Sarah's Window (16 page)

Billy Moon's Memorial Day Barbecue Bash was a kind of institution among his friends and family. It was rivaled in popularity only by Wayne Tonkington's Fourth of July Bullfrog Fry. Maude's protracted illness and death had brought about only a hiatus, not an end to the tradition, and Billy was determined to make it as grand as ever this year. His elderly aunts and uncles came shuffling in, and his grown daughters trailing their current beaux, and his cousins with their teenagers and toddlers. The entire faculty at Chase County High was always invited, as were many of the steer ropers and wrestlers he met year after year on the rodeo circuit.

Billy's place sprawled down the backside of a hill, backed up onto one of those many crooks and crannies that rivers carve out of the land. In the drier months of summer the Cottonwood kept to a deep and narrow course along the south bank, leaving a playground of exposed sandbars on the north. When Billy was of a mind to mount his tractor mower and trim the tallgrass, you could walk right down that slope and across the sandy riverbed to within a stone's throw of the south bank.

As Susan and John marched down the gravel drive and rounded the house—John with a six-pack of chilled Coronas under his arm—they could hear children's muffled shouts and laughter from the pool. Near the back door two little boys looked on while one of Billy's daughters sprinkled rock salt into the barrel of an icecream maker. Under the trees, two women were spreading a plastic tablecloth over a sun-warped picnic table. On the patio, an older set brooded over a game of rummy in the shadow of a white-fringed parasol.

There was a deep metal tub of iced beer and sodas under an umbrella on the back patio, and when John stepped up to bury the Coronas in the ice, one of the rummy players looked up from his cards and welcomed them, introduced himself as Billy's uncle, said to make themselves at home.

John took Susan by the hand and led her across the closely clipped lawn toward the river. It was a peculiar gesture—the first of several she noticed that evening— because John was not the romantic type, did not generally hold her hand in public. It felt awkward to both of them, and he wished he hadn't done it, but it was too late.

Billy had seen fit to engineer all kinds of paraphernalia to tempt one to play. There was a rope-and-tire swing suspended from the limb of a mammoth cedar where kids could swing out over the river and drop into the water. A few old tractor inner tubes, heavily patched, still survived, and as John and Susan made their way across the lawn they were met by a gang of children racing up the hill while a young man in a bathing suit dragged a canoe onto the shore.

He did not see Sarah at first, did not pick her out from the mothers kneeling around the plastic wading pool, not until she rose to her feet and with a flick of the hand brushed her hair back from her face. She caught sight of them and waved.

Susan was all smiles and charm then, walked up to Sarah and thanked her effusively for all she had done, said she was looking forward to getting her baby home, gestured to her arm covered wrist to elbow in a brace (she wore her sling that day although she hadn't worn it in a week), and said she would be getting this off soon and then would be able to cope. Then she squatted at the edge of the wading pool and pretended an interest in the little boy, pretended to be so very pleased with how well he looked, so healthy and active.

John glanced at Sarah, hoping to catch her eye. But her attention was focused on Will, and the expression on her face pinned him to the ground. It was a kind of rapture that shines from the inside out, the kind of bliss that comes only from loving a child.

That was exactly what Susan saw when she looked up, and that's when she knew. It was peculiar the way she realized it, because Sarah was not looking at John just then, she was looking at the child, but the effect was the same. That her husband was in love with this woman did not occur to her immediately, but grew out of the realization that this woman truly loved her son, loved him in a way one could never imitate, or force, or conjure. She saw then all she had strived to feel, saw it come so naturally out of Sarah's heart.

Will took a spill just then, found himself all tangled up with the others. Sarah bent down, laughing, and retrieved him. Will clung to her, the way John had seen him do so many times, as if his little life depended on her.

Susan stepped back and—slipping her good arm around John's waist—beamed at him and said how fantastic their child looked.

"I think we should be able to bring him home next week," she said with a tight smile pasted on her face. "I should be able to manage by then."

Sarah's face darkened, and Susan felt an instant rush of satisfaction.

