The Cure for Death by Lightning (34 page)

W
HEN THE MEN CAME
in for supper I was at the stove throwing together a quick meal of pancakes and sausage, and my mother was at the kitchen table pasting the newspaper story of the Swede’s barn fire into her scrapbook. Dennis took off his hat, kicked off his boots at the door, and sat at our supper table grinning as if the events of the last week had never happened; Filthy Billy came in after him, slow-footed and weary, carrying the certainty that they had.

“Glad to have you back at our table,” my mother said to Dennis.

“Least I could do,” he said. Dennis didn’t look at me all supper long, but talked to my mother instead, about her plans for the manure pile. Did she want the manure spread over the north field near the benchland, where the alfalfa had grown so thick that year? Should they get the flax off in the morning? And would she leave the sheep where they were in the orchard pasture this year, and what should he feed them, the alfalfa or timothy? How often and when did she want the barn cleaned out? Each morning, or in the afternoon? Billy smiled at me now and again, but said nothing more than whispered curses.

“I’d like you and Billy to finish off Mr. Johansson’s fence and help rebuild his barn,” said my mother.

Dennis nodded and chewed his food.

“But I’d like you to keep it between yourselves.”

“Why?”

“It doesn’t matter why. I just don’t want anyone to know.”

Dennis nodded. “So John don’t find out, eh? Let him think he won the war.”

She didn’t say anything to that. She wiped her mouth and began clearing away the dishes.

“I was figuring we should have a Halloween party,” said Dennis.

“A party?” said my mother. “Doesn’t seem fitting right now.”

“When is a party not fitting?” said Dennis. “We’ll get Granny and the girls over here and we’ll get a fire going. This place could use some good times.”

“It would be good to see Bertha,” said my mother. “I haven’t seen her for so long. I’m glad she convinced you to stay.”

“She’s been wanting to see you,” said Dennis. “She said so herself. What say we do that, have that party?”

“I suppose,” said my mother.

After supper I went out to the orchard, stepping between the sheep and the Swede’s goats resting together in their little bedding ground, and climbed into the cradle of an egg plum tree. The moon crept over the hills, illuminating the rushing clouds, and appeared to be held in the hands of the plum tree. The moon had a halo of deep blue, a sure sign of rain. I ate plums right from the tree, without manners, so juice ran down my face and arms. There was still a little warmth from the day at the center of the plums, but the juice made my fingers cold, and I pulled my sleeves over my hands and hugged myself. The smells in the air alternated with the direction of the wind. The smell of frost and snow was there, then gone. The rank scent of the Swede’s rutting goat rolled up and faded. Then a strong wind came up, bringing the pungent, smoky air from countless woodstoves and rocking a few plums from the tree. After a time I became aware of Nora’s presence, the smell of her violet talc. She leaned against the tree quietly for a long time.

“Sorry I had to tell you to go,” I said.

“Sorry I got so mad,” she said.

“That’s okay.”

“It’s cold,” she said, and when I didn’t answer she said, “What’re you thinking?”

“I was watching the moon.”

“You can feel winter coming. You should go in. There’ll always be a moon.”

“Not like this one,” I said.

After a time she said, “Granny says the moon is a woman and the woman gives birth to herself over and over.”

“You can’t give birth to yourself.”

Nora shifted against the trunk, shaking plums to the ground. She picked a few up and ate them.

“Dennis came back, eh?” she said. “You should have seen him, all hell-bent to enlist. He was going to catch up with Dan. Then Granny got after him. Told him, How could he leave you and your mum alone with no one to help? What kind of man was he, running out like that? On and on she goes, ’til Dennis says okay, okay, he’s going to stay. Granny gets her way when she sets her mind to it. I don’t think he’ll stay when your dad comes back though.”

“Mum says there’s work for Dennis all winter if he wants it.”

“She’ll have him work here even after what happened?”

“Nothing happened!” I said.

