by Tim Sandlin
“Family isn’t enough,” she said. “You and Mom matter to me, but I don’t see basing my future actions on making you guys proud. I need more.”
I almost said, You’ll find the answer, as an autoresponse, but luckily I caught myself. In these blessed talks where your child lets down the defenses and tells you how she feels, it’s crucial to avoid easy lies. Only a moron parent says, Everything is going to be okay. You’ll figure it out, honey. Buck up and smile. Things don’t always turn out okay, you can’t always figure it out, and sometimes smiling makes you come off as a clown. Kids know that. From preschool graduation on, a kid knows, Everything will turn out for the best is a crock.
Instead I said, “Maybe you could write a book. That helps me. It doesn’t take cooperation from anyone outside yourself, and if you’re terrible at it, you won’t know for years. The trouble with knitting is if you stink, you find out right away.”
Shannon laughed, which is about the most you can hope for when giving advice to your child.
“You’re no help at all, Daddy,” she said.
“Yes, but I’m here.”
That’s when the lodge door slammed and Eden Rae’s father came striding out across the yard. A second later, the door re-opened and Eden Rae appeared, dragging a Josie and the Pussycats suitcase on wheels with a matching overnight bag draped on the handle. She carried the Pooh bear by his red T-shirt.
***
I do love running the Home for Unwed Mothers, and I do love the girls. There is only one hitch, or at least, one hitch of any substance. Parents. Even the good parents irritate me, and to be blunt, the good ones are in the minority. Being the mother or father of a pregnant teenager is difficult, I understand. What I don’t understand is why so many of them botch the gig.
For one thing, this isn’t Faulkner’s time or place, where the violated female hides in her bedroom for nine months and then buries the baby under the spreading sycamore tree. Many mother-to-be teenagers don’t even stop going to school nowadays. I like to think Maurey Pierce and I pioneered the screw-public-opinion gestation back in 1963. We stayed right here in GroVont, in front of God, the mayor, and the PTA, throughout pregnancy and beyond. Nobody lynched us. In modern times, parents who ship their daughter off to an unwed home tend toward the type more concerned with social standing than daughter sanity. That doesn’t rub well with me.
Eden Rae’s father was named Dan. Dan had a burr haircut and tuck-in shirt. He coached American Legion baseball. Was a member of Pasadena Rotary. If Eden Rae’s mother hadn’t threatened divorce, Dan would have banished Eden Rae to live on the streets in some inner city, dependent on the goodwill of pimps and dope fiends.
The afternoon Dan brought Eden Rae to Madonnaville, after he told me about American Legion baseball and Rotary, he said—in front of his daughter—Eden Rae made her bed. She can lie in it.
I got the idea those words had become a mantra around their house.
Dan came striding across the Madonnaville front lawn, ignoring the flagstone walkway, leaving his daughter to lug her own bags. He said, “We are leaving. I will take care of the charges now.”
I looked from Dan and his jutting jaw back to Eden Rae. She’d morphed into the anti-Eden, a shadow of the girl I knew who would just as soon spit in your eye as brush her teeth. Before giving birth, she’d been on fire. I don’t know if the change was post-partum or her father’s presence, but I blame the father.
I said, “My wife, Gilia, can itemize the bill and mail it to you. There’s no call to worry about money this morning.”
Dan ran his hand over his head, front to back. If the rod had been any higher up his butt, he’d have had to stand tiptoe. “That is not acceptable. A legitimate business would have the invoice prepared since you know I have a plane to catch.”
Shannon said, “Is Eden Rae flying with you?”
Dan glanced at Shannon, no doubt thinking she condoned pregnancy in teenagers. “Of course, Eden Rae is flying with me.”
“Then you should have said, ‘We have a plane to catch.’ You might as well bite the bullet and acknowledge her.”
I jumped in before things turned ugly, not that I’m averse to things turning ugly. I just thought Eden Rae deserved a better send-off. She’d been family for five months. She couldn’t help it if her father was a dick.
“Gilia is with the new baby this morning,” I said.
