She remembered teaching Molly to milk a goat for the very first time. Molly in the winter in the barn, shivering a little, blue sweater that Catherine had knit for her buttoned crookedly. Blue was Molly's favorite color. Catherine had knit all the nights around the wood-stove into that sweater. Nights with Bill reading or playing cards with the kids. The smooth clacking of the needles.
The goat barn was chilly and dusty, smaller back then.
"C'mon!" Ron, Catherine's first son, had no patience for Molly. He was older, derisive, superior. "You're taking forever. It's not that hard!"
Molly was five and she didn't yet know that her father was very, very sick. Sick enough to die. The weight of knowing was tight across Catherine's wide shoulders. She was sad and gentle with Molly when she came to her side.
"Ron, I don't remember asking you to stick your nose in this," she said, in the tone of voice that told Ron to skedaddle or risk a slap upside the head.
Ron ran off. Catherine stood by the milking bench and watched Molly, silently. Her daughter at five was freckled with short hair and her two top front teeth missing early. She'd lost them falling out of a tree. She'd had lice with all of the rest of the kids in kindergarten, and Catherine had cut her hair short. Growing out, it looked like a shiny black bowl upside down above her small face.
She was struggling to get anything at all out of the nanny's teat, grimacing away, yanking on the teats like the ropes on church bells, her face twisted as though she thought she could make the milk come out with the muscles in her cheeks. She looked up at Catherine.
Catherine smiled at her, before her smile hurt and she had to press her fingers to her eyes to keep from crying. They had got the news three days before. Bill was dying. There was nothing could be done.
She took a breath, then placed her hand over Molly's, gently.
"You squeeze your fingers one at a time, from top to bottom," she told her daughter. "Don't pull." She stepped back and watched. "Talk to them nicely, Molly. The girls love it when we talk to them, and then they're happy to give us their milk."
Molly looked at Catherine, a frown on her intense little face. She slowly squeezed one finger at a time, then did it again, faster. Oh, Good God in heaven, you'd think Catherine had rainclouds behind her eyes, with all the leaking they'd done these past few days. She wiped at them harshly.
"Come on, little Mama, give us some milk," she heard Molly say softly to the goat. And there it was, the thin stream of milk hissing into the bowl, where it rang like silver bells against the metal.
A lot of the under-painting was done. Catherine drove a palette knife along the canvas to sharpen the edge of the house in the distance of the painting. She frowned. The house looked as thought it was floating. She scooped some paint onto a small brush and leaned forward, barely breathing, dabbing the dark tones that would solidify the frame and walls and roof, anchoring the house to the earth. She stood back. Any more work today and she would turn the whole thing into mud. It was time to stop.
At the sink she swirled the brushes in solvent and gazed through the window. The sight of the small road to the house jolted her from the private studio she had created in this light filled room, fragrant with oil and turpentine, into the present; her family and the fire. She needed to find Molly and tell her that she'd moved her things down to the guest cabin.
She looked at the ATV that was parked outside the front door of the cabin and shook her head slightly. She plucked her cane from the side of the house and made her way up the short hill, pausing every few minutes to rest, one hand crossed over the other on top of the cane. The smoke was invasive today. Something had changed. There were ashes in the air, settling lightly on the tops of the trees. She felt once again that she didn't have the strength for this as she slowly waded through the thick air, up to the house.
TEN
Molly was cutting onions with a safety pin in her mouth and tears rolling down her cheeks. She blotted at them with the back of one hand. They said a pin would keep you from tearing up at the fumes, but here she was crying anyways. Maybe she could sense a faint difference. Who knew how badly the onions would make her cry without the pin?
A long time ago, at a Farmer's Market in San Diego, she'd found a breed of onions that didn't make her cry. She bought bags of them, slicing them freely with dry eyes. When the harvest had all been brought in and the farmer had sold all his produce, she'd gone back to regular onions, back to the safety pin. She waited through all the seasons until the farmer had onions again, hauling a bulging bag of them home with anticipation. But that year the onions from his field made her cry. Something about the crop, he said. Something in the soil, some change in chemistry. "Try holding a safety pin in your mouth," he said. There must have been a steely look in her face because he went on. "Or a mouthful of water, that can work too."
