JEWEL

by LOTT, BRET

  The Reader’s Digest, though, took me elsewhere, let me think of myself as someone still able to learn a thing or three about the world. I kept the newest issue between the mattresses in my bedroom, and when I went to bed, Leston always staying downstairs to ponder over what all it was we’d lost these few years, I pulled out my magazine, read it by the lamplight, and went to Geneva, Switzerland, or into the childhood of one of our Presidents, or onto the flight deck of an aircraft carrier right before Guadalcanal. When my eyes started to get heavier than I could keep open, I’d tuck the magazine back where it belonged, go downstairs, and touch Leston on the shoulder.

  Every night he was at the kitchen sink, staring out the window at the black out there, or at his own reflection cast by the light in the kitchen, I was never able to tell which. And every night he jumped at my touch, whether I called out his name before I let my hand rest on his shoulder or not.

  When I was through with the magazines I gave them to Cathe ral, who seemed genuinely to want them, her thin hands holding each issue as if it were a precious photograph, only touching the edges, holding it back and away from her, admiring the paintings on the back.

  But the last two issues I hadn’t given up to her, each of them containing an article about what was called “Mongoloids, ” and I was thankful right from the start that someone somewhere’d finally taken out the second word, that the word Idiot and all it carried’d been cut off.

  The first story was about an American woman who was born and raised in China by her missionary parents, and how she ended up having a Mongoloid child, and about her moving to the United States with this child. The upshot of the story was that she finally decided to give up the child to a special home in a place called Vineland, New Jersey, and how it was the hardest decision she ever made, but that it was all for the best of the child.

  I didn’t much care for the article, because it went against everything I’d tried to make for Brenda Kay a loving household, proper medical treatment, good care while I was out of the house and making money for that treatment. And the woman’s child didn’t seem nearly as bad off as Brenda Kay, nobody said her son would die at two, nobody said he’d never walk.

  What made me keep hold of that issue, though, was the note at the end of the article, set off in a little box, “In the next issue, Reader’s Digest reports on a new miracle drug that helps increase IQ in Brain Food for the Backward Child. Don’t miss it! ” I wouldn’t. I didn’t have an idea what made for a backward child, whether that was a Mongoloid or simply a slow child, but I waited, read the article each night, felt more and more apart from that mother while hoping more and more for some deliverance with the next issue. I read the box and its message a hundred times, and when finally the 20th came around, the day my magazine came each month, I made certain I was out of the cafeteria by one, waiting by the mailbox in front of the house by one-twenty.

  Mr. Boone, our mailman, drove up in his truck, leaned over and handed me the only piece of mail we got that day, Reader’s Digest. I smiled for him’ nodded, and had the wrapper off even before he’d pulled away.

  I sat on the steps, Brenda Kay, I knew, already down for her nap she still slept four or five hours a day when Cathe ral came out.

  She stopped, said, “The new one here already, ” but I said nothing, ran my finger down the table of contents on the front, found the page, turned to it.

  She left, called out, “Good-bye, Miss Jewel, ” and it was only then I looked up, saw her already out on the road, the thin cotton dress she had on wrinkling in the small spring breeze. “Oh, ” I said, then called out, “Good-bye, Cathe ral.”

  She didn’t turn, only lifted one hand above her head, waved, brought it back down.

  I looked back to the magazine, found right after an article about the starving people in India what I’d waited for, “Brain Food for the Backward Child.”

  I stood, turned to the house and went upstairs to Brenda Kay’s room, slowly opened the door, though I knew I wouldn’t wake her, and closed it behind me. My rocker was in this room now, and I sat in it. I read the article, moving through it slowly, word for word, knowing that once I’d ended it the wait for this news, whatever it was, would be over.

  The article was a short one, and only ran onto two pages. It was the story of a Mongoloid boy named David who’d tested in with an IQ of 49, but, after taking medicine from doctors at the Columbia School of Medicine, had it shoot up to 61, and he was reading now, and he was improving.

