What Love Sees (41 page)

“He fell down, right through his perch,” Faith explained between gasps.

“He looks so funny, like he doesn’t know what happened. What a seed brain,” Forrie said.

“Rubbed his beak on that old stick one too many times, did he?” Forrest said.

“Hey, there’s seeds in my cereal,” Billy grumbled.

All mornings weren’t like this, but when they were, the day seemed to zing by, and before Jean was ready, Forrest would be home from work. Now that he had his contractor’s license, he had an office in town. It was different not having him nearby, but all right, too. In fact, some days it was a relief.

She put a load in the washing machine and then opened the windows to let in some air while it was still cool. The windmill across Ash Street began to thrum as the midmorning breeze picked up. She could hear it squeak when it turned its tail away from the wind and the blades twirled. The change in the direction of the wind brought a rumble of cackling and cawing from Heddy and Karl’s chicken ranch. The sound of 40,000 chickens was almost like a waterfall. Karl’s doing well, she thought. That’s good. They deserve some prosperity. She thought she smelled warm feathers. Too early to smell the droppings. They hadn’t heated up to a pungent odor yet because of the fog. When the wind changed again, and the windmill slowed and squeaked to a stop, like a train pulling in to a station, the chicken noises diminished and she became conscious of a low engine roar. Airplanes never fly over Ramona, but it couldn’t be anything else. It grew louder and more ominous. The children ran outside.

“Wow, look at him,” Forrie squealed and made engine sounds. It made Jean smile.

“Look at how high he is,” said Faith.

“Look at what?” Hap’s voice sounded bewildered.

“Over there.”

“I can’t see anything.”

“Right there, right where I’m pointing.”

“Oh,” Hap muttered. Then the horn on his trike sounded three times. “Move it.”

The air became drier as morning progressed, and she could smell the eucalyptus trees on the road edge. Mockingbirds in the pepper trees sang an infinite variety of notes. Japanese glass wind chimes at Franny’s tinkled faintly.

“Got any string, Mom?”

“Have. Do you have any string,” she corrected. Forrie was eleven now, old enough to say it right. “Bottom drawer in the service porch. What are you going to do?”

“Fly kites. Chucky doesn’t ever have any string. We wanna send messages to the graves.”

“How?”

“See, we make these little notes and send them up on our kite strings with a paper clip. Then we yank on ’em and they fall down over by the cemetery.”

She heard him rustling in the drawer. Then the door slammed. The motor on the well hummed, high and whining, when the breeze brought it to her. A truck on the highway shifted gears near the crest of the hill and set Mother Holly’s peacocks to screeching. She heard footsteps on the roof. Must be Billy. She headed outside to the clothesline with her laundry basket. Already there was the constant, high, raspy hum of cicadas. One of the horses whiffled. A lone meadowlark pierced the morning with its liquid song. It chilled her with its beauty. She fed on the sounds. They spoke of continuity and order. The temperature felt a few degrees hotter than the last time she was outside. She walked back to the house, let the basket fall to the floor of the service porch and puffed out a sigh.

“Why do you always sigh like that?” Faith asked.

She listened again for the meadowlark.

“Mom, why do you always do that?”

“Hm? Do what?”

“Why do you always sigh?”

Kids can ask a question a dozen times, she thought. “Oh, I guess it feels good. It just feels good to sigh sometimes.”

“Are you sad, Mom?”

“Not a bit.”

“Me either.”

Faith’s sandals scraped against the floor on her way into the living room. She pulled the piano bench out and drummed her fingers on the base notes. She began the first three measures of her lesson. Long ago she had graduated from
Teaching Little Fingers to Play
and was now on
Thompson’s Book II
. She pounded out a simple arpeggio.

The telephone rang. It was someone from the Junior Women’s Club asking if Jean would help again with the father-and-son banquet. Yes, of course she would. It had been fun the year before. Together they baked twenty turkeys. Jean was given the job of grinding onion in a meat grinder for dressing because she could do it with her eyes closed. She had felt part of the community. The women were genuine and she enjoyed being with them.

Another truck came barreling down the highway, its brakes screeching on the down side before it climbed up to the crest at Mother Holly’s.

“Will you play ‘Kentucky Babe,’ Mom?”

The truck sound made Jean wonder.

“Mom, will you play ‘Kentucky Babe?’”

“Now?”

“Yeah.”

“Just a minute.” She finished loading the washing machine again and sat down at the piano. “Watch my right hand.”

Before she finished, the doorbell rang. Nobody in Ramona rang doorbells. They just you-whooed or knocked. Jean and Faith both went to the door.

“Is this your boy, ma’m?” came a husky male voice.

“Hap!” Faith cried. “Where’ve you been?”

“Yes, I guess he is,” Jean said.

“I found him on his bike, going down the middle of the highway, right down the center line. You’d be right smart to keep an eye on this kid, ma’m. We have to get rolling pretty fast to make it up the hill when we’re loaded.”

Jean stammered out her thanks and apologies and then scolded Hap.

After lunch the air hung heavy. Humidity always made her neck sticky, but this day there was a restlessness in the air that made her slightly nervous. She heard Rusty chasing the hens, his barks competing with their cackles. Thunder rumbled low. It sounds a long way away, she thought, remembering her sheets on the line.