“You advertised a nurse on-site for that task. A bookkeeper should keep books, and a nurse should nurse. I see no reason for the jobs to overlap.”
“Gilia is my wife, not my bookkeeper. And the nurse has weekends off, unless one of the girls is about to pop.”
Dan blinked at the word pop. “That is not an excuse for disorder in your business. I am certain there is someone who can tend”—he hesitated, trying to think of what to call it—“the child.”
Shannon was watching to see how I would handle the irate father. Unwed-Mother-Home interactions always fascinated her, the way some people enjoy horror movies and car wrecks. Eden Rae had gone passive. She wouldn’t have reacted if you stuck a tack in her foot.
I said, “You can wait in the office while I relieve Gilia.” I knew better than to offer to let him see the baby.
Dan said, “Let’s keep it short.”
***
It’s been interesting, watching myself grow old. The novelist in me likes to sit across the room in the recliner and observe as the years pass and my way of coping evolves. The interesting trait I’ve noticed lately is this: I can often tell what’s going to happen in any given situation, because I have been in so many situations. I am far more accurate predicting tomorrow than I am remembering yesterday.
I knew walking back into the lodge that leaving Shannon and Eden Rae outside together would lead to trouble. I could have saved everyone a truckload of grief by refusing to leave or dragging Shannon in with me, I even had a ready-made excuse, what with the need for a baby-sitter. And yet, I walked away. Sometimes the novelist would rather make things colorful more than safe. It’s a bad habit, fine in fictional characters, but not at all healthy in real people.
Eden Rae tipped her chin toward the to-go cup in Shannon’s hand. “You got any more of that? Daddy came in too early for me to caffeine up, and he’s sure as shitting not going to let me have any at the airport.”
Eden Rae had lost maybe twelve pounds since giving birth, but the weight had shifted. Now, she looked more in line with a chubby teenager than what she’d been two weeks ago. The weight was mostly thighs and butt, although when she moved toward Shannon, she still wobbled a bit like a pregnant walker.
She went on, “He thinks coffee makes me feel grown-up, and feeling grown-up makes me preggers.”
“It’s Dad’s coffee,” Shannon said. “You can finish it, if you’re not afraid of cooties.”
Eden Rae reached for the cup. “I’ve risked more than cooties in my life.” She took a drink, the third person to work on that one cup of coffee. “So, who’s your daddy?”
“Sam.” Shannon nodded toward the lodge. “Sam Callahan.”
Eden Rae whistled through her teeth. “Jesus. He must be one trip of a father.”
“Trip is a nice way to put it.”
“He’s got to be better than mine.” Eden Rae studied Shannon’s face like looking at a mug shot. “You’re the old nag Roger’s all strung out and bleeding over.”
Shannon’s reaction was physical. She lurched against the van and steadied herself by holding on to the mirror.
“You’re her.” Eden Rae stared hard at Shannon. “None of us would sleep with that boy if it wasn’t for you. You keep him safe.”
Shannon didn’t know where to start. “The girls here—they sleep with Roger?”
“Not all of them. Angel Byron is about to pee herself from waiting for me to leave so she can get her turn. She knows about you too.”
Eden Rae finished the coffee in one long chug. “That Roger’s so pussified by you, there’s no chance of his turning into a complication for us. Last thing a girl here wants is a complication, but the first thing I wanted, anyway, was a good scrog.”
For a moment, Shannon was so lost she didn’t recall what scrog meant. Scrog wasn’t the word used by her generation. They’d said bonk or diddle. Sometimes hump.
“You knocked-up girls scrog Roger?”
“I already told you that.”
“Does my dad know?”
Eden Rae considered the question. She’d never wondered who knew and who didn’t. “Not officially, he doesn’t, I guess. But he must have a clue.”
“You’re overestimating Sam if you expect him to pick up on clues.”
“I’ve run into him or Gilia when I was coming down from Roger’s cabin in the night.”
Shannon looked up the Miner Creek draw behind the lodge and the circle of guest quarters. Roger’s cabin was up there in the woods. She’d seen it from the compound but never had the urge to walk up the hill to look inside. Roger had always been a vague curiosity to her, his mysterious past, his quiet way of moving. The only time she’d been around him for more than a couple of days was back when Gilia and I got married. Roger had been fourteen or so, and she still thought of him that way.