"We've really been looking forward to getting him back," she went on, eyes fixed on Sarah. Then, to John, "Haven't we?"

She glanced back to catch the look on Sarah's face, but Sarah had her mouth on the baby's neck, teasing him with kisses. Susan could not read her eyes. John stood stiffly at his wife's side, immobile. Susan tore her eyes from Sarah and gazed up fondly at him, but he was watching Sarah, and that was when it all came together. The realization was instant and total, and she stared at him in horror. She felt herself swallow involuntarily, her body in some spasmodic withdrawal from this awful truth. She flung her gaze back at Sarah, but Sarah had wrapped Will in a towel and, without a word to them, had turned up the hill, the baby still clinging to her hip, his eyes gazing darkly at them over her shoulder.

"She's a strange one, isn't she?" Susan said as she watched her move away, but John surprised her by agreeing. Yes, he said with a smile, Sarah was a little odd, but there was admiration in his voice. Susan did not like at all that he had used her name. The very naming of her hinted at a certain intimacy.

John detached himself from her grasp and strolled down the slope toward the river's edge, and Susan hated him for that gesture, all of a sudden hated this entire event, this place and these people, their rural pleasures and simple ways.

"John," she said, striding quickly to catch up with him, "this heat's getting to me. Let's go. Let's just leave."

He turned to face her and shrugged. "Sure, that's fine. We put in an appearance. We don't have to stay."

But then he glanced up the hill at the trestle table now laden with dishes.

"Looks like they're getting ready to eat." He reached for her hand again. "I'm starved," he said. "Let's eat first, and then we can go if you want."

But the call to table was slow in coming. It was early in the evening when they finally sat down to eat, and everyone filled their plates with coleslaw and baked beans and hunkered down over slabs of mesquite-smoked ribs. Susan and John found two empty chairs at one of several folding tables set up on the lawn, not too far from where Billy had pulled up a chair for Sarah and Will.

Several times during dinner John glanced aimlessly Sarah's way, hoping to meet her gaze, but she studiously avoided looking in his direction. However, when folks finished eating and the table emptied, Sarah remained, sitting alone with her chin resting in her cupped hand, staring out toward the river.

Susan had revived a little, surprised him by appearing to enjoy the company of the man next to her, an English teacher from Chase High. When John rose to get another beer, Susan caught his hand and whispered that it was time to go, but he ignored her and broke free and strolled up the lawn. He was screwing the cap off a bottle of Corona when Susan appeared beside him.

"Let's go," she said, and without waiting for him she turned away and headed toward the road.

Susan was behind the wheel of the Range Rover with the engine idling when he finally appeared. He hesitated, hand on the door, then leaned down to look at her through the window.

Never in all their years together had Susan seen such a look on his face. His jaw was set, and in his eyes burned a mutinous fire. It had flamed up once before, back when he was becoming his father's son, when they were all out in full force beating down that irrational self of his, the one that Hortense had recognized and greeted on the steps of a church all those years ago.

She pressed a switch and lowered his window.

"What's wrong?" She said it casually, but her stomach felt like she had just plummeted down a steep amusement park ride.

Susan watched through the window as he straightened and turned away and slowly walked back down the road toward the house. She called after him, and when he did not respond she stamped on the accelerator and the Rover sped away, spitting gravel in its wake.

He did not return to the party. He wandered a little in the dark, finally slumped down on the fender of a truck and remained there with his head in his hands until night fell.

The sun dropped behind the hills and drenched the land in apricot light. The air cooled down and mothers urged their children out of the water, and they sat sulkily on the lawn, draped in towels, teeth chattering and lips the color of blueberries. Fireflies danced in the woods behind the house, and a group of children clutching jelly jars and a dip net ventured off to trap them.

Cicadas set up a high whir, filling out the orchestra of night music, and thunder rumbled to the south. Folks settled down on the lawn, some on aluminum folding chairs, others on blankets. They talked little, answering one another in short grunts or lazy laughter, and when Wayne got a hankering for argument, tried to stir up a debate about federal funding of the prairie reserve, Joy kindly told him to pipe down and eat his ice cream.

