Stranger

by David Bergen

  You have the money? he asked.

  She reached into her bag and showed him. And then she took Meja out of her backpack and held her to her chest. Meja was hot and she was whimpering. Íso took a bottle from the pack and laid Meja in her arms and offered her the bottle. She tasted it, and turned her head away. Began to cry. She wanted to sit up, and Íso let her, and so now she sat in Íso’s lap and Íso pointed out the scenery passing by, but Meja was more interested in the necklace Íso was wearing. She tugged at the carving with its three petals. Touched it with great concentration. And then was tired of it. Íso tried to feed her again, and this time she accepted the bottle. Íso watched her mouth move. It was not a large mouth, but it took in the food in a large way. She marvelled.

  The driver took her as far as Rochester, where he dropped her at the corner of 6th and 7th. She sat in a small café and ate an egg sandwich as Meja sat on the banquette beside her. She couldn’t take her eyes off her, and even when she did, to take a bite of her sandwich, she felt that Meja might roll off the bench and under the table and disappear. She talked to Meja in her own language and Meja listened and leaned back, once again evaluating. She was guapa.

  When she bought her ticket she had hidden Meja in her backpack because she didn’t want people to know that she had a baby. And when she climbed onto the bus for Kansas City, Meja was again in the backpack. At the back of the bus, she took Meja out and fed her. No one on the bus knew that she had a baby. Meja didn’t fuss or cry and she thought that she was very lucky.

  She discovered that Meja was a fine eater. She liked to feed and then look around and then sleep. And then wake and stare into Íso’s eyes. She rarely cried, except once when she had gas, and then Íso held her over her shoulder, face down, and bounced her lightly and the gas was released and Íso said, Good, good. And then she sat Meja on her lap and they stared at each other and made noises for each other and Íso studied every part of her child, from the top of her head to her toes. Her fingers were long and her feet were big. She would be tall, like her father, and she would have Íso’s mouth and eyes. Íso spoke her name, Meja, and she sucked on Meja’s fingers and she tried to teach her to say “mamá.” She said “mamá” over and over again and Meja cooed at the sound and she cooed at the light touch of Íso’s fingers dragging over her scalp. They were falling in love.

  She had purchased a ticket that would take her through to Laredo, with transfers in Kansas City, Dallas, and San Antonio. At the bus station in Kansas City she had slipped Meja into the backpack and wandered around the station until she found a quiet corner, and only then did she take Meja out and feed her and change her. And hold her. Meja didn’t seem to mind the confines of the pack, in fact she slept for the most part, and when she did wake and sputter a little, Íso swayed and hopped ever so slightly to keep her quiet. On the bus, Meja slept on her lap, and when she was awake, she stood on Íso’s knees and Íso bounced her and spoke nonsense to her in her own language.

  The countryside spooled out in a vista of forests and towns and cities and dried-out lakes and concrete and abandoned golf courses and graveyards of rusted vehicles and gas stations and vast fields of wheat and sorghum and corn in which an irrigation rig lay dormant and there were factories and warehouses and cars and trucks and great cities and intricately woven freeways that channelled those cars and trucks through those great cities and spit them out back onto the roads that intersected more fields of sorghum and soybean and in the morning when she woke, even though she had sworn that she would not sleep, she first located her baby and found her to be safe and asleep and then she looked out at that vista and saw the mist lying over the crops and a solitary tractor moving across a fallow field.

  In that sleep that she had sworn she would not fall into she had dreamed and in her dreams that flickered and jumped she saw a wan woman floating in the waters at Ixchel and she saw the doctor smiling and calling out to her and she saw a crop of children growing out of the earth with their faces turned towards the sun and she saw her own child walk out of the field all bright and yellow wearing a dress the colour of sunflower and she saw the boy lying in the hollow she dug for him and at his head a spigot from which water flowed and she stooped to drink from that spigot, her hand resting on the boy’s chest.

  This was the dream she awoke from when the bus was stopped at the roadblock. She realized immediately that she was being hunted. Not she. The baby. One of those many cameras would have picked up her image and it wouldn’t be long now before she was caught. Not long after the stop at the roadblock, at a place named Emporia, she gathered her things and put Meja inside the backpack and she disembarked and walked out into the country. She would no longer trust the crowds, or the buses, or the places where the cameras watched her. She would stay away from large cities. She would walk on the less busy roads.

  In the bathroom of a gas station, when she was alone, she laid Meja on the counter and she washed her own hands and face and then she took a paper towel and wet it and wiped at Meja’s face and hands. Her ears, her neck. Meja squirmed and turned away, unhappy. She had run out of formula and had only one more diaper, and she set out in search of a market. It was very hot, and she thought that Meja would be suffocating in the backpack, and so she found a quiet place by the doorway of a shop that cut keys, and she removed her backpack and took out Meja, who was sweating. She carried her then, and when she found a drugstore and entered, a current of cold air greeted them. She bought Pampers and formula ready mixed and she bought wipes and she bought a chocolate bar and two bottles of water. Her budget had been altered by the cost of diapers and formula.

