Camp Matigua: The Lost And Forgotten

by Allison Greer

  “‘Ok . . . baby?—check. Now, move on.’

  “‘Oh, Doctor . . . give a girl a break. Linger a while.’

  “How pleasant it would have been if Carey had massaged those muscles for me, but, Carey doesn’t massage. Massages are nice. It’s a very sweet thing for a spouse to do for the other—over-worked muscles filled with the toxins of stress. I think toxins are what cause the pain. Exercise, aerobics and such don’t really get rid of toxins. In fact, they produce their own, but, when you massage those tissues, it brings oxygen to them and the blood carries away poisons on to the liver. A good,

  healthy liver is worth its weight in gold . . . Aunt Rache said the same about a good dog. That’s my impression on the matter.

  “But, knowing what I do, now, Margaret, I think I’d purchase one of those radio-pulse machines, the ones chiropractors use before they start adjustments. You know . . . they electrode you in various places, connect them to some kind of machine that causes the muscles to contract and release. Since Carey would never massage me, I’d invest in a contraption to do it for me. Whaddaya think? A plan . . . yes? Part of my supplementary life. Maybe an electric mechanism for those times he leaves me so ‘twitterpated.’

  “But, anyway, I guess it was all in the Great Creator’s plan ’cause those highly offended muscles were, all along, growing stronger and stronger so they could do their job to perfection during delivery.

  “But, I digress. I was telling you that Carey had become a kinder, gentler person toward me. He decided he wanted me to go with him to the plant nursery and pick out gifts for our mothers for Mother’s Day. I thought it was a grand idea. I was elated that he wanted to do it. He probably got the idea from my mother. The nursery had just gotten a large shipment of dwarf azaleas and placed them into several long rows out in the sunshine. I was, particularly, interested in one several rows in and leaned very slightly forward to better check it out. My belly was heavier than I realized. I under-calculated the pull gravity had on it as my baby preceded me toward the little azaleas. I began a slow, steady free-

  fall. There was nothing I could do—nothing to grab, hang onto—and no place to put my hands to break my fall except into flower pots. I couldn’t even call out for help. I envisioned my baby and belly coming down hard, first atop the plants and, then, onto the concrete. But, Carey saw the whole thing and came over, took my arm and brought me back up. No words were spoken between us, but we both knew I was headed for disaster. And, he saved the day.

  “We invited my parents then his over for supper, presented the mothers with their presents. Both visits were very pleasant. I always felt his parents liked me. They were always kind to me and, especially, happy when we told them they’d be grandparents. And, Carey hadn’t cast gloom on the occasions. He had a way, when he chose to, of not giving you the feeling he was disgruntled or unhappy but, at the same time, not actually taking active part in the happenings. Made me feel like I had to be the consummate hostess to make up for him, his apathy. After his parents left, I said,

  “‘That was very nice. Don’t you think it was nice?’

  “He just made some sort of grunt and left the room. For whatever reason, I decided to sleep with Carey in our bed that night. Didn’t feel a bit uncomfortable about it. He was already asleep when I got under the sheet. He hadn’t wanted to be intimate with me since sometime in my fifth month. I think I could have accommodated him, but he never pursued the matter. And, he was coming home, staying home more. We, actually, had some time together to work in the yard.

  Sometimes, I’d work in the flower beds while he tuned his cycle. Sometimes, he’d sit at the table reading the newspaper while I cleaned the kitchen. Carey didn’t do things with me so much as he did things along side me . . .

  {“‘That’s what they say about three-year-olds,’ Mr. Bill chimes in.}

  “. . . but that was good enough for me. Sometimes, our parents came over for coffee. I, usually, had something—donuts, cookies, cake—something to go with our coffee. I loved to bake. And, then, sometimes he came in from work, went straight to his records, listened to them until he went to bed. I watched the news, the Carson show, the late movie, the late, late movie. Then, on to my sofa.