When John finally returned to the gathering, he noticed how the mood had changed. The talk had slowed and the night was spinning its magic. For a long time he hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, a bowl of melted ice cream in his hand. Sarah was sitting with Will on a quilt out on the lawn. Moments earlier, Billy had knelt down next to them and laid a hand on her shoulder, but then he disappeared down toward the river. Will was fussing, needing sleep, and Sarah was trying to bed him down there on the quilt with his bottle and a stuffed giraffe he had taken a liking to. From a distance John watched as Billy's old hunting dog, a sag-bellied bitch who had borne him four litters, singled them out of the crowd and dropped down next to Sarah. Will shot up from his reclining position and began pounding her skull with his bottle, an abuse she bore in wincing silence until Sarah snatched away the bottle. Then Will set to whining, which the dog, despite her seasoned patience, could not tolerate. When she stood up and slunk away in the direction of her lair underneath the house, Will darted off after her, quick as a beetle. Sarah flung herself onto the ground and caught him by a leg just before he crawled out of reach.

She was sprawled facedown on the grass when John stepped forward from the shadows of the house and bent down to scoop up Will, sweeping him into the air, and Will gasped with surprise and delight.

"How about a walk before I take off?" he asked quietly.

"I thought you'd gone," she said, her eyes wide with surprise.

"I came back."

"I see."

"Lost my ride, though."

She stood, brushed the dirt off her shorts. "I can drive you home." She slipped on her sandals. "I can take you anytime."

"After our walk."

"How about if we take Will into the woods? To see the fireflies."

"Then, to the woods," he said, lifting Will onto his shoulders.

For an instant Will strained toward Sarah, stretched out his arms to her with a little bleat, but then he felt his daddy's strong hands on his back, reassuring him. He gripped John's head, curled his hands around his chin, and together they moved down the sloping lawn, Will bouncing along on his father's shoulders.

At the edge of the woods John lowered Will into his arm and took Sarah by the hand. Moonlight filtered through the swiftly scudding clouds, fighting the path dimly. The children had long since tired of chasing fireflies and had fled indoors to lounge wet-haired before the TV. Now the only sounds were the gentle humming of cicadas.

"Better stop here," warned John after they had gone a certain distance. "Too dangerous in the dark. Unless you want to go back for a flashlight."

"Oh no," she whispered. "That would ruin it all."

They were in a clearing, a savannah in the midst of the burr oaks. All around them danced fireflies, tiny pulses of golden light darting through the dense, warm night air. John reached out and caught one, snatched it out of the air like a wizard, and then held up his clenched fist before Will's eyes.

"What's in here?" he whispered. Will reached for his hand, attempting to pry it open.

John relaxed his fist and Will won the game. The boy peered into the cradle of his father's hand and there, resting on his palm, lay a dot of golden light. The little boy's eyes widened, and his long, dark lashes blinked back wonder. The firefly crawled across John's palm; then, sensing freedom, it flew off into the night. Will watched in silence, and then he dropped his weary head on John's shoulder, sighed deeply, and shut his eyes. He popped his thumb in his mouth and his other hand fanned the air, searching furtively for a handful of hair.

Sarah saw what he was doing, and she drew close and silently began to unbutton John's shirt. John started to speak, but she hushed him with a kiss, and then she took Will's hand and laid it on his father's chest. The little boy dug his fingers into the thicket of hair and then grew still.

"You stay with him a little longer," she whispered. "I'll wait for you in my truck."

Then she crept quietly back down the path.

At the edge of the clearing was a log, an old cotton-wood weakened by wind and age. John sat down on it and listened to the breath of his child and watched the fireflies dance in the moonlight.

After a while he rose and slowly made his way back to the house.

Most of the guests had gone home, and he heard voices on the patio and saw the glow of cigarettes in the dark. He avoided them, kept to the side of the house and cut around to the front where a truck waited with its headlights on.