A little rain of plums fell to the ground. Nora filled her pockets with them.

“Well, whatever. You better stay away from him. He’ll lose his job if you don’t.”

I shook a branch over her head and more plums rained down on her.

“Hey!”

“Mum’s having a Halloween party here,” I said. “Tell Bertha and everyone to come.”

“Your mum? A party? After all that?”

I didn’t answer.

“Big changes, eh?”

“What did Dennis tell you happened?” I asked.

“He wouldn’t tell me nothing. So I figured something did. He tells lies about girls if nothing happened and says nothing if it did.”

“What girls?” I said.

“Jealous?”

“No!” I said, and yet another flurry of plums fell to the ground.

“Mind if I take a few of these to the winter house?” said Nora.

“You sleeping there again?”

“Things are getting ugly with Mum.” She took out her knife and began carving into the trunk of the plum tree.

“Don’t do that,” I said. “You’ll kill it.”

Nora stopped carving and leaned against the tree. She used the knife to clean the dirt from under her fingernails.

“Put that thing away. It gives me the creeps.”

Nora went on cleaning the dirt from under her nails for a few moments longer, then closed the knife and slid it in her back pocket.

“I love you, Beth Weeks,” she said.

“I know it,” I said.

T
HE DAY
of Halloween, excited by the possibility of a party, a house full of people after all these months, my mother made gingersnaps. She had scribbled baking instructions on the back of one of her own mother’s letters, a letter about nothing at all, a garden that needed tending and how there was no one around to do it; a dog that had given birth to a litter of nine pups and no homes for them; weather wetter and colder than old bones could stand. But the recipe, that was pure magic. My mother ran her buttered finger down the page, leaving a streak and a fingerprint that made the paper permanently transparent.

The gingersnaps called for:

My mother heated up the butter and, once it was melted, she added all the other ingredients, stirring until the batter was mixed, then removed it from the stove, covered it, and left it sitting for a time. Later she plucked pieces the size of walnuts from the batter, pressed them down lightly on a greased cookie sheet, and baked them in a slow
oven. As they were baking, the gingersnaps spread out into wide lacy circles. When the cookies were cooled enough to handle, we rolled them up into cones and filled them with whipped cream.

She and I were doing just that when Dennis stumbled into the kitchen, smelling of booze and grinning like a lunatic. My mother saw the drunk on him but didn’t say anything. She went on filling the lacy cones as he sat himself down and put his feet up on the stove next to us in the way she hated.

“Well!” said Dennis. When we ignored him and went right on with what we were doing, he laughed too loud, then went into a fit of coughing. My mother glanced at him, wiped her hands, poured coffee, and slammed the mug on the table so hard that coffee spilled onto her hand and the oilcloth. Dennis let out a racket somewhere between a laugh and a cough, drank the coffee all at once, and held his cup out for more. I poured him another cup and he drank that one down too, and another. He wasn’t hiding anything that day. He looked at me with desire so frank it made my stomach rock. I didn’t like the smell of him. I didn’t like his rudeness. I turned my back to him and felt him watching as I filled gingersnaps. My mother saw the look on his face and knew it. She told him, “Get your feet off the stove.”

“I ain’t hurting nothing,” he said.

“I don’t like it,” she said.

But Dennis didn’t take his feet down, only adjusted them for comfort. My mother started banging around the dirty pots and dishes.

“I went to town today,” he said.

“I see that,” said my mother.

“Ferguson tells me Doc finally put Goat away, at least for a time. Going to get him castrated.”

“I haven’t seen him around,” I said. “I wondered.”

“Doc put him in Essondale,” said Dennis, and he watched my mother, “with all the mentals.”

My mother quit fussing over the dirty dishes, put both hands on the counter, and pushed as if she were holding the cupboard down so it wouldn’t go spinning off. Dennis laughed.

“Hey,” he said. “Bet John and Goat can get together in that place and pal around, eh? Think they can do that?”