“Faith, what color’s the sky?”

“Kind of gray.”

“You let me know, won’t you, if it looks like it’s going to rain.”

A door slammed. “Mommy, here’s the mail.”

“Bring it to me, Hap.”

She felt through the stack. One envelope had the bottom left corner clipped off. For years that had been Lorraine’s method of letting her know a Braille letter was inside. She opened it and read. Lorraine’s husband’s union was still on strike. “We’re getting by, though,” Lorraine had written, “and a settlement is promised any day now. I have three more piano students so that helps.” Typical of Lorraine always to be cheerful. Then, in Lorraine’s characteristic fashion, she commented on every bit of news Jean had told her of the children. It was good to have a friend so interested in the details of her life.

“But I have to tell you one sad thing,” the letter said. “Last week I saw in the newspaper that Miss Jennings died. It got me to thinking of all the kind things she did and how she brought us together. I felt badly that she may not have known what she really did for us, our friendship.” Dear Lorraine. Her heart was so good. If they had lived closer to each other, she might have loved Lorraine as a sister.

Jean felt through the rest of the mail and found a stiff, square envelope, the kind that always contained Sound Scriber records from Mother. She opened it and put it on the machine. “Hello all. Today is Wednesday, so I’m headed for the reading club soon. Yesterday Lucy came to swim with the children. The twins are growing up so nicely. Sam was voted most valuable player of his hockey team….We’re going to the club at Farmington tonight…. The Barnes are on another cruise, to the Bahamas again….The Ingrahams just got back from London with lots of stories.” News hadn’t changed much. Mother’s voice sounded as it always had, gentle but this time a little tired.

“Mommy, how do they tell what day it is at Grandma’s?”

She smiled. Certain things always puzzled Hap. “The same way we do here.”

“But it’s different. Forrie said today is Monday and they’re on Wednesday there.”

Jean laughed and then explained. “When the others come in, we can make a record for her and, Faith, you can play ‘Dance of the Hours’ on the piano.”

She heard sheets flapping outside on the clothesline. She opened the back door and stepped outside. The sultry air felt solid, as if it hung low over the house. “It feels like rain for sure. Is the sky darker, Faith?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t say ‘yeah.’ Say ‘yes.’”

“Yes. I can see it raining.”

“Where?”

“Over the mountains. I can’t even see Mt. Palomar. It’s all gray.”

Thunder cracked and seemed to shake the earth. She picked up the basket, went out to the clothesline and walked right into a sheet. Thunder clapped again, louder, as if struggling to free itself. It made her lift her shoulders involuntarily. A drop of water plopped on her cheek. She hurried to get the sheets in. A few flaps of wings and an angry squawk came from over near the corral.

“Get away, you,” she heard Hap say. “You meanie.”

Rain plopped faster, but she made it back in with the dampened sheets while it was still in the threatening stage. The screen door banged a second time behind her.

“Mommy, Roosty’s a mean old bird. I don’t like him anymore.”

“Why? What happened?”

“He jumped off the fence and flew at me.”

“Were you bothering him, Hap?”

“Nope. He’s just mean, that’s all. He pecked at me for no reason.”

“Where?”

“Right in my face.”

“You have to leave him alone. He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

“Naw.”

The rain came in big, splats, not the steady, day-long rain of winter, but the short, spontaneous outburst of a fast-moving summer storm. It smelled muddy. She heard more doors slam as the others came inside. A sharp breeze caught Franny’s wind chimes and made them jangle. The rain interrupted play, and the children, impatient to be outside again, bickered in whiny voices. She heard one child following her around, not saying anything.

“Can I have some ice cream?” Faith called from the kitchen.

“What time is it?” Jean asked.

“Two-thirty.”

That seemed about right. She didn’t recall hearing a clock chime three times. “Yes.”

“She eats too much,” Forrie muttered. “That’s why she’s so fat.”

“Oh, Forrie, don’t say that.” The rain stopped as suddenly as it began. Jean stepped outside to the patio. After-rain air was always so still. The dust that had hung suspended was settled now, tramped down by the gift of water drops. She reveled in the coolness and tried to think of something that needed doing outside.

“What are you going to do next?”

A funny question for Forrie to ask, she thought. “Oh, fold the laundry, I guess.”

“When’s Pop coming home?”

“The usual time.” Another odd question. “Betty and Warren are coming to dinner tonight.”

“Can you fold the laundry in your room?”

“I suppose so.”

They walked down the hallway, Forrie carrying the laundry basket. Once inside, he closed the door.

“Mom, I got to tell you something.” His voice quavered with urgency.

She chuckled softly. “I could tell.” They sat on the edge of the bed.

“No, something real big. You’re not going to like it.” He paused for that to sink in and when he began again, his voice was strangely off key. “‘Member when Chucky was here this morning?”

“Yes.”

“We went out to the clubhouse.” He came to a dead stop, his usual way of making her guess so he wouldn’t have to say it outright. She just waited. “Nobody was around. I don’t know where he got it, but Chucky, he had a real cigarette.”

Ah, so that was it. Jean still didn’t say anything, forcing him to go on.

“And he lit it. And smoked it.” His voice rose a half register. “And I did, too. Oh, Mom, I’m sorry. I knew you wouldn’t like it.” The words tumