Kinflicks (42 page)

‘Yes, I know vat your people say, Sister Theresa. And so you must. You have a product to sell, like the rest of us. But it vas
your
man Pascal, Sister, who said, “The eternal silence of these infinite spaces frightens me.” But tell me, Sister, ven did you go into the convent?'

This question seemed beside the point to Ginny. She glanced at her mother, who had been watching the exchange intently, like a tennis match. ‘I was sixteen, Mr. Solomon. Why do you ask?'

‘Forgive me for saying this, Sister. I'm obviously upset and out of control. But vat do you know of losing a mate and three children to psychopathic maniacs?'

Sister Theresa flushed and said nothing. The conversation appeared to be at an end. The four ate in silence, Ginny looking on from the sofa.

That afternoon Ginny lay on the spare bed in her mother's room, a needle in her right arm. Her blood was spurting down a tube and into a plastic bag that was strapped to the side of the bed.

She and her mother had just watched ‘Hidden Heartbeats.' Sheila's bridge party had gone poorly. Ella, the wife of Mark's boss, had not appeared, leaving Sheila one player short. As they limped along with their game, the other women kept whispering behind their cards, as Sheila struggled to maintain a stiff upper lip, about why Ella had snubbed Sheila and wrecked her card party. At the end of the half-hour show, the phone rang. Was it Ella calling to explain her absence? They wouldn't know until the next day. The tallies, however, which Sheila had spent yesterday's program picking out in the five-and-ten, had been a great success. All the ladies at the party asked how in the
world
she'd managed to find such clever ones. ‘And on Mark's salary, too,' a lady added behind her cards to the others.

‘Do you think it's Ella on the phone?' Mrs. Babcock asked Ginny.

‘I doubt it. Really I think it's Mark. He's probably had a run-in at work with Ted, and Ted told Ella not to go to the party.'

‘Oh, Ella's not
that
spineless.'

‘Don't you think so?'

‘Heavens no. She'd have called at least, if she weren't going. Something must have happened to her.'

‘Well, maybe you're right.'

Now “Westview General' was on, which Ginny also remembered from her breast-feeding days.

Dr Marsh was talking to Sam, whose wife had been his patient. ‘Sam, we've been friends for a long time, Sam.'

‘Yes, Doc, and that's the truth, too.'

‘So, Sam, when I say I hate to…'

‘Doc, you don't mean…?'

‘Sam, buddy, you know I wouldn't want to lead a friend on…'

‘Doc, you're not sayin'…?'

‘Sam, you have to be strong…'

‘You mean…?'

‘I've always leveled with you, haven't I, Sam?'

‘Is it…?'

‘I've done the very best I can for you, Sam fella.'

Sam finally broke down in manly sobs.

Dr Marsh put his arm around Sam's heaving shoulders and handed him a bill. ‘Now, Sam, Blue Cross will pay most of it. And you
do
have your dear wife well and back home again, don't you now?'

Ginny lay watching her blood flow out of her arm and down the tube. Her blood. She knew a great many things about it from physiology at Worthley. For instance, she knew that only 1.5 percent of Americans had her mother's and her blood type, B negative. Type B was much more common in Central Asia. How it had found its way to southwest Virginia was a mystery. She also knew that platelets died in three to four days. And she knew that her own healthy bone marrow was turning out five hundred billion of them each day. In other words, Ginny was not returning to Vermont, or to anywhere else, for the present. Her mother needed her. The shoe was on the other foot for a change. It was a novel sensation.

She lay still listening to the ticking of the Hull clock, “Westview General' providing the background. She concentrated on her heart, zeroing in on a single red cell. She traced its pathway out of her heart and through her lungs and down her arteries and capillaries to her big toe, where it released its oxygen. Then it raced back up the capillaries to her veins, and from there back to her heart. If she had been timing this circuit correctly, it should have taken about twenty-five seconds. She looked at the filigreed second hand on the steepled clock and confirmed with satisfaction that it had.