  It was summer in America. August. The days and nights were still hot and this being so she found fields with tall crops where she made a nest amongst the sorghum or the wheat or the corn and she put Meja down on the backpack and she set herself down and in this manner they both slept. At night she woke and heard transport trucks gearing down on the interstate. The stars above were many. She felt safe. She had decided to give Meja the breast, even though she had no milk. She knew from observing other mothers with babies that it was possible to get milk flowing again, even with a six-month-old. It required patience. When Meja woke and fussed, Íso dribbled a little of the mixed formula on one of her nipples and she let Meja root. Which she did briefly, until the formula was gone, and then she fussed again. Íso dribbled on some more formula and brought Meja back to her nipple. Meja became frustrated and angry. She arched her back. Finally Íso gave her the bottle, and when she’d finished it, she put Meja’s head against her bare breast and pushed her nipple against the baby’s mouth. Now she didn’t mind. Though she wasn’t terribly interested. They lay like this, in the dirt, Meja’s head against her bare breast, and in her sleep she turned towards the nipple. At one point Meja held the nipple in her mouth but didn’t suck. Above them was the sky and beneath them was the earth. In the early light of the morning she again fed Meja, methodically adding formula to her nipple. And again Meja became frustrated. She even tried putting mashed banana on her nipple, but Meja turned away. She fed her the remaining banana. She laughed, and Meja laughed. The wind blew. A tractor passed nearby. She heard the tractor again later, coming nearer, and she stood and walked out of the cornfield past the farmer, who sat on the tractor and looked at her in surprise and then waved. He stopped the tractor and called out, but she ignored him and kept walking. On the shoulder now, heading south.

  When the sun was high, she was thirsty, and she knew that if she was going to produce milk she would have to drink more water. Cars and pickups passed her by and everybody waved and she waved back. Late in the afternoon a red pickup approached from behind and as usual she stepped to the side and waited for it to pass, but this time the vehicle slowed and stopped. A man was at the wheel. A young boy sat in the passenger side. The boy lowered his window and the man leaned towards her. She stayed put, on the edge of flight, though there was nowhere to run.

  You need a ride? the man asked. His vowels were flat and hi
s consonants thick.

  She shook her head.

  It’s mighty hot, the man said. We can help you to the next town.

  She looked up the road and then looked at the man and she looked at the boy, and it was the boy who decided it for her. She stepped forward and the boy opened the door and then slid over. She climbed in. Meja sat in her lap. She shut the door.

  The man idled back onto the road and picked up speed. He looked over at her and said that it was unusual to find a mother and a baby walking the roads out here. Are you lost?

  She shook her head.

  The boy held out his hand to Meja. Meja punched the air and squealed. The boy grinned.

  What’s his name? the boy asked.

  It’s a girl, she said.

  What’s her name?

  Meja.

  The giving of Meja’s name had been spontaneous, almost prideful, and sher thought that she had misstepped. But the man seemed unaware, and the boy was innocent.

  Hi, Meja, the boy said. He touched Meja’s cheek.

  Where you headed? the man asked.

  San Antonio, she said.

  The man lifted his eyebrows. Said that she’d be lucky to get there by Christmas. That’s a long walk.

  I’ve got time, she said.

  There was a Thermos on the dash and she’d seen it when she entered the truck and now she asked if they might have something for her to drink.

  The man gestured at the Thermos and told the boy to give the lady some coffee. The boy scooted forward and reached for the Thermos and unscrewed the lid and then the stopper and he poured some liquid into the lid and held it out for her. She took it and drank. It was sweet and creamy and as she swallowed she felt the heat in her throat and then her stomach. She finished what the boy had given her and he asked if she wanted more.

  If you have enough, she said.

  Lots more where that came from, the boy said. He sounded like a little man.

  They farmed twenty-five hundred acres of corn and sweet sorghum and wheat. They were Holdeman Mennonites and their family name was Wiebe. The father was Jasch and the mother Katerina. Six boys in the family, ranging from twenty down to seven. Knalls and Bient and Wellem and Johann and Franz and Josef. She learned all this at the supper table where she sat, the only girl save of course for the mother and Meja. The boys were all talkers except for Bient, who bowed his head and ate and snuck glances at her and then, when he received a smile from her, turned away red-faced. They ate homemade sausage and noodles with gravy, and they ate corn and fresh tomatoes with sugar sprinkled on top and sliced cucumber, and for dessert there was plum pastry. The food disappeared quickly, but not before a prayer, which was offered by Jasch. He thanked God for the sunshine and for the bountiful harvest and for the rains that hadn’t come yet. He thanked God for the visitors, Íso and Meja, and he prayed that God might bless them and keep them safe from evil and that his face might shine upon them and give them peace, and he thanked God for the food and he asked for a blessing on the hands that had prepared it amen. All called out amen and then fairly flew at the food. The boys ate with gusto and when they were finished they all wanted to hold the baby, who was sitting in Íso’s lap and pushing her hands into the cut-up spaghetti on Íso’s plate and then shovelling it at her mouth. The gravy was thick and sweet. The oldest boy, Knalls, was the first to take Meja. He bounced her and chucked her chin and tickled her, and then Josef, the youngest and the one from the pickup, had a go and almost dropped her, and then the other three, and finally Bient, the quiet one, took her and sat on the couch and placed Meja at his hip and put his arm around her for protection.