  “And, now and again—I admit, not frequently enough—I turned Johnny off, took my Bible out of Aunt Rache’s little table drawer, sat in Carey’s big, leather chair and read a bit. I guess I was in my first month, just found out we were expecting. It was so coincidental: I opened to the place where Jonah tells about the seamen tossing him into the sea during a terrible storm. I was touched: Jonah had told them he was the reason for the storm and, to save themselves, they’d have to throw him overboard. Yet, they didn’t do it right away; they didn’t want to kill the man.

  “They prayed to God, ‘O Lord, please do not let us perish for this man’s life and do not charge us with innocent blood . . .’ Coincidentally, King David prayed the same over his mighty men of valor before they went into battle—asked God not to hold his men accountable for the innocent blood they were about to spill. Isn’t that

  neat! Those seamen were idol-worshipers who had just seen the light . . . all of them, tough, seasoned sailors. However, that was no ordinary storm. They recognized the fact and were sorely afraid.

  “Jonah, then, spoke to God about his experience: ‘You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the floods surrounded me; all Your billows and Your waves passed over me . . . The waters surrounded me, even to my soul; the deep closed around me; weeds were wrapped around my head. I went down to the moorings of the mountains; the earth with its bars closed behind me forever; yet You have brought up my life from the pit, O Lord, my God.’

  “That very day Carey and I had gone with some of his cousins to the lake. They had just bought a new boat, invited us to join them for a test-run. I’m not a good swimmer at all, so skiing always makes me nervous. But, with a life preserver on, I felt I’d be able to make it ok. And, I did. Made a couple of passes around the lake—it was a small lake, fortunately. Then, my legs began to cramp and tremble. I fell some distance from the pier where everybody was standing around, watching, waiting their turn.

  “Carey took a circle around me and started back into the lake. I guess he thought I’d take hold of the end of the rope for another run, but the handle was too far out and the loop the rope was making around me got smaller and smaller. I got really scared, Margaret.

  “I know . . . I’m a weenie. Didn’t want to be. In a split second I thought it through: I could duck under the

  water until the rope passed over me, but how long would that take and could I hold my breath till it did? Or, I could wait until the rope was very close, then duck under, but what if Carey, suddenly, gunned the engine? I guess a veteran skier would have known what to do, but, I confess, I panicked. Didn’t want to embarrass Carey in front of his cousins, but I think I lost it. Started yelling at him, but he couldn’t hear me above the motor. He was turned back, looking in my direction toward the pier, but kept going.

  “When I read about Jonah telling God that the weeds wrapped around his head I knew exactly how he must have felt. He probably felt like I did, that he was in desperate straits. One of Carey’s cousins was watching keenly enough and saw the predicament, began waving and yelling at Carey. Finally, my husband got the message and stopped.

  “When I struggled out of the water, got to the pier, Carey was long gone, taking someone else out and I was greatly upset. The cousin who’d saved me said, sympathetically,

  “‘Carey was hot-doggin’.

  “Reading God’s word about Jonah was great consolation to me.”

  “That’s how the Holy Spirit works in our lives.” Margaret counseled. “Something happens, then . . . boom . . . there’s His word, but you have to be watching for it. It’s like Christ—He stands at the door and knocks. He won’t barge in. He waits for you to open up.

 
I know that’s what Clarence would say.”

  “Yep. Clarence was a good man. You were greatly blessed, Maggie.”

  35

  “I was so happy and relieved. It looked like we’d turned a different corner—my husband and me. Carey was spending more time at home, doing things with me around the house, mowed the lawn, even built himself a little workshop. It was real cute. He did a very nice job putting it together. Made a little, wooden chair for the baby—a tiny, little chair. He said he wanted the child to have a place to sit in his shop while he worked. Pretty neat, huh, Meggie? It, also, gave him a substantial place to keep his tools, parts, even, big enough to park his bike on nasty days. Made himself a ramp going up into it. We had meals together. Sometimes, we had our parents over. Sometimes we took our yard chairs out, sat on pretty days and drank our coffee. With a grateful heart, I said,

  “‘Lord God, we might just make it.’

