‘Six extra days,’ he’d said. ‘For a three-day visit – Grace, we have to fly.’
And so we’d flown. In Chicago we waited for two hours while our plane was de-iced, and then after we boarded we sat for so long that the wings iced up again. Men in padded suits rolled steel towers up to the wings and then stood high above the ground shooting jets of steaming liquid from thick hoses. I took another Valium and tried not to hear the passengers discussing the weather.
‘Thirty below,’ I heard someone say.
‘Minneapolis is closed,’ said another.
‘I hear the air gets thinner when it’s this cold,’ said a third. ‘So there’s less left, which must make it harder for the plane to stay up …’
I plucked feebly at Walter’s sleeve. ‘Please,’ I said. ‘Let’s stay overnight here. We could find a hotel.’
‘They wouldn’t let us fly if it wasn’t safe,’ he said.
The rolling towers pulled away and the plane began to back up slowly; if I’d been the praying type I would have prayed. In the absence of that, I tried to distract myself by calling up a picture of the cat I’d been dissecting in my vertebrate anatomy class. My teacher was a plump man with a red toupee, whose idea of fun was to place loose bones in a silk bag and have us plunge our hands in, identifying tibias and fibulas by feel. He and Walter had been friends forever.
‘Splenic flexure, cecum, bladder,’ I muttered, my eyes shut and my fingers clawing at the armrests. We took off; we flew. The ride was turbulent all the way to Fargo and the attendants couldn’t serve drinks, and by the time we arrived I’d sweated through all my clothes. My mascara ran. My hair was plastered to my forehead. Walter’s parents looked concerned when they first saw me.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ Walter asked them. He kissed his mother’s cheek and shook his father’s hand.
‘Three hours,’ Ray said placidly. ‘Not so bad.’
I could picture them sitting there, plump legs spread, hands folded in their ample laps. Ray, who taught agronomy at the state university, could talk for hours about the wiles of nitrogen-fixing bacteria. ‘I have a passion for legumes,’ he’d confided shyly on my first visit. Walter’s mother, Lenore, had taken me on a tour of their Lutheran church, where she was head of the women’s committee. She’d needlepointed seat cushions for the pews, embroidered banners for the walls, organized bake sales, knitted sweaters for raffles. Now she slipped her soft hand beneath my elbow. ‘Welcome back,’ she said. ‘I brought you some coffee – it’s in the car. In a thermos. You’re so pale.’
‘Bad flight,’ I said weakly.
Walter and his father, ahead of us, were already discussing work. They settled themselves in the Jeep’s front seat, leaving Lenore and me in the back.
‘Drink this,’ Lenore said. Black coffee, boiled with eggshells, the way Mumu used to make it. While I sipped at it, Lenore showed me the seat cover she’d been needlepointing in the airport. On a field of dark purple she’d worked a bible verse in violet and cream and pale pink. ‘See?’ she said, and then she read the text to me in her thin girlish voice. ‘For nothing is secret that shall not be made manifest; neither anything hid that shall not be known and come abroad.’
I shuddered and closed my eyes.
‘That’s good coffee,’ she said. ‘Isn’t it? Strong.’ Then she stroked her seat cover again. ‘Luke,’ she said happily. ‘Eight-seventeen. It’s part of a series I’m doing for the choir stalls – all from Luke. Twelve-two: “For there is nothing covered that shall not be revealed; neither hid, that shall not be made known.” Twelve-three: “Therefore whatsoever ye have spoken in darkness shall be heard in the light; and that which ye have spoken in the ear in closets shall be proclaimed upon the house tops.” Pastor Lundquist has been using the denunciation of the Pharisees and the discourse against hypocrisy as his texts all fall, and you wouldn’t believe how interesting his sermons have been …’
‘Mother,’ Ray said soothingly, ‘now don’t you go bending her ear.’
‘I’m fine,’ I said faintly. Usually Lenore’s bible chatter rolled right off me, but that evening I listened with sick fascination. Luke had been Mumu’s favorite reading and I knew those verses from her, although I’d heard them first in Swedish. Hearing them in English, from Lenore’s mouth, was like hearing the dead speak.