Never mind why people died. Why was anyone
alive.
How could any one body possibly coordinate all that it had to coordinate? It was mind-boggling. Red cells, white cells, platelets, antibodies, the twelve clotting factors. The surprising thing was not that the production and delivery systems sometimes broke down. The surprise was that it ever functioned flawlessly at all, much less in most of the people one met.

When her bag was full of dark red blood, Dr. Vogel removed the needle and told her to hold her arm over her head for a while. Then he put a tourniquet on Mrs. Babcock's upper arm and began prodding with a sterile needle for a vein. He appeared to be having difficulty. He made several trial punctures and had to withdraw the needle each time.

‘Young man, must you do your internship on
me?'
Mrs. Babcock meant it as a joke, but it came out peevish.

Ginny laughed heartily, trying to carry it off. Finally Dr. Vogel found a cooperative vein and settled the needle in it. Ginny's blood flowed down the tube from the plastic bag and into Mrs. Babcock's body.

Ginny, as she rested, considered the justice of this arrangement: Her mother shared her blood with Ginny via the placenta when Ginny had needed it. Now Ginny was simply returning the favor via rubber tubing. There was undeniable satisfaction in the concept that her mother's blood might learn about platelet management from Ginny's blood. After all, the flow of instruction between them had generally run in the opposite direction. Ginny savored the idea of a reciprocal arrangement. However, if they shared blood type and had shared actual blood at some remote point, did that mean that, genes being what they were, Ginny's own healthy blood was programmed to break down at some point? And Wendy's?

At least this had gotten her out of the craft program, Mrs. Babcock reflected as she watched Ginny's blood flow into her arm. She remembered from the encyclopedia how the audience at Roman gladiator fights would leap from the stands and vie to drink the blood of especially skilled and courageous gladiators as they died in the dirt, the idea being to imbibe via their blood their nerve and vigor.

‘He took the cup; and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink ye all of this; for this is my Blood of the New Covenant, which is shed for you, and for many, for the remission of sins.” — Mrs. Babcock suspected that the wine/blood ritual in Holy Communion had its origin in fact as much as in symbolism. Scientists could take a worm trained to perform some simple activity, chop it in bits and feed it to an untrained worm; the untrained worm would suddenly be found to possess the skill of the worm that had made up its meal. Genes, RNA, DNA, chromosomes…the accumulated experience of the species, passed on in encoded form down through the ages. Just so this transfusion. Her own defective blood could ‘learn' about platelet husbandry from Ginny's healthy blood.

There was something altogether alarming about this. About her being ill enough to
need
a transfusion, certainly. But more than that. She didn't like having Ginny as her donor. In the first place, it meant that she couldn't suggest that Ginny go back to Vermont. Surely the tension between them couldn't be good for either of them, particularly for Mrs. Babcock herself when she needed thorough rest to aid in her recovery.

But there was another factor in all this that she was persistently refusing to face, she knew. A subtle shift in the balance of power between Ginny and herself had occurred, and she didn't like it at all. The pattern had always been Mrs. Babcock's bleeding herself dry, as it were, for the children. Nothing had ever been too much for them to demand of her. ‘I live but to serve,' she had quipped gaily when they had come bursting in demanding three dozen chocolate chip cookies for a class Christmas party, or tuna sandwiches for eighteen for a club picnic. But there had been truth in this quip, she now knew. Ceasing to serve, she had collapsed, mentally and physically. And now here Ginny was, serving
her,
and lying on the spare bed with an expression of smug satisfaction at doing so. Mrs. Babcock was profoundly uncomfortable with this reversal of roles.

That she should feel so uneasy about this suggested to her an unflattering possibility — that she had dominated the children through weakness; she had smothered them with her martyrdom. By always doing everything for them, usually in advance of their requesting it, had she undermined their drive and self-confidence? That was perhaps why Jim and Ginny had such difficulty ever sticking with anything, why Karl clung so fanatically to his routines? But here she was lapsing into self-reproach. Perhaps if she had turned some of this reproach on them in their early years, rather than always in on herself, she wouldn't be here in this hospital bed today. The truth was that she had done the best she knew how, being an amateur at parenting. Now that she was a professional, having turned out three finished products, her skills were no longer in demand, and it was too late to rectify mistakes committed during her apprenticeship.

