A Feather in the Rain (25 page)

T
he night was as black as the inside of a rubber boot. The owls were silent. The dogs lay still in the barn, bedded in shavings. A small yellow glow from the barn was dimmed by mist. A pitcher of iced tea sat on the rough table between them. Strains of Bach came faintly from the house. It was the end of a long exciting day, well past bedtime, but neither felt like sleep.

A scratching match flared in her hand. She held it to a candle in a glass on the table. “It's too dark. I want to see your face.”

He reached out and touched her hand. “I was so proud of you today.”

For a time, silence stood between them. Even the candle flame was still. When she spoke, her voice was soft, almost distant. “Jesse, there was a mommy on a mommy in that arena today.”

She heard him draw in a breath and let it out with a soft chuckle. Then as one might react in awe to the stunning sight of a whale exploding from the surface of the sea, he said, “Oh, wow!” He got
out of his chair and knelt between her legs, taking her hands in his. “Oh…wow,” he said again. Then he placed her hands around his waist and took her in his arms. He saw in her face glowing like a lantern the anticipation of his response. “Man…Holly…God…” His eyes began to fill with tears as realization made its way through shock.

“Are you happy?” She wanted to know, to hear it.

“Yes, I am. I am happy.”

“You're sure?”

“I'm sure.” He looked in her eyes and laughed. “You're a mommy.”

Then in a little girl's playful voice, she said, “And you're a daddy.”

He laughed again and put his head against her stomach. “Hello in there. What's going on? Hello…?” Then he looked up at her and asked, “When did you find out?”

“I did a home test this morning. But I've known since it happened.”

“When?”

“On our honeymoon, at the Fairmont.”

“How could you know?”

“I could feel it.”

He stood and brought her to her feet. Pressing against her, holding tight, he told her he loved her, and then led her into the house.

W
alter set them up with an obstetrician whose appearance, he warned, belied his personality and skill. Dr. Elliot Adashek had the pallor of a mortician who had himself already joined the choir invisible. His gray skin draped on a spare frame seemingly devoid of flesh and possessing only enough muscle to provide mobility. He was, however, warm and friendly in nature, meticulously scrubbed, and stylishly attired. He wore cologne pleasing to the nose. Holly liked him immediately. Jesse called him “the Count,” and went about the house saying, “Good evenink. Velcome to my office.”

H
olly and her troops triumphed over bureaucracy, fatigue, and negativity to emerge with a licensed, modestly funded, excellently staffed, therapeutic riding program. Flags, balloons, music, and lunch launched the festive first day for Miracles Unlimited. Eight eager clients, children from four years to eighteen, were ready to begin. Anxious parents hovered. Newspapers, radio, and TV journalists had arrived. Walter and Helen Nalls, Kevin and Carley Bradley, most of the local medical community, polo people, ranchers and lawyers and local politicians, the mayor, and Judge Lamar were all in attendance. Holly was everywhere at once, smiling, bowing, shaking hands, explaining how the therapy works, and photographing everything.

Kelly Dale had brought her twelve-year-old son. Wiley'd been dealt a rough hand at birth. Afflicted with cerebral palsy, he listed starboard in a wheelchair, his mouth open, head lolling to one side moving in a small circle as if trying to right itself. His eyes were
kind and soft under a brow that seemed to be waiting for an answer to a question unasked.

The volunteer staff wore white T-shirts bearing the Miracles Unlimited logo. Abbie and a therapist named Charlie, who could flip through the air as if the earth were a trampoline, helped eager Wiley to his unwilling feet. A system of braces in stainless steel and leather straps encircled his waist and supported his legs with rods that ran to his ankles, hinged at knees and hips. Wiley's mom explained that he had never been near a horse. She was real nervous about it. Wiley was not. As they got him close to the old round gray, now known as Casper, an energy began to emanate from the boy. His face glowed with desire reaching out to connect with the horse. It seemed as if he might speak. Instead a sound of delight completely his own came from his lips as his arms stretched to touch the gray. His hand came in contact with the warm shoulder and moved up to the neck. His mother watched, her lip caught between her teeth. As Wiley stroked, he became consumed with a rapture that caused him to tremble. The sounds of joy he made seemed a safeguard to keep him from exploding. His face contorted into a smile that would turn winter into spring. His mother drew in a gasp of air and clamped her hand to her mouth. Tears flooded her eyes as she looked for someone to lean on. Jesse saw and came quickly to her side. He put his arm around her shoulder. She sobbed into her hand and said, “He's twelve years old, and that's the first time I've ever seen him smile…ever.”

T
he fan spun above them stirring the warm night. Jesse inhaled through the strands of her hair across his face. “You did it. You got her done. When I saw Wiley smile that incredible smile and wrap himself around old gray…and saw his momma crying, I felt…” He took an emotional breath in and blew it out. “I felt like I was worth a little something…like we had done a good thing.” He put his lips to
her ear. “You gave me the opportunity to feel that. It meant more to me than I can tell you. Thank you, my beautiful woman.”

She put her slender fingertips to his cheek and said, “It never would have happened without you.”

A
lone in the bathroom, she stood in profile before the mirror measuring the making, stroking her belly, caressing the child within, seeing breasts filling. Jesse had confirmed she was beginning to swell. Her eyes appeared to have seen something wonderfully radiant and borrowed a brilliance that lived in them now.

She had turned off the light before opening the door and stood there with a candle in her hand, a phantom image from another time, a world of coaches and horses, mansions on country estates, rustling gowns, lounging hounds, and string quartets. A tortoise comb held her hair up-swept, wayward wisps curling along her ears and down the length of her neck to the band of her gown. The pale pink creamy fullness of her was showing through. In one smooth move she was cross-legged on the bed with the candle placed on the table. A small, flat tin was in her hand.She wore her mysterious smile as she fondled the tin, then opened it and held it out for him to see. “They're colored crayons. You can dip them in water and
paint with them. We can paint our bodies. They're from France.”

“All right!” he laughed. “What a cool idea.” A thought came instantly. “Can I go first?”

“Okay. There's a glass of water right there.” He knelt in front of her and took her face in his hands. He touched his lips to hers and felt her breath. He reached down to the hem of her gown and lifted it slowly as she raised her arms to allow passage over her head. She shook her hair across her shoulders and lay back, pale silk and cream and blood beneath. He wet the green one first and touched it to her skin to the right of her navel and moved it in a curving line. “Don't look till I'm done.”

Nearly an hour had passed when he asked if she'd fallen asleep. She hummed a no. He applied some final strokes and paused to appraise his work before declaring it done. Then he took her by the hand, told her to shut her eyes, and led her to the antique mirror on the wall of their bedroom. He stood naked beside her. “Okay. You can open your eyes.”

She looked bewildered before the words came to her lips.

“Jesse…it's beautiful…I didn't know you could do this…”

“Neither did I,” he laughed.

The curving form of a baby enwombed was perfectly drawn on her belly and around it a wreath of green leaves on woven vines with two tendrils emerging at the top and growing up one to each breast where flowers bloomed. A rose on the right, a sunflower on the left, nipples as painted pistils. And just above the delta at the joining of her legs were four pink flowers and little green leaves.

“Your turn.” He said.

“Maybe tomorrow.” She reached up her arms, a look of rut in her eyes, and wiggled her fingers to draw him to her. He felt her painted skin against his own as her arms pulled him in. He moved down her body till his mouth was at the baby and his hands caressed a rose and a sunflower, then slid to the dampness of the delta where the orchid opened crimson and purple and engulfed him in its mystery.

He was always first awake and felt like a kid getting away with something to watch her sleep. Each breath blowing a wisp of hair, away and back. She had her own way of warring with bedding, twisting sheets and slinging pillows. Almost always on her stomach, one hand in her groin, the other slung, a long bent leg sticking out and half a buttock bare. She gave the impression of a mummy that had been granted a brief return to life and, midway through escaping her wrapping, had grown exhausted and fallen asleep. He kissed the plump mellow melon of her rump as he reached to press the hollow just above. She groaned and, stretching long and yawning, turned.

Water steamed over them. The baby and the painted garden on her flesh washed away in rainbow rivers flowing down her thighs as he knelt in the shower sliding the soap over her skin and pressing his cheek to her belly, her fingers in his hair.

He took her by the hand and led her to the porch. Before they stepped through the door, he told her to close her eyes. “What now?” She said.

It was a rocking chair. A hand-done, intricate weaving of bent willow with thick quilted cushions on the seat and tied with bows to the back. “It's a momma's chair. You can sit and rock-a-bye-baby in your arms.” She smiled and closed her eyes as she settled her head against the back. He sat on the rail and watched her. All doubt, all fear, had vanished as if it had never been. There was something private and female in this state that she was in, a harmony between temperament and circumstance, a special warming joy distinctly hers.

H
e rode out the back gate on a long loose rein, his shadow riding before him lay long and thin upon the patchy ground, the colt completely at ease but ever alert. He could think of little else but how this horse seemed to have been sent to him by some design beyond his understanding. With a talented horse, bred to the task, it would normally take twice as long to get to where Soot was now. He reached out and stroked the sleek black neck.

The sun had fallen and the blue gauze of evening settled over the hills. The dark outline of the cottonwood stood against the hammered sky more like the ghost of a tree than the actual thing. He stood down, hobbled the colt and sat against the tree. He closed his eyes. A hissing rub of branches came to his ears on a soft breeze.

“Did you send me this colt? I like to think of it that way.”

He opened his eyes and looked up. A leaf loosed its grip and spiraled down between his feet. He picked it up and brought it to his lips, then put it in the pocket of his shirt.

Holly stood in San Mamacita's stall talking to the mare about the relative sizes of their burdened bellies. She had a towel in her hand stroking the brilliant copper skin, when Jesse rode in. He was still ten feet away when he declared, “You smell good.” A soft cotton dress, blue with tiny flowers, flowed about her ankles above deerskin moccasins closed with a silver concho. Her hair hung in a big, loose braid.

When he finished putting the colt away, he turned to find her. She was gone. He called her name. Walking the length of the barn he called again. He walked out back to the great cottonwood where Damien's childhood swing hung and called once more.