"You aren't going to be missed?" John asked as he slid into the front and settled the sleeping baby into the car seat next to Sarah.

For several miles they drove in silence. They rolled through Elmdale, and a short ways out of town at the top of a swell, Sarah slowed the truck and turned off the road, passing through a gated entrance. It was a moment before John realized they had entered a cemetery.

"I'd like to show you something," she said.

They left Will sleeping in the truck, and John followed her across the grassy knoll, between marked graves. Stars shone brightly in the windswept sky, and the moon had risen higher and shrunk to a cold white orb. The place seemed not at all morbid but beautiful in the pale moonlight.

Sarah took his hand and led him to a grave on a gentle rise. She stood at the foot, staring down at the small marble marker. Cut tulips had been placed in an urn beside the marker, but they had long ago wilted and the wind had scattered their petals over the grave.

"My daughter's buried here."

By the moonlight John could only just make out the inscription on the marker:

REBECCA ANTONIA KINGSLEY

Sarah knelt down and began to clear away the dried petals.

"Anthony didn't want children," she said quietly. "He was adamant about it. He was furious at me. When I was three months pregnant he went away. Into the outback. He didn't really have to, but he said he did. I couldn't go... I was too sick. And then I didn't hear from him for so long. Finally, I came back here. There really wasn't anything else I could do."

She paused, brushed the dirt from her hands. When she continued, her voice was calm, restrained. "It was a very difficult pregnancy at the beginning. Then there was a time when everything seemed fine." She paused for a long time, kneeling with her hands pressed against her thighs, collecting her thoughts. "But then..." She shook her head sadly, a shade of recrimination in her voice. "I keep thinking I should have known, if I'd known they could have done something, but they didn't discover anything was wrong until that last visit." She paused then, and John knelt beside her.

"She had died. She was full term, but she was dead. There, inside me. I remember the doctor going out and coming back in with these young med students. They all just marched in and looked at the screen—the ultrasound. I was looking at it, too, and I was watching their faces. I couldn't read the screen, I didn't know what to look for, but I could read their faces."

She sat back on the grass and pulled her knees up to her chest and continued in a clear voice. "He went on, telling me what they'd have to do, but I didn't hear anything after that. The nurse had to tell me again, later, after the men had gone. She sat with me and held my hand, and she was crying, too. Anthony wasn't there, and there was nobody to grieve with me, except this nurse, and finally I just reached out and she put her arms around me and held me, like mothers do. They'd have to induce labor, she said, to expel the fetus. I'd have to go through all of that."

She sat back and wiped a silent tear from her cheek. "It was a nightmare." At that moment John pulled her close to him, and she laid her head on his shoulder.

"They didn't want me to see her. They just sort of whisked her away. I was trying so hard to get a glimpse of her. I remember turning my head, stretching my neck so I could see her go out the door. I just wish I'd had something to remember her by. Anything. If I'd heard her cry, or seen her fingers or hands or feet, or her little face. She had a pretty little face, the nurse said. And a pretty little rosebud mouth. I guess that's why it's been so hard to let go, because I never really had anything to let go of."

Sarah took a deep breath, and then went on.

"I began to hemorrhage. I remember the doctor sitting on his stool with his hand inside me, trying to keep my insides clamped down while they waited for an anesthesiologist. Then they put me to sleep. When I woke up the doctor explained what had happened. If I were to get pregnant again, he said I'd be high-risk. He said he was being honest with me, that I probably wouldn't ever be able to have children."

She tilted her head and gazed up at the night sky.

"I wrote Anthony. I asked him to come back. Just once. To see her grave. He wrote back that he was very busy. He said he'd try to find some time. But he never did. He never came back.

"I had resigned myself to so much. Until you came along, and Will. You gave me hope." She turned her face toward him and smiled sadly. "Not hope that I would ever be able to have you. Or Will. That's not what I mean. But I knew then my heart hadn't died."