Shannon said, “I don’t see how this can be.”
Eden Rae handed the empty cup back to Shannon. “Which part don’t you see? Roger’s the only boy within miles, and I’m not about to buy a vibrator, not on my allowance.”
“I think you’re mistaken about him being pussified.” Shannon wasn’t even certain what Eden Rae meant by pussified. Was it in love for people who won’t use the word love, or more like sexual obsession? Or something else? “You know. With me. I’m five years older than Roger.”
“Eight. He told me.”
“Eight? Are you sure?”
“Why would he lie to make it sound even more bizarre than it is? You’re ancient.”
The lodge door opened, and Dan appeared, followed by Gilia. I was inside with the baby.
“Go up to his cabin if you don’t believe me. Check out that picture album he keeps on the stump table. Or better, look in his closet. That one’s a doozie,” Eden Rae said. “Roger’s out of town somewhere. He won’t know.”
“He left with my grandmother.”
“Angel’s going nuts. Roger’s never been gone overnight before, and she’s ripe enough to gaz on sight.”
Dan stalked up, in an even fouler state than he’d been in when he came out the first time. Now, he not only had the humiliation of an unwed mother for a daughter, he’d also had to pay through the nose for the privilege. He’d been such a jerk, Gilia’d reamed him on the bill. Rates are discretionary at our Home.
He said, “Get in the car, Eden Rae.”
Her eyes dampened at the thought of leaving the only family she’d had for five months. At least, that’s what I like to think. It could have been hay fever.
“Can I say good-bye to Gilia?”
“I told you. Get in the car.”
Eden Rae and Gilia shared a few moments of meaningful eye contact in which Gilia let Eden Rae know how she felt and Eden Rae thanked Gilia for feeling that way. Then Eden Rae pulled the handle out on her suitcase and rolled it to the Town Car.
“Good luck, Eden Rae,” Gilia said. “I hope you have a happy life.”
Eden Rae said, “Yeah, right.”
***
My Gilia and Shannon stood in the parking turnaround and watched as the rental Lincoln carrying Eden Rae and her father turned on to the river road, headed back down to the airport.
Gilia said, “It’s always sad to see them go.”
Shannon said, “Wouldn’t surprise me if that one came back next year.”
Gilia picked a pinecone off the ground and knocked on it. The cone was a spruce and the nearest spruce tree was a hundred yards off. Gilia looked at the cone in her hand, wondering how it had traveled from over there to over here.
She asked, “What were you two talking so earnestly about?”
“She thinks Sam must be a trip as a father.”
“Eden Rae usually isn’t that gracious.” Gilia underhand tossed the cone back toward the mother tree. “At least you can’t call Sam a controlling creep like Dan the Man. It makes me nauseous turning her over to that wad. Did she seem okay to you?”
“She was fine. I think I’ll take a walk, back up the creek.”
I’d told Gilia about Shannon’s arrival and crisis when I relieved her from baby duty, before she went to figure the bill, so Gilia was aware of the volatility of Shannon’s mood. “You want me to go with you? Sam can handle the baby.”
Shannon opened the van door and put the coffee cup back in its holder. Then she shut the door with a slam. “No, thanks. I’d like to walk alone.”
***
Shannon crossed the creek on a plank footbridge. She stepped around a large piece of fiberboard flat on the ground beside a pile of dirt and rocks. Next to the rock pile, she saw a small mound of earth with a cross at one end like a child would make burying a hamster. Shannon didn’t think Roger was the sort of boy to own a pet hamster. Ranch kids hardly ever own pets that can’t be worked or eaten.
The cabin itself was the urban romantic’s dream of what a mountain cabin should be. Shannon saw that Roger had faced it toward the best view possible—the Tetons. A couple of bleached skulls hung above the side window, but Shannon couldn’t tell what animal they’d come from. One was long and thin with large sinus sockets and a bullet hole through the third eye. A horse, maybe, or a moose. The other had a flat face—probably an elk. She was certain they were both grass eaters, but not cows. That narrowed the choices to four or five possibilities.
Roger’s porch had a pile of split firewood stacked on the right and unsplit firewood stacked on the left, making a sort of walkway to the screen door, which had a horseshoe handle. Shannon’s boots clomped as she crossed the porch. She wasn’t about to sneak up on anyone. Roger was gone, but she didn’t know him well enough to know if he’d have someone staying there while he went to Santa Barbara. The renowned Angel Byron might have moved in, in Roger’s absence.
She knocked, waited, knocked again. She looked down the rise to the compound below. Roger’s porch was visible from the picnic barbecue area and the second floor of the lodge, but not from any of the girls’ cabins. If what Eden Rae said was true, about the girls sneaking out at night to bonk with Roger, Shannon could just imagine the intrigues they went through to spy on each other going up and down.
Shannon pulled the screen door and pushed the front door. She eased herself in.
What she noticed first was how cool the cabin was compared to outside. Three windows made it lighter than she had expected. She’d been in the girls’ cabins down below, and they felt dark and smelled like mouse turds, but Roger’s cabin smelled slightly of woodsmoke and a hint of maleness. The logs were waxed gold instead of flat brown.
Roger’s room was neat and organized as a toolbox. Woodstove, freestanding food closet, built-in clothes closet, chest of drawers, kitchen area—chair, table, hot plate, and coffeemaker. A Dutch oven and two pans hung from the wall. There was a floor lamp beside a rocking chair and a stump table. Shannon checked out the book on the stump—Sirens of Titan by Kurt Vonnegut.
The bed was a double mattress on a stripped pole frame, covered by a quilt Shannon recognized from her childhood. It had been on her mother’s bed. She immediately pictured Roger in the bed, under the spread with Eden Rae, then with a dozen other girls, all young, beautiful, and third tri
mester. Homemade shelves over the bed held Roger’s books, CDs, and CD player.
On the floor next to the stump, partially under the bed, Shannon found the evidence she’d come hoping to find. Or hoping not to find. She found it before she made up her mind what she was hoping for. The photo album had a green, fake-leather spine with a leaf pattern. Shannon moved Sirens of Titan and sat on the edge of the stump, fingering the corners of the album. As she opened the cover, her greatest hope was that the photos would not be pornographic.
The album held maybe thirty plastic sheets that could be folded over to protect the contents, but only four of the sheets were in use. All four were full-page photographs of her.
Page 1—Shannon in a gray tube top on a beach, probably Ocracoke, laughing at someone or something out of frame. Her right hand is extended as if she has just tossed a Frisbee. Her teeth show, and Shannon abhorred any photo in which her teeth show. Nipple pooches poke from her shirt. She didn’t know who had taken the picture or how Roger got hold of it.
Page 2—Shannon in her bridesmaid outfit the day Gilia and I were married. The dress is yellow and without frills. Gilia chose it. In my opinion, it was far more tasteful than those neon purple prom monstrosities you see on so many bridesmaids. Shannon’s skin is translucent, the color of eggnog. To me. Roger might have seen something else. I know she looks wholly alive in the picture. Gilia and I have a copy in our bedroom.
Page 3—Shannon mounted on a dappled horse on a ridgeline in the mountains. Her hair is in pigtail braids, and she stares down at the photographer from a superior position. Her posture makes cynicism moot.
Page 4—An extreme close-up of Shannon’s face. She is beautiful beyond words, and of course, Shannon hated the picture. From her point of view, bags hang from her eyes. Her nostrils are too big, and her nose too small. She looks like her mother.
But then, when Shannon opened the closet and pulled out the oil painting leaning against the wall next to Roger’s bass guitar, her amused detachment flew out the window. In the framed by barn-wood painting she sits straddling the downhill end of a teeter-totter, looking up at the artist. Her hands are on a bar in front of her lap. A malamute nuzzles her ear. Shannon recognized the dog—Rocky. Rocky had died a couple of years ago, so the Shannon in the painting was at least that much younger than the Shannon looking at her.