  “Got to know our next-door neighbors, a really neat, sweet couple and so friendly. They told me they sat on their back porch every morning before work and had Bible study together and prayer. How neat is that—just the two of them. They teased me about my dimples, said I had dimples as big as ‘Clem Kadiddlehopper’—you know—Red Skelton’s character. I couldn’t argue with them about that. Mine were pretty significant—like my

  fingers—nobody in my family had them quite like I did. I only wish my dimples had paid off for me like Red’s did for him. The couple gives us all hope since they had both been divorced. I just pray they were able to make it for the long haul this go-’round. They were trying.

  “It was about that time—sometime in my eighth month—Carey came up with the marvelous idea of having our second wedding ceremony. It was just the grandest thing I could think of and I loved and appreciated him so for wanting to do it. I completed my trousseau. Had such fun sewing it. I love to sew, makes me feel like a woman doing good work. Felt like, maybe, after the baby came, I could modify the pants and keep wearing them. There was so much material in the blouse and camisole, I know I could have taken out the seams and used it with a different pattern. Keep the sleeves, the collar, re-work the bodice. Maybe even make something for our next big company bash. The material was just too pretty not to use, somehow . . . and it was, after all, my birthday present. One thing my mother did very well—besides, obviously, keeping my daddy happy—was appreciate. She could do appreciation very well and she’d think I was quite the smarty for re-vamping my trousseau, re-inventing it, so to speak.

  “And, oh, Meggie, you’ll never believe what I found in my Southern Living magazine—a recipe for firecrackers! Yep. ‘Roquefort Firecrackers’, kind of like tiny empanadas only you use phyllo dough. Mmmm . . . mmmm. I love phyllo dough wrapped around anything, but those firecrackers—they’re filled with Roquefort and cream cheese brushed with butter; sprinkled with fresh chives and baked. Oh, my dear. My

  mouth drooled just reading the recipe. Visceral. See? That’s me.

  “Ok. So, I’ve got my little firecrackers—doctor took me off potato chips—something festive and different. Got the ice chest filled with drinks, chocolate milk. Got a nice salad thrown together—with real mayonnaise. Heaven only knows what all this is going to do to my water retention. But, it’s a celebration. It’ll be like a kind of brunch, not a real meal. After all, it’s not everyday a girl attends her second wedding ceremony. I’m pumped. I’m good to go. I was, amazingly, feeling very good.

  “I’m dressed, see. And, I’ve got to say, Margaret, I looked like I was wearing a tent. I was disappointed . . . so disappointed. I guess I was wearing blinders when I made it, ’cause I did try it on as I put it all together, checked it out in the mirror. But, when I put it all on, I just looked like a walking tent. No. Correction . . . a waddling, walking tent. And, my belly swayed back and forth and . . .

  “You know! Nobody told me I’d have small contractions that last month or so, contractions that were for turning the baby around heading him or her due south. Nobody ever told me. My belly would commence what I can only describe as a squeezing and tightening. My head would go all swimmy. Dizzy, you know? They didn’t hurt. I guess that’s why it never occurred to me they were contractions. Just uncomfortable. Disconcerting, I guess you’d say. Just one more peculiar thing that occurred over those eight-plus months. Doctor said dizziness comes when the baby lays its weight on an artery . . . cuts the oxygen off to the mother’s

  brain. I pondered if, perhaps, that’s why childbirth and labor, often, so drastically change a woman’s temperament and psychological makeup. That and the innate instinct to protect her young.

  “If it weren’t for my long legs which, gratefully, hadn’t gotten any shorter nor much fatter for all that, there would have been nothing pulling that get-up out of the toilet. And, all the gossamer material just got in my way. I happened to cross in front of the air conditioner and that stuff was blowing everywhere. The camisole flew up and there I saw the most grotesque sight attached to my body, a sight I’d tried for almost nine months not to notice.”

  {“Clearly, before Demi Moor’s time. She made baby bumps fashionable.”}

  “My only consolation was that, after the baby, I’d re-work it. Make it into something decent. The pants did look good. I’ll say that. The very thing I was the least impressed with out of the lot turned out to be the nicest. Go figure. It was a good thing my legs were hanging out. It’s like big-bosomed women: until they wear fitted jeans or pants, their bodies really don’t make a lot of sense. But, when you can see that they do have some definition, a nice figure, in spite of their big boobs, it all comes together and makes sense.