  We obviously need more girls around here, the father said. He wore a beard with no moustache and this made his face longer but she saw his mouth and it was kind. He winked at his wife, who shushed him. She turned to Íso and said that there was a bed for her for the night. Bient will sleep with his brother.

  Katerina’s accent was complex but Íso understood and she said that she had to go. Thank you.

  You’re not going anywhere, Katerina said. You have all day tomorrow and the next. San Antonio? My goodness. She said something in another language to one of her boys. The boy nodded and grinned at Íso.

  She joined the family in the sitting room, for she had been invited, and they sat in a circle and listened as the patriarch read a long passage from the Bible and then there was a song, belted out with such great strength that she was astounded and for some reason overjoyed, and suddenly they were all on their knees with their heads pressed into the places where they had just been sitting, and she joined them, sat Meja on the soft chair and pressed her hands down onto Meja’s legs, and in this manner, on her knees, she listened to the family pray, youngest to oldest, in a language that was unfamiliar, guttural, a singsong solo rising and falling, and the only indication that one had finished and the next would begin was a hearty amen that arrived as a shout, and it was like a dance where one steps into a circle as the others watch and nod, and steps out again to be replaced. Even Meja fell into the rhythm of the voices. She clucked and cooed.

  And then they were standing and the older boys disappeared back out to the harvest. It was early morning when they returned. She heard them from her bedroom, talking in the kitchen. They were eating once more. And then gone again.

  She had bathed the night before. Taken Meja into the bath with her and scrubbed her hair and ears and bottom and feet as she gurgled and spat and sucked on a washcloth. Then she’d plopped Meja on a towel outside the tub and quickly washed herself before Meja pulled her way across the floor towards the door. That night she tried again to breastfeed but Meja wouldn’t latch. She kicked and fussed. There was no milk.

  At the breakfast table there was Katerina and the youngest boy and Íso and Meja. Katerina asked if the baby was feeding.

  She didn’t understand at first and then Katerina pointed at one of her own breasts and asked again if the baby was feeding. The boy giggled. Íso said that she was trying, but she didn’t have milk. Not yet.

  Katerina didn’t seem concerned. It will come, she said. Skin on skin is the best. Some honey on the nipple. Something sweet.

  She spent that day at the farm. She felt safe. She had begun to see that the family had little interest in the outside world and that they were mightily independent. While Meja slept she picked beans in the garden with Josef, and Katerina made soup with potatoes and beans and sausage. Íso sat in a wooden lounger on the porch and gave a breast to Meja, who pulled at it half-heartedly. Katerina arrived and took the baby and disappeared. For an hour, before they went back out to the harvest, the boys played baseball on the yard flanking the granaries. She stood in the outfield with Bient and after the game he brought her a cold glass of water. She thanked him. He said that he had built his own motorcycle. She asked to see it. The machine shed was cool and dim and it smelled of oil and gas and there were tools hanging on the walls and everything was ordered and clean. In the gloom he nodded at the bike and said it was a Norton 650. She learned that he would have to sell it because luxuries were not abided. He asked if he could take her for a ride. She told him that she was afraid of motorcycles. He said that his mother said the same.

  It so happened that she stayed the next day as well. It was Sunday, and the men didn’t work. She joined the family at church. She rode in the pickup with Bient and Knalls, and she sat in the middle, holding Meja, while Bient pressed his leg against her thigh. She wore jeans. All the women in the church wore long dresses. The older women wore kerchiefs in their hair as well. She sat on the women’s side, beside Katerina. The singing was again wonderful and again it carried her away. There was no piano, just the voices. Meja was adored. Íso was adored. Or so Katerina told her that afternoon. Everyone loves you, Katerina said.

  Bient, who had taken to hovering, was at the table. His mother told him he could help Íso with the dishes. And so together they washed and dried the plates and cups, and poured boiling water over the cutlery. Bient asked her w
here her husband was. This was the first personal question she’d been asked. She said that there was no husband. Bient said that Meja must have a father. She said that there was a father, but he was gone. He nodded at this. He asked if she went to church. She said that her mother sometimes went to church. He said that she was very beautiful and that her hair was amazingly pretty. She thanked him and smiled. He asked if she wrote letters. She said that she could write letters. He was quiet, and then Josef appeared and wanted to show her his sunflower patch.