We drove through the snow over land as flat as the sea, and as we did Lenore stopped quoting Scripture and pointed out Walter’s elementary school, Walter’s high school, the fairground where Walter had won first prize with a calf. ‘Remember when you won the science fair?’ she asked, leaning forward to touch Walter’s shoulder. ‘Those rats you bred?’
‘Genetics,’ Ray said happily. ‘Even then.’ We’d had the same conversation the year before, passing the same sights.
‘And remember the flatworms?’ Lenore asked. ‘And the project you did with the Lycopodium?’
It was dark by then, and I couldn’t tell if Walter was blushing. I couldn’t imagine growing up with such proud parents.
That was the way our visit went, the way it had gone the year before and the way it would always go. Peculiar, sometimes funny; and yet somehow also touching. In the Hoffmeiers’ neat white house were the bookcases Walter had built; in the yard were the trees Walter had planted and the fence Walter had designed. Lenore fixed the same meals Walter had always eaten. Walter and Ray strode off in the afternoons, looking at land, talking science, discussing each other’s work, and Lenore and I sat warm in the white house, watching TV and drinking coffee and cooking huge feasts. Part Swedish, part Finnish, part German, Lenore loved the idea of my Swedish grandmother and paid homage to our shared ancestry by digging out her old recipes. We made cardamom bread, krum-cakes, Swedish meatballs scented with nutmeg. In between, while dough rose and sauces simmered, we leafed through books of old photographs and examined Walter at two, four, ten, twenty; every age and situation.
‘This is Walter when he was four,’ Lenore said, showing me a picture of a small lean child making a terrible face. ‘He was so fussy about his food – I’d just given him a Saltine, and he was making a face because it was ugly. He couldn’t stand the way some of the crackers had those little blisters.’
Another picture, Walter at two in a high-chair, smiling. ‘Ray took this,’ she said. ‘We were so happy that day – every time we fed him, we’d wait to see if he’d look at his plate and start screaming. It took us the longest time to figure out what was upsetting him – the food was crooked on his plate. Ray took this picture the day we arranged the food symmetrically and Walter stopped crying. Such a relief – you have no idea.’
‘I have an idea,’ I murmured.
‘He’s still fussy?’ she said.
‘A little. About how his shirts are ironed, and where I get his jackets dry-cleaned, and how I clean house, and how I cook …’
Lenore smiled. ‘Hoffmeier men. That’s the way they are – Ray’s just the same, and so was his father. I remember cooking Thanksgiving dinner with Ray’s mother, out at their place on County Line Road. The two of us scared half to death that the men would find something wrong with it – but then that’s the fun, too. The pleasure of pleasing them. Praise from a Hoffmeier man means something. He takes good care of you?’
‘The best,’ I said, and I meant it. He sheltered me the way Uncle Owen had, keeping my family at bay. ‘He’s always helping me with school,’ I told her. ‘Always trying to improve me.’
‘And he’s affectionate?’
‘Pretty much,’ I said, knowing I couldn’t tell her how our lovemaking had turned into a weekly event. Always Saturdays, always at night, always with the lights off. Always the same words, touches, moves. The science of love. We slept in Eileen’s bed, on Eileen’s sheets, with Walter’s fish looking down on us and Randy and Eileen as present, sometimes, as if their bodies were there. Eileen, whatever her faults, had had a dancer’s body, and I knew Walter still thought of her now and then. Sometimes his hand, running up my inner th
igh, would stop and seem to stutter there, as if he found the excess flesh unfamiliar.
‘So,’ Lenore said, leaning toward me. ‘So you’ll have a child?’
I blushed. There seemed to be no harm in telling her, cementing our alliance. ‘We’re trying already,’ I admitted. ‘I’m graduating in June, and we thought any time after that …’
She wrapped me in her yeasty-smelling arms. ‘I’m so glad,’ she said. ‘I always hated Eileen because she wouldn’t. Such a selfish woman, so caught up in herself – all that dancing. Never taking care of Walter. But I knew you were different. And Walter will be such a good father.’