She'd breathed in her mouthful of water when she was getting soup ready one night, and Jack had to pound her back while she tried to regain her breath. She only hoped she would never swallow the pin.
All the tears today. First the ashes, now the onions. Molly felt like a balled up rag in the hamper. She needed a wash. She needed to scrub the inside of her head.
Catherine walked into the kitchen from outside and Molly stared through eyes blurred with tears. Her mother was more stooped than she'd ever seen her; leaning with all her weight on her cane. Molly took a clean towel from the rack on the stove front and swiped at her face, looking again when her eyes were relatively clear. Catherine had deep shadows under her eyes, and as she pulled a chair from beneath the table and lowered herself into it, her arms shook.
Molly picked up the cutting board that was full of onions and swept them into a pan on the stove, jumping back when drops of hot oil leapt out at her. She took the pin out of her mouth and set it on the windowsill.
"Mama," she said, stirring the onions and turning the gas down on the burner. "Where've you been? You should lie down for a while. Take a nap."
"Are you still doing that?" Catherine rubbed at her right elbow as though it was hurting. "With the pin? It doesn't work you know."
"It helps some. Takes the edge off."
"Will you pour me a glass of water? Is that your glass there? Don't bother getting a fresh one, I can use yours."
Molly picked up her glass and filled it with water, handing it to her mother and turning back to the stove, wooden spoon in hand.
"You look really tired," she said.
"I am really tired. I've been busy. I will lie down for a while, I think."
Molly looked at her, thinking busy doing what?
When Catherine drank, the skin that hung down where her sharp cheekbones had stretched it shook slightly with the rhythm of her swallowing.
The phone rang. Molly slowly went to answer it.
"Hello?"
"Molly?"
"Oh! Hi, Ron," she said, raising her eyebrows in her mother's direction. Catherine looked startled to know that Molly's brother was on the phone.
"How are you?" he asked.
"Not so great, actually. We have a forest fire here you know. How are you?"
"Pretty good. Maria's going to have her baby any day now."
"You must be counting down the hours. Did you get my package?"
"Oh, right. We did. Maria said to say thanks."
"You're welcome." Molly gave the onions a jab with her spatula.
"Did you make it?"
"I sure did. You know me and knitting stuffed animals."
"I do?"
"I guess you don't. Well. I like to knit them."
"Huh. It's really nice."
There was silence on both ends of the phone and Molly widened her eyes, blinking them several times to try to get the onion fumes out of them.
"Is Mom there?"
Relief washed over Molly. Making conversation with her older brother was always hard. The fact that he had a new young wife who was about to have a baby only made it slightly easier.
"Yes, she is. Just
a minute."
Molly walked to her mother with the phone, handing it to her and mouthing, "Ron."
Her mother nodded. Of course she already knew.
Molly turned back toward the stove, trying not to listen while her mother murmured into the phone. The onions were slightly burnt now. She pushed the pan to the back of the stove and hunted for carrots in the refrigerator drawer.
"Not at all?" her mother was saying. "She needs you all the time?"
Jack had assigned Molly to making dinner while the others finished loading the goats up into the trailer and driving them to the old cattle barn on the far west side of the ranch. It was just now 3:30 as she chopped the carrots into tiny discs. She figured she could get the soup on and maybe help them some. She would have to get herself to the cattle barn anyways, to do the evening milking.
"No, no. I don't want to impose," her mother said. "I'm staying here for now anyway. We need everyone we can get."
Molly threw the carrots into the pan and gave them a stir with the onions, where they cooked while she chopped the rest of the vegetables she'd wrestled from the drawers. It sounded like Catherine hadn't given up hope that Ron would come home in a crisis. Molly knew differently. She filled a pot with water and set it on the stove to boil, walking to her pantry and throwing the door open. Her mother's voice quavered in the kitchen. Molly clenched her fists and dug her fingernails into her palms. Ron was such a lost cause.
She saw the rows of jars filled with red and yellow sauces and she smiled, dragging a jar from its home on the shelf and pulling a bag of short pasta out as well. As she backed out of the pantry, she bumped into Jack. He put his arms around her, and she allowed herself to lean into him for only a minute before stiffening and trying to squirm away.
"Hey," she said, waving the bag of pasta to let him know she was a woman with a mission.
"Hey."
He looked tired too. They were all going to fall over from exhaustion. He leaned against the counter and she walked back to the stove and continued to putter around with her soup. Catherine hung the phone up.
"Are you really boiling water for soup on this terrible afternoon?" Catherine asked. "It's just too hot, Molly."
Molly sighed. "I think we've had this discussion already, Mama."
"Peony had her kid," Jack said. Molly looked up, startled.
"She did? Where?"
"Here, at the barn. We're not going to move her yet. But she's not feeding him. We'll need your expertise."
"Let me finish here and I'll come on out."
"I moved out," Catherine said.
The words were so strange that for a few moments Molly could only stare at her mother. There was a knot in her back that was making pings. She worked her shoulders back and forth, trying to get it to loosen its hold.
"I don't understand what that means," she said.
"I moved my things to the guest cabin."
"By yourself?" Jack asked.
"I used the ATV,"
"What?" Molly said. Jack's face was as surprised as hers.
"Yeah, well, I won't do it again. I nearly took a little spill."
Molly put her hand on her heart and waited for it to calm down. The image of her mother driving the ATV down to the guest cabin and nearly taking a spill was too much for her to handle.
"You could have asked for help," Jack said.
"That stuff isn't nearly as good as fresh garlic Molly," Catherine said. Molly had opened a jar of chopped garlic and added a spoonful to the pan. She shrugged.
"Are we having soup again?" her mother asked.
"No. Minestrone."
"Isn't minestrone soup?"
Molly shrugged. "I thought you decided the guest cabin would be too much walking for you," she said.
"Well. I changed my mind."
Molly opened a can of beans, bracing herself for the comments on the expense and taste differences between canned beans and dry, but none came. Her mother stood up.
"Do you mind if I lie down on your bed?" she asked them. "Need to get off my feet for a while."
"Go right ahead," said Molly.
"What's that all about?" she asked Jack quietly after her mother had left the room.
He shook his head. "Not sure. So, are you going to come help Peony?"
"Yeah, sure. Let me finish here and then I'll come."
"Right. I'd better get back to it. We're almost through."
"Thanks, Jack."
He smiled and knocked her on the shoulder with his knuckles, then stroked the side of her face with the back of his hand. Something inside her tried to uncurl, before she clamped it back down. He was gone.
She finished up with the soup and turned it to a simmer, pulling her apron off and fanning herself. She ran a little water through the faucet and splashed it on her face. What was going on with her mother?
When she reached the bedroom door she opened it as silently as she could. Catherine lay on her side with her socks still on, facing the side of the bed that Molly's dad had once occupied, the side that was Jack's now. The curtains fluttered with a slight breeze and Molly caught a whiff of heavy smoke.
She carefully lay herself down on the other side of the bed. Catherine's braid draped around her shoulder, resting on the quilt. Molly picked the end of it up gently and ran her fingers over the plait. She was glad that her mother had never cut her hair short, the way old women often did.
Catherine's eyes opened. They were so black and shiny that all of the light from the window was reflected in them.
"I don't ask him for much," she said. Her voice broke.
"I know you don't," Molly said.
"Help moving into my last place, that's all."
"It's not that you ask a lot. It really is that she needs him now."
"It's so hard to know what to expect."
Molly knew what she meant. Her kids were great, so enthusiastic about everything, loving the holidays they spent together, more nuts about gift-giving than she had ever been. But there were weeks when not one of them called her and she found herself holding court in her head, muttering to herself about a bunch of twenty-somethings. Rain not even twenty, yet. The jury was still out. No one was around, it seemed, to let you know when you were expecting too much.