“Is that where he is?” I said. I looked at my mother, and when she
wouldn’t look me in the eye I turned to Dennis. He laughed and went on laughing as my mother pushed his feet off the stove, throwing him off balance. He let out a whoop when he hit the floor.

“I’ve had enough of this,” said my mother. “Get out. Go home and sober up.”

“Okay, okay,” said Dennis. He heaved himself clumsily off the floor and drank the last of his coffee.

“Out!” said my mother.

“I’m going,” said Dennis. He rubbed his face with both hands and seemed to sober up some. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s the booze talking. I’ll get a good fire going for tonight, eh? You and Granny and everybody come over later and we’ll have a good time. Tell some stories, eh?”

My mother sighed. “Yes. But you sober up. I don’t like the drink any more than John does.”

“Oh, he liked a drink well enough,” said Dennis.

“He won’t have a drunk working for him and neither will I,” said my mother.

Dennis held both hands up. “Okay. All right.” He left the house without saying anything more. I watched him walk unsteadily across the black grass the Swede had burned, and over the muddy fields that had held the flax and corn.

“Is that where Dad is?” I said again. “In that place with Goat?”

“I don’t want to talk about it,” said Mum. Then, a minute later, she said, “Yes. I don’t want anyone to know. Do you understand?”

“It looks like everybody knows already,” I said. “Except me.”

“They’re guessing. They don’t have to know.”

I turned back to filling the sweet gingersnaps, but as I did a flash of red in the trees near the road caught my eye. The Swede limped on his cane down our driveway, dressed in a neat red jack shirt, not his usual dirty denim jacket, and carrying a jack-o’-lantern under his arm. His dog limped behind him, sniffing and peeing on this and that.

“Mr. Johansson!” I said.

“I know,” said my mother. “I invited him over.”

“You invited him?”

“We have some things to discuss. Get some more coffee going. And I don’t want you talking or interfering. You stay in the kitchen while he’s here. Understand?”

I stared after her as she wiped her hands and placed several ginger-snaps on a plate and set them on the parlor table. I went on tiptoes to watch the Swede round the trees before our house. He slid his cane under the arm in which he carried the jack-o’-lantern and patted his hair into place with his free hand before knocking on the door. He presented the carved pumpkin to my mother, and looked around the kitchen as he propped his cane against the bench.

“Looks the same,” he said. “Been a long time.”

“Too long,” said my mother.

“Hear from Dan?”

“Not yet. I expect it’ll be some time.”

The Swede looked down at his boots so the brim of his hat covered his face.

“Does he know about John?”

“Not that I know.”

“You’ve heard from Dad?” I asked.

My mother stared a warning at me and then turned her back to me to talk to the Swede. I watched her carefully, trying to catch her eye, but she wouldn’t look at me. She set the pumpkin on the kitchen table so it leered at me.

“Any word how long?” said the Swede.

“Not yet,” replied my mother. “Come into the parlor. We’ve been making gingersnaps.”

The Swede ignored me as he and my mother passed into the parlor. I put coffee on and leaned against the kitchen cupboard waiting for it to boil. From there I could see my mother’s back and the tip of the Swede’s wide-brimmed hat. My mother believed a man who wore a hat in the house was beyond rude, but she had spoken politely to him. I strained to hear what they were saying now, but my mother led the tone of the conversation, speaking in almost a whisper.

When the coffee boiled, I collected cups and spoons and served in the parlor.

“I’d rather we kept this to ourselves,” my mother was saying. “You understand it’s better if John doesn’t know, if he thinks you have given in and given up the land.”

As he did with almost any request, the Swede spit off to the left, onto my mother’s clean floor, and considered, working the idea around in his mouth. He placed a lump of sugar in his mouth and sucked his
coffee through the sugar lump, not from his cup, but from the saucer. My mother looked on with disapproval but said nothing.