I’d had sneaking doubts about that, now that I knew him better, but I’d put them aside since we’d started trying. We had a lovely home, he was up for tenure, I was almost educated. Our lives stretched before us, secure and changeless. Any child of ours would lack for nothing.
‘A grandchild,’ Lenore said. Her face was radiant. ‘Oh, I can’t wait.’
When I looked at her, I couldn’t wait either. ‘Maybe this time next year …’ I said.
‘Whenever,’ she said. ‘The Lord will provide.’ She ran her eyes approvingly over my broad figure. ‘You have a good pelvis,’ she said. ‘You’ll have an easy time. But after, you’ll have to – you know. Work together. Balance Walter a little – he and his father are firm men. They have firm ideas.’
‘They do,’ I said.
‘So you’ll soften that a little. Provide the comfort, the flexibility – you’re a good girl. You can do that.’
‘I can try,’ I said.
‘Of course you will. And as far as church goes – if you can find a pastor like our Sven Lundquist, you’ll be ahead right there.’ She vanished into the bedroom and returned a minute later with a small book covered in blue watered silk. ‘Walter’s baby book,’ she said. ‘Pastor headed all the sections with appropriate verses, and then Ray and I filled in the rest. First step, first tooth, first words … I’d like you to have it.’
I thanked her, thinking how, when we were home, Walter mocked his mother’s soft ways and simple piety. No child of Walter’s would ever set foot inside a church.
‘A girl,’ Lenore said. ‘You’ll have a girl, with hair like yours.’
‘A girl,’ I echoed, and suddenly I yearned for one. Small, pink, sweet-smelling. Someone all my own.
The men came home then, from their Saturday afternoon in the fields. Walter showed me his high-school track trophies, as he had done the year before. He showed me his old bed, his old room, his old microscope; he grew wistful there in Fargo, something I’d never seen in him before. He handled his old rock collection as if the rocks were jewels, and when I showed him his baby book he turned the pages carefully. As he did, I made a connection I had failed to make earlier: Walter yearned for the past. He mourned for it, grieved for it, wept for a time when, in his eyes, the world was simpler, kinder, more at one with nature. He’d frowned on the drive from the airport, when his parents had pointed out a new apartment complex, but I hadn’t thought of how, at home, he refused to go to shopping malls and averted his face from new houses. He gave money to save the whales, save the snow leopards, save the Amazon, the Arctic, the Serengeti, but he voted Republican and seemed not to want this messy, peopled world of ours at all. What he wanted was what he’d once had, what his grandparents had had on their outlying farms. Empty land. Land where the snow could start blowing and drift for twenty miles.
Down in the basement, Ray showed us his woodworking shop and pointed out the cherry chest of drawers he’d made.
‘Next year,’ Lenore said, ‘maybe this time next year, you’ll be making a crib.’
‘Yes?’ Ray said. He looked from Walter to me and smiled broadly. ‘Yes? You’re expecting?’
‘Not yet,’ Walter said. ‘But we’re hoping.’
I slipped my arm through his. We might have a child, I thought there in that basement. Live in the dense network formed of our child’s accomplishments. Buried in my mind was another, secret wish – if we had a child I might not have to go on to graduate school, might not have to work as Walter’s helper for the rest of my life. Already, although I could hardly admit this to myself, I was losing interest in school. It seemed as if all I’d really wanted was to be able to walk through the woods and name every bird and tree, and somehow I hadn’t understood that watching and naming was natural history, while picking and prying was real science. And I wasn’t a scientist after all. Scientists trusted in planes – the curved shape of the airfoil, the stream of air bending over the top, rushing below, thrusting up. The air pushed; the plane flew; a cell revealed spindles and mitochondria and microtubules. Walter had showed me those things, but I had trouble believing in them.