  I had no idea what IQ Brenda Kay would have, didn’t know anything about the Columbia School of Medicine other than that it was in New York City, didn’t have any idea how much more than calcium glucanate shots this whole procedure cost. But what I knew was that something out there was holding hope, and so when I got to the end of the article and saw the boxed message there, I read it with a new and different kind of hope.

  Hope that maybe there was something out there could help me fix what was going on in our lives, the burden here.

  “Reader’s Digest suggests, ” the message read, “that if you would like more information about care for the retarded child, clip out the coupon below and mail it to, The National Association for Retarded Children, P.

  O. Box 1712, Los Angeles, California.”

  Below the box was a small form, lines for our address, the name of our child, how old she was.

  Of course I stood, left the room for Annie and Billie Jean’s room, went through the top drawer of their dresser, what Billie Jean called the trash drawer, and got one of Annie’s red pencils. I sat on her bed, filled out the form. The next morning, as soon as Cathe ral got there, I left, headed for the five and dime for an envelope, then to the post office, had that coupon on its way to California and whoever it was would have to hand out help from that far away.

  Brenda now called out “Momma! ” one more time before I made it up to her room, pushed open the door to see her sitting up in bed, still trying to clap hands.

  “My baby, ” I said, and she turned to me, on her face nothing for a moment, then the smile that always started these days out. She was happy, always happy, and for at least that much I was glad. There’d been more than enough ear infections, me pouring warm oil down into her ear and trying my best to make her lie still for a while, this going on every other month or so. And there were the shots, and how since she was seven months old she would let out a wail when the needle broke skin, her voice thick and dark coming up from her throat, her eyes squeezed shut in the pain of it. There was no difference in how she took them even to this day, always that cry, me having to turn my head, unable to watch while Dr. Beaudry and I both held her down. And there were still plenty of mornings when I’d come in here to find she’d wet or messed in the bed, and there’d be that extra chore to start out with, the weight of having an infant these five years, what I’d never counted on, feeding by hand, carrying her wherever we went, my baby drooling for years on end. But she was happy no matter what, it seemed, once she’d been given the shots she seemed to forget they ever existed, once the ear infections i were gone, she’d slowly crawl out the door if we didn’t stop her. This morning she was dry.

  “Now let’s go on to the toilet, ” I said, and I took her by the hands, sort of half-lifted, half-dragged her to the edge of the bed. She put her bare feet down, toes still twisted up and bunched together in a way Dr. Basket’d informed us they’d be for the rest of her life.

  But she was walking now, and with her holding tight to both my hands, she stepped across the floor, me behind and above her, making certain she didn’t fall.

  She knew the way to the toilet, out her bedroom door and to the left and the end of the hall, though if I were to say to her Go left, or Go to the end of the hall, it’d mean nothing. She only knew where to go, how to get there, fine enough with me. “Momma, ” she said as we went, “Momma, Momma.”

  When we reached the door into the bathroom, Leston came out of our bedroom. He had on one of his old workshirts, a pair of blue
jeans and suspenders on, what he wore every day. But he’d combed his hair wet, slicked back on the top and sides. He smelled of Old Spice, the bottle he had in his dresser years old. He hadn’t opened it in maybe two or three years, since back when he went to church with us all Sunday mornings.

  He smiled, bent down and touched Brenda Kay’s head, then leaned and kissed her forehead.

  “My baby girl, ” he said. Without his eyes meeting mine, he stood, leaned into my neck and kissed me. Then he turned, headed off down the stairs.

  There was nothing to say, and I only stood there, watching him as he took the stairs quicker than any morning in recent history.

  I looked down at Brenda Kay. She was half-turned to him, watching him, too. Her eyes were open wide, her mouth open, as if this person were a stranger, someone she’d never seen before, even after five and a half years inside this house. And maybe, I thought, that’s exactly what he was to her, why she looked at him this way every time she saw him.

  Then something came clear to me, and I knew what he’d already planned for our outing. And just as clear I knew, too, how I’d introduce him to the notion of California.