  “My hair. I wanted it to be really special. I put it up and, as downcast as I felt, went ahead and put in the barrettes Carey’s parents gave me for my birthday. May as well use them. When I looked in the mirror, all I could see was a greatly puffed-up face. Like a blow-fish. Even

  my rouge and lipstick looked garish. I always wore makeup well, Meggie.”

  “You were just not feeling well . . . not as well as you thought, I suspect. Because, little girl,” Margaret felt it was time to step in, “you are, were and always will be a beautiful woman. I suspect you were peering at yourself through your mind’s eye, judging yourself as you expected Carey would when he saw you . . . the way he always assessed you in the past. Here, again, think back to your good friend’s husband, what he said about Carey not snuggling on the campout. There are other men. Different men.”

  “Yep. Their wives are blessed.”

  “All men are not like Carey. I would ask you how your father felt, but you said you and Carey decided not to tell anyone of you ceremony until later. What, by the way, do you think would have been your dad’s reaction?”

  “About what?”

  “About your new hair style, new clothes, the ceremony, your body . . .”

  “He would have loved me as I was . . . like my fingers. He noticed and appreciated. He would have found the lovely amongst all the crap.”

  “And, too, he would have recognized without thinking that your pregnant body was, merely, transitory. You’d get your luscious torso back in quick order—Cadette material, yes?—and, then, he’d have two to love

  instead of one.”

  “Thanks, Meggie.”

  36

  “So, I was dressed, ready to go. Brunch was ready. Ice chest, ready. Carey walks in from the bedroom dressed in his new biker stuff, sleeveless shirt, muscles, et al. He looked sin-sational with a capital ‘S.’ And, smelled so good. Mmmm—mmm. Visceral—I’m beyond help. My only saving grace is I’m married to him. I guess that gives me the right to covet with a capital ‘C.’ Actually wearing his new, expensive cologne—for me, our baby, our life together, our future.

  “He told me he wanted to go ahead on his cycle to make certain the site was still appropriate. He said, if the area had changed since he’d been there last,
for whatever reason, he’d meet me at the main road and we’d go elsewhere. He wanted me to come in the car, as I thought we’d both be doing, bring the chest and cake. That was the first time he’d mentioned a cake.

  “‘I would have been happy to make a cake, Carey. I would have enjoyed doing it, had I known you wanted one.’

  “He said the cake he saw at the bakery was just perfect for our occasion; that’s why he wanted that cake, specifically—a white cake, white icing—symbolic, he said,

  of the purity of our future—topped with huge, lush, red strawberries smothered in strawberry sauce—symbolic of the new birth of our baby and living love.

  “‘No need to bother you about it.’

  “He’d go ahead to the ceremonial grounds. Wanted me to stop off at the little bakery on the edge of town, pick up the cake.

  “‘I’ve already talked with the owner . . . told me she’d have a fresh one ready to go by the time you got there . . . . paid in full.’

  “I was totally unfamiliar with the bakery he mentioned—said it was an old shop owned by an Italian widow-woman—but I didn’t get out that way hardly at all. He said he’d see me at the site just as soon . . .

  “‘ . . . as soon as you can pick up the cake and beat it up the highway.’

  “‘Ok. Special orders do not upset us,’ I said to myself.

  “‘Be sure to follow the map I made you. It’s straight up the highway, but you need to really be looking for the turn off. If you don’t watch, you’ll miss it. If you get to Ballardsville, you’ve gone too far. That’ll waste time and I don’t want to be waiting out there for you forever. Ok? The weather’s supposed to stay nice, but you never know. And, I sure don’t want to be out there waiting for you in the rain . . . not in these clothes. But, you’ll see. It’s beautiful and well worth all the effort.’

  “And, then, Margaret, that man did the most unexpected. Just to let you know, in case you’ve forgotten, the abdomen isn’t the only part of a pregnant woman’s body that becomes highly distended and exquisitely sensitive. He took me in his arms. He hadn’t done that in a month of Sundays.