And yet in that house, in that flat, plain land, everything felt simple and possible. We felt like a family there, and I could forget what our lives were like at home – Walter’s driving ambitions and fussy ways, my secret discontents. I could even forget the dreams I sometimes had of Randy. I had chosen my life: adult, dignified, settled. And if I itched sometimes, if I ached from the confinement, I had Fargo and my dream of a family to anchor me.
A Black Harley Electra-Glide
When spring came, I still wasn’t pregnant, and I began to worry.
‘We’ve only been trying for eight months,’ Walter said. ‘That’s nothing.’ He was calm about it, he was fine, but he began making love to me twice a week instead of once, and when his parents called he ducked their questions. ‘Don’t worry,’ Lenore told me. ‘It’ll happen when you least expect it. You have to relax.’ But then she’d follow up these soothing words with tales of women in her church who’d spent years and fortunes trying to conceive. Thermometers, ovulation charts, special douches and positions – all that lay ahead of us if my body failed, and then doctors, operations, eggs teased apart under a microscope and gently washed with sperm. ‘There’s always a way,’ Lenore said as the months passed. ‘Always.’ She sent me bookmarks inscribed with prayers and words of comfort for the barren. For God indeed punishes not nature, but sin, read one. And therefore, when He closes a womb, it is only that He may later open it more wondrously, and that all may know that what is born thereof is not the fruit of lust, but of the divine munificence. The bookmarks made Walter fume.
‘She’s just trying to help,’ I told him.
‘We don’t need her help,’ said Walter. ‘We’ll be fine. Once you graduate, you’ll relax and it’ll happen.’
‘You’re right,’ I said. ‘That’s probably it.’
I had never told him about the abortion I’d had when I was married to Randy, or about the infection I’d had afterward; and although I dreamed about my lost child each night, more and more sorry for that life I’d rejected, by the time Walter and I were trying to make another life I couldn’t confide in him. I’d lent my past actions so much weight by not disclosing them sooner than now, almost by accident, I had a big secret. Maybe a guilty secret – when I bent double once each month, stabbed by ovarian cramps, I refused to go to the doctor. ‘This is normal,’ I told Walter. ‘It’s just the egg passing through.’ Meanwhile I was sure my insides had been scrambled and fused by my past mistakes, a nest of adhesions and scars and wounds, nothing left pink and shining.
As the spring wore on, I found myself making love by the calendar and not enjoying it at all, my pelvis propped up on pillows to help the sperm swim in. I worried about the thickness of my vaginal secretions and about the tilt of my uterus. I wondered about the patency of my fallopian tubes. All my attention was focused on my physiology, and I couldn’t concentrate on school. My worst class was an upper-level population ecology course – half graduate students, half seniors like myself – which was taught by a pompous fool with whom Walter often collaborated. ‘I ought to drop the course,’ I’d told Walter. ‘It’s making me tense.’ He’d pointed out that this was my last semester, that I needed the credits, and that my classmates would help me acclimate to graduate school. I�
�d applied, after all, under pressure from him – to his school, to his department. Of course I got in. I had good grades and great recommendations, and I didn’t tell anyone I planned to drop out as soon as I got pregnant.
The only good thing about my bad course – the only good thing about spring – was Page. I met her the day the teacher lectured on cyclic population changes. ‘These are the snowshoe hares,’ he said, drawing a jagged graph on the board. ‘The population peaks every nine or ten years and then crashes.’ He drew another line that roughly followed the first. ‘These are the lynxes,’ he said. ‘Their population peaks about a year after the hares. Then it crashes, as they starve once the hares are gone.’
The woman sitting next to me turned and whispered in my ear. ‘Excited?’ she said. ‘This guy could make sex boring.’
I had been lost in my own eggy thoughts, and when she spoke I was so startled I smiled. Page was a year or two younger than me, blond, sharp-featured, and bright, and when we had coffee together later she told me she was a first-year graduate student specializing in the lepidoptera.
‘I’m only taking this course because it’s required,’ she told me in the cafeteria. ‘That asshole, Tinbergen – he’s never spent a day in the field in his life. Makes me sick, the way he goes on about lemmings and snowy owls like he ever actually saw any … God. This place. Where are you going when you graduate?’
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