  We were on the road east toward Ashe Lake by nine-thirty, Leston, Brenda Kay and me in the front seat, the children in the bed of the pickup. On occasion I’d glance back through the rears window to see Billie Jean with one hand holding down her hair, the other on the edge of the bed, her eyes always ahead of us, watching what was coming up next, or Wilman reaching out a fist to Burton, Burton dodging, moving just so, Wilman’s swing lost to air. Annie never moved, only huddled next to Billie Jean, her legs pulled up close to her chin, her hands holding on to her shins.

  She only stared across the bed to the opposite wall, her red hair in pigtails that bounced with each dip in the road.

  Leston put his arm on top of the seat back, let his fingers just touch my shoulder. He tilted his head to one side, his eyes on the road, said, “Figured we’d rent us a canoe. From that old nigger up there, Jason.” He paused. “What do you think? ” Brenda Kay started rocking forward and back right then, her hands tight together in her lap. Her mouth was open, her jaw pushed forward so that all you could see of her mouth were her bottom teeth, her chin way out.

  Then she started clicking her teeth together, her jaw just barely moving, going to some rhythm only she knew about.

  I touched a hand to her back, and she only kept with the slow, smooth rocking.

  I said, “What about money? ” He laughed, short and clean, like he was tossing aside the whole idea of what things cost.

  He said, “I got a few cents saved up.” He paused, looked at me for the first time today. “No big bankroll, ” he said, smiling. “But a few cents.”

  I turned, looked to the road. My hand was still on Brenda Kay’s back, making slow circles now, never certain what it was she thought me doing by touching her, sometimes she’d be startled, turn quick as she could to give me the cold-eyed and empty stare she gave Leston each time she saw him, other times she’d turn, smile at me, her thin red lips nearly gone for the smile, the row of bottom baby teeth right there. This time she did nothing, still rocked, as though I weren’t even here.

  “The children’d like that, ” I said. “We haven’t done that since before Brenda Kay was born.”

  I looked at him. I wanted to see how he’d take that, my words right out in the open. We never spoke about Before, that word gone from the ones we always used, ones that usually dealt with money.

  But he didn’t flinch, didn’t even move. His fingers still lay on my shoulder. His eyes were on the road, and he said, “Figured you ” and he stopped. He looked at me, one hand on the steering wheel, his elbow out his window, the air cool and dew-wet air out there. “Figured you and me, we could take a little ride ourselves.” He paused, swallowed.

  “You and me.”

  I took my eyes from his, looked back to Brenda Kay. She’d started in to rocking too far forward, too far back, the slow arc her body made too big for the cab, her back hitting the seat a little harder each time.

  Leston took his arm from the seat top, put both hands on the wheel. He glanced at Brenda Kay, then to the road, then to her again.

  I reached my other hand to Brenda Kay’s chest, tried to hold her. But she was strong, and it took me a minute or so before I could get her to stop, until she was sitting up straight again, breathing hard, cheeks flushed, her small fingers still clasped in her lap.

  “With Brenda Kay, of course, ” I said then, one arm around her shoulder.

  With my other hand I touched her cheek, felt her smooth skin damp with sweat.

  “No, ” he said. He was smiling at me again. “Just what I said. You and me. Billie Jean can take care of her, does it often enough already.”

  I knew what he wanted, there was no doubt. And he was right, Brenda Kay’d be fine with Billie Jean. Still, I had to play this out the best I could, wanted him to feel what was coming was all his idea.

  I said. “Leston, are you certain? ” I tilted my head, drew up my eyebrows in a way I knew he’d believe the rest of his life.

  He said, “Positive.” He let go the steering wheel with one hand, placed that hand on Brenda Kay’s head, patted it as though he’d never had any children of his own, his fingers flat and stiff, afraid to touch her.

  “She’ll be fine, ” he said.

  “I don’t know, ” I said, and crossed my arms to show him how worried I was, then settled back in my seat, already figuring on what I’d say once we were out on the water.

  CHAPTER 14.

  LESTON PARKED THE TRUCK OUT FRONT THE NIGGER JASON’s SHANTY. Not a hundred yards behind the place was Ashe Lake, his shanty looking like every other shanty I’d ever seen, clapboards weathered to nothing, a huge flat stone for a front step, smoke from a chimney.

  He and Leston stood out front, Jason’s eyes on the ground before him, Leston with his hands in his blue jeans pockets and rocking ever so slowly forward and back on his heels. He looked directly at Jason, just talking to him.

  I leaned out the window, hollered, “Leston, let’s get going.”

  He only glanced at me, turned his head the smallest bit, then back to Jason, who, suddenly, looked too much like Tory to me, hair the same flecked gray, eyes down on the ground the same way, raggedy clothes.

  The engine rumbled beneath me. Brenda Kay’d started giving in to rocking forward and back again, and the boys were standing in the bed of the truck, chucking rocks they’d gotten from somewhere off into the woods.

  Then Leston pulled one hand out of a pocket, looked into his palm, held it out to Jason. Money for the canoe.

  Jason lifted a hand, waved off Leston, shook his head. Still he wouldn’t look up.

  But Leston wouldn’t let it pass at that, instead stood with his hand and the money out.

  “Momma! ” Brenda Kay screamed then, my name choked off in her throat, high-pitched and piercing, making me jump at it. She was going full tilt again, her head almost smashing into the scratched green metal of the dash as she swung forward, the back of her head hitting the seat as she slammed backward.

  I took hold of her, and for a few moments I, too, was swinging with her, lost for an instant in the cold rhythm she carried through her body, made her move as hard as she did, and I held her even tighter, afraid I might lose control, though I already had. Her getting to this moment, this abandon, was my fault, me watching what was happening out the window instead of what was going on in my child right next to me.

  I . w o Because that was what being her mother was about, watching, every second, waiting and watching and waiting. Every moment, every breath of my life was taken up with care for her, and how best to keep control of her life, then my children’s lives, and, finally, my husband’s. When Brenda Kay screamed, when she pulled a chair over on herself, when she wet her underdrawers, when she crawled too close to the fireplace, when she banged her chin on a kitchen drawer she pulled out too fast, when she threw up, when she had a
hair in her eye, when she found a sharpened pencil, when she slept, when she ate, when she drank and breathe and breathe , I was protecting her, stopping her, carrying her, helping her.

  That was who I was, and as I struggled yet again to slow her down, to stop this wild movement she’d done this more and more of late, the movement what Dr. Basket’d informed me was merely her own way of learning to coordinate her muscles, her body trying to take charge over itself as she grew older I wondered when this all would stop, or if it would, or if I really hoped it would never stop at all. This purpose, this mission I had now was the giant center of everything I did, and I thought again of what I was here to do, what that canoe meant to me and what it meant to Leston, and how it was Brenda Kay and her welfare, her life, I was after fixing.

  I had her tight in my arms, had her stopped, finally, the both of us breathing hard this time, my eyes closed with the effort.

  When I opened them, there out front of the shanty stood Leston and Jason, Leston’s hand and the money still held out to him. But Leston was turned to us. The morning light played across his face to make even deeper the wrinkles of his forehead, even more severe the lines beside his eyes as he strained to see what exactly was going on in the cab of his truck.

  I glanced over my shoulder and out the rear window. Billie Jean was staring in at us, Wilman standing up and with his arm cocked back and ready to throw the rock in his hand, Burton standing with his hands in his pockets. Only Annie wasn’t looking, simply stared off into the woods.

  I turned to the front window, hollered, “We’re fine, Leston. Let’s just get on.”

  He turned back to Jason, reached to Jason’s shirt pocket, dropped the few bits of change in.

  Jason nodded a quick couple of times, pointed off to his left, all without looking up. Then Leston looked back to the truck, snapped his fingers once and pointed to where Jason had.