Come to think of it, she wasn't much better at calling her own mother, and here she was forty-five years old. She had always thought Catherine was a different kind of mother, but the way her mother was plucking at the quilt beneath them now… she wondered if all these years she should have been calling more often.
Catherine smiled. "Jack just gets better looking with age," she said. "He looks better at forty-five than he did at twenty."
"Forty-six," Molly said. "But you're right." Jack had been rangy as a youth, handsome in a startling way. But now his body had acquired just the right shape and the lines around his eyes were in the perfect place for lines to be, making him look like he was always ready to smile. Molly wasn't so sure about her own aging. She'd noticed some definite chin sag lately.
She gazed at her mother. Until recently, you could have used Catherine as an example of what it meant to age gracefully. She had the stride of a much younger woman and her posture was perfect. Her hair and lined face brought more of her Pomo blood into visibility even than when she was a girl. She was aging like a strong Indian woman with clear eyes and an open face. But these last five years had been different, and Molly watched as her mother became old, stooping, no longer striding, needing a hand when they walked on gravel.
A place inside Molly burned with a fresh, hot pain every time Catherine stumbled where she would once have jumped. Molly's mother used to race up hills toward cows in trouble, as sure-footed as one of her own goats. The hurt felt like nausea, like the sickening feeling you have when you cut yourself badly and you know it's open and your insides will be out there for the world to see. Molly wanted to cover over her mother's memory lapses, make sure no one noticed that anything was different. As a girl she'd felt the dictionary
definition for strong could have been replaced with a picture of her mother. So what happened when she weakened? Was she still Catherine?
Her eyes were closed now, and she was breathing softly. Molly stayed beside her, listening to her soft breathing, watching the flutters of her eyes moving under her wrinkled eyelids. There was a drop of moisture in one corner of her eye. Molly gently wiped it away with the tip of her little finger. Catherine wrinkled her nose and for a moment Molly thought she had woken her, but her face relaxed and her soft breaths continued.
Molly eased herself off of the bed and slid her feet into her flip-flops. Peony and the newborn kid needed her.
The air outside felt metallic, the sky was almost white. The heat of the gravel traveled up through her sandals. Sam padded along beside her. She raised one hand to her eyes to shade them, to see if the truck and trailer were still at the barn. They weren't. Jack must be taking another load of goats up. She climbed the short hill to get to the barn.
She could hear the bleating almost as soon as her nose was level with the barn.
"Sam, stay," she said, not wanting to make the kid any more upset. The tiny kid was curled in one corner of the pen, crying out for the milk he was entitled to, while his mother stood imperviously under a tree, thirty feet away. She looked up at Molly as if to say, "What?"
"Oh, Peony," Molly said.
The look on Peony's face was comical. It wasn't uncommon for Molly to have to help the first-time moms out. Taking care of their kids didn't always come naturally. Some of them got it right away, others needed more help. Kind of like people, Molly thought, letting herself into the pen. She clicked her tongue disapprovingly at Peony.
Molly was one of the ones who didn't get it naturally. As a new mother she was awkward, all thumbs, confused. There were the first days of Todd squalling, the way he thrust his head at her breast angrily, only to choke on the milk when it came too quickly, making him scream again, his mouth a red angry circle. Half the time Molly was weeping too, both of them anxious and raw. They were sleepless at night, though Todd was like a kitten during the day, sleeping anywhere and everywhere. Molly tried to be normal, waking when it was light and pouring herself orange juice in a tall glass before saying, "What the hell," and drinking straight from the cardboard carton. She'd send Jack out as an emissary, nothing on the grocery list except orange juice and nipple salve. It was hell, not a time she liked to remember, not in the least resembling the dreamy stories of new babies she heard from other moms, their circles of Madonnas with child, all rosy and happy.
The Eve Tree: A Novel Page 12