking Mac was trying to be Robert Redford. I supposed I would need a good talking-to (and preferably a record-breaking epidural) were I about to birth ten or eleven children and the first one sideways.

  Cal went to hold the pig at her shoulders, though I didn’t see her trying to run anywhere. Mac stooped down at her less attractive end, where we had box seat views. “Ready?” he asked Cal.

  I looked nervously at the boys, standing beside me. Joel was hanging backwards by his legs and then flipping over onto the floor before starting the acrobatics all over again. Drew was watching his dad and uncle, chomping on a wad of gum and looking only mildly interested.

  “Should they be here?” I asked Cal.

  He looked up, distracted, and nodded quickly. “Seen it plenty of times before. Go ahead,” he said, eyes on his brother.

  Mac took one lubed-up arm and stuck it right up into that pig, whose yelping was only a fraction of what I would have done. I caught my breath and clutched one hand to my chest. Mac moved his arm around in there for what seemed like an eternity, though we should really ask Ms. Gilt if we want to start supposing. After he’d exhausted his real estate, Mac grunted and said, “I think I’ve turned him around. Here’s the pull.”

  With a gush of liquid I’d prefer not to describe, out came a miniature version of the poor mother, likely confused and disgusted with this first experience of the rest of his life. Then out came another. And another, all goopy-ed up and shining with blood. I saw a few pigs start to spin around each other, and then one of them started to sing a tune from the Beatles’ White Album. Sometime around the first chorus, I felt Jayne’s arm around my waist and heard her say, “Sadie, are you all right?”

  I nodded and smiled before my knees buckled and the room went black.

  “Moo shu bibbity bobbity boo,” said a deep voice above me. “Partridge in a pear tree.”

  With great effort, I opened my eyelids and saw his face hovering over mine. I closed my eyes again. “Are you ordering moo shu?” My head was throbbing. “There’s no good moo shu in Maplewood.”

  Mac laughed softly. “There she is,” he said.

  I opened my eyes again and trained them on Mac’s. “Your house reeks.”

  He shook his head, a broad smile on his lips. Such nice lips. “We’re in Cal’s barn. You were watching me pull a pig and—”

  I groaned and raised one hand. “I remember, I remember. Please.” I shuddered. “Am I going to be all right?”

  Jayne popped into my line of sight. Her eyes shone with tears. “You’ll be fine.” She patted my arm and helped Mac raise me slowly to a sitting position. Apparently Mac had washed up a bit. “I just feel horrible, that’s all. I never should have invited you to come with me into the barn.” She brushed a tear off her cheek.

  “Nonsense,” I said. I put one hand up to my head and held it there. “I came willingly. Apparently, I’m more delicate than I’d thought.”

  “There are plenty of people around here who wouldn’t be up for dish soap arms, even if they’ve been on a farm their whole lives.” Mac brushed a strand of hair off my forehead. I swooned, but it might have been the aftereffects of passing out onto a concrete barn floor.

  Jayne sat very still, her eyes big and watchful as Mac brushed the hair off my forehead with one gentle hand. She threw a glance to Cal. He watched his brother as if encountering a rare animal in the zoo. Jayne cleared her throat. “Cal, boys, why don’t we head into the house and give Miss Sadie a moment to herself. I mean, with Uncle Mac. Together. Just the two of them.” The color in Jayne’s cheeks had returned and was blossoming to full glory. She stood and brushed off her jeans. Cal helped her shepherd the boys out of the barn amid Drew’s protests that they be able to stay and “watch Miss Sadie fall down again.”

  Mac sat quietly beside me. We faced the yawning barn door, open to the rain falling in sheets outside. A flood of cool, clean air swept through the barn. I felt exhaustion seep through me.

  “Here’s the thing,” Mac said. His voice was low and calm, bringing to mind Barry White and a hot toddy. “First of all, I’m glad you’re okay.” He leaned toward me and brushed my cheek with a kiss. I tucked my face down into his neck and felt it warm me. He pulled away gently. “And as for what we were discussing earlier.”

  I gulped. For being such an extrovert in my profession, I was turning into quite the ninny when it came to addressing conflict with cowboys.

  He smiled so sweetly I thought he might kiss me again. “I don’t like getting dumped.” His smile fell.

  I winced.

  “But I’ve waited a long time to meet you, and we’re not done.”

  I started to protest. “Mac—”

  “That’s all right,” he said, shaking his head. “You’ve said your piece and I respect that. Don’t worry, I won’t start hanging around the attic or sending suspicious packages or anything.” He drew up his knees and rested his hands on them. “But the Bible says that God has a plan for us, that it’s a plan to prosper and not to harm us, a plan to give us hope and a future.” He rose to his feet, brushing dirt off his rear. “And whether you feel good about it or not, Sadie Maddox”—he helped me up and let me lean on him as we walked slowly to the door—“you’re a part of the plan.” He smiled at me sideways.

  I sighed deeply. Where was I, a tent meeting? Church of the pig pullers? This man was just not getting it. “Mac, I don’t even know what to say.”

  “Now, there’s a first,” he said. He held me tight as we walked carefully through the rain toward the light on the porch.

  25

  Performance Art

  “Are you sure?” Jayne’s eyes betrayed hurt.

  “Yes,” I said, hugging her. “These last weeks of the semester will be crazy and I should be closer to campus. I can’t imagine the folks at the Maplewood Inn could be as wonderful as you all, but I’m sure they’ll take great care of me.”

  “All right,” she said reluctantly.

  The Saturday morning had arrived in a burst of celebratory sunshine after a week’s worth of rain. Cottony clouds paraded through a cheery blue sky. We stood in front of the Hartleys’ porch, which was freshly swept and looking forward to ample traffic in the coming warmer months. Jayne squinted into the sun, which was already arching away from the horizon behind me.

  I leaned over to kiss Emmy, who jostled on Jayne’s hip. “Tell your sleepyhead brothers I said good-bye but that I’ll still see everybody at church.”

  Emmy squirmed to be put down onto the dew-kissed grass.

  I pulled the handle out of my Louis Vuitton carry-on. Cal hefted both of my suitcases and I trolled behind him to the truck. In the days following our talk in the barn, Mac and I had made a valiant effort in our commutes back and forth from town. His calm assurance that we were merely in a holding pattern had first annoyed and then worried me. I decided the best option was one of avoidance. Mac clearly wasn’t catching my drift and I wasn’t about to go through the whole thing again. I’d called the Maplewood Inn the previous night and rebooked my reservation through the Monday after graduation.

  “Change is good,” I said, smiling shakily at Cal when I realized I’d spoken my thoughts out loud. Besides, I thought, there’s nothing worse than leading a man on when there’s no hope for a future together. I slammed the passenger door shut for emphasis.

  One week into my stay at the Maplewood Inn, I had the knots in my neck and back to prove it. Without Dr. Glenn, the most sought-after chiropractor on the Upper East Side, I was at a loss of how to get my spine adjusted back to a straight line instead of the mess I’d created for it by sleeping on a glorified cot
. My room at the Inn, though impeccably clean, offered none of the comforts of home. The bedspread was a flimsy nylon number splattered with a floral pattern that made my head hurt. It was fortuitous that I’d come prepared with my own shampoo, conditioner, and other necessities, as the Maplewood Inn had not been informed of the national trend toward complimentary toiletries in hotels. I felt lucky to have a clean towel every day. Each morning as I got ready in the fluorescent-lit bathroom, I’d garner all my exasperation at the pathetic accommodations, readying myself to approach the front desk with my complaints. I wanted to lay into the owners, Mr. and Mrs. Shipley. But all my resolve would vanish when Mr. Shipley would stand from his chair behind the desk and call out a chipper, “Very good morning to you, Ms. Maddox. And how’d you sleep?”

  Mrs. Shipley would scurry from the small sitting area where she provided a “continental breakfast,” consisting of Wonder Bread, watery Folgers, and a basket of waxy apples. “Morning, Ms. Maddox,” she’d say, cheeks pink and eyes twinkling even at that fragile hour. She’d shuffle over to me and hand me a cup of that dreadful coffee, poured especially for me into a Styrofoam cup. “Just a little something to start the day out right,” she said, without fail, each time acting like spontaneity and wit had just taken hold of her—she couldn’t help herself.

  “Thank you, Mrs. Shipley,” I would say, swallowing the bile of my woes and resigning myself to yet another night’s sleep under nylon flowers.

  I had to get back to New York. My spine, figurative and literal, was deteriorating under the pressure of all that midwestern nice. The inability to be my own advocate didn’t stop with the spartan accommodations. That Sunday, two weeks to the end of the school year, I’d acquiesced to Norma’s unrelenting requests for “special” music. We’d met at the church after Wednesday evening’s choir rehearsal. I’d insisted that I pick the piece, much to her chagrin, as she’d had in mind something by a group called the Sweet Jesus Five that involved not one, not two, but three glissandos up and down the length of the keyboard. She wanted to be Yanni, for Pete’s sake. I stood firm through her requests and her pouty lower lip and provided the piano accompaniment to a simple but lovely arrangement of “Amazing Grace.” During our rehearsal that evening, it took a great force of will to ignore Norma’s wild gesticulating at the piano. The woman must have had some close calls with neck injuries. But by that time in my week, my semester, my life, I was out of energy to discuss the finer points of musical performance.