When Ginny got back to the cabin, the sun was about to plunge behind the kudzu-faced bowl. She went out to the pine tree. Two baby birds hung from twigs, their heads back, their eyes closed, and their yellow beaks open to reveal their delicate pink throats. Suffering, Wilbur J. Birdsall said they were; and she was allowing them to, requiring them to. She glanced around for the third baby, searching the dish and all the nearby branches. She found it on the ground — a stiff corpse, wings outstretched and rigid and mouth gaping for food. Feeling nauseated, Ginny heaved the graceful little body into the kudzu.

Then she sat on the stone steps. Her options were clear. She could flush them down the toilet. They would go down with the same ease as a Tampax. She could smash their skulls on the stone steps. She could guillotine them with the machete. If she chose not to sully herself by performing their execution in person, she could move them to the ground, so that the wild cats could find them more easily. Or she could leave them to starve.

No, damn it! She wouldn't buckle under to the verdict of Wilbur J. Birdsall, world renowned authority or not. These baby birds normally fed on their parents' vomit. But at some point their tiny gastrointestinal systems
had
to make the conversion to self-digestion. It seemed distinctly possible to Ginny that under extremely stressful conditions such as these, the babies' systems could develop and convert more rapidly than usual. It was worth a try anyway.

She got a glass of water and fed a drop to each bird. At first she wasn't sure they were still alive. They didn't move at all. But they were warm, and there were faint hints on their fluff-covered breasts of beating hearts. After a minute or so, each bird swallowed his droplet. And then one drop after another.

Ginny mixed raw hamburger and tuna and whole wheat flour into a disgusting paste. Taking a minute bit, she formed a tiny ball. Holding it between thumb and forefinger, she carefully dropped it into the mouth of one of the babies. She waited. Nothing happened. But then, slowly, the bird's beak began to twitch. And then the membrane in its pink throat began to expand and contract convulsively, and the tiny ball disappeared, like an insect enfolded by a Venus's-flytrap.

Cheered, Ginny fed each bird several balls. In the cabin, she found a small deep basket with a lid. They could cling to its sides, and it would be dark and cool like their lost chimney. She put them in, no longer worrying about sullying them with her odor, since the parents had copped out anyway. Wouldn't Wendy love to be helping her with this project? Ginny could see her mushing her chubby little fingers in the meat paste, trying with an intense frown to form a tiny ball like Mommy's. She would clutch a bird in a sticky hand and giggle gleefully as it screeched in her face. If only there were some way to prevent her from ripping the birds to pieces in her enthusiasm. She'd pry their beaks open and poke at their eyes with sticks and dismember their wings in her exuberant curiosity. An idea popped into Ginny's head with the force and clarity of true inspiration: There was no need to sell the big house! She and Wendy would live there together; her mother could live in the cabin. Three generations of Hull women, all in a row!

Cheered by this thought, she went to the phone and got Dr. Tyler's number in Spruce Pine.

‘Why, Ginny, what a pleasure,' he said. ‘I haven't seen you in years.'

‘I haven't been home much lately.'

‘What a shame. You know, I feel a special attachment to the people I've delivered.'

‘It's mutual. In fact, I'm sitting on the bed you delivered me in.'

‘Is that a fact? I declare. Law, I remember that night so well. Your mother was having really strong contractions, and what do you think happened? Half a dozen swifts flew down the chimney! Why, I never saw anything like it in my life! Those birds fluttered through that cabin in an absolute panic, getting soot all over everything, the ceiling, the walls, the upholstery. Your mother had just cleaned that day so's everything would be nice and straight while she was laid up with you. Why, she hopped up out of that bed, and she grabbed a broom, and she chased those damn swifts all through the cabin, swatting at ‘em. And every now and then, she'd have a contraction and collapse on the floor. But after it was over, she'd hop right back up and chase after ‘em with tears just
pouring
down her face. And of course your daddy and I were chasing right behind her, trying to get her back to bed and she kept whacking
us
with her broom, too!' They were both laughing. ‘Oh my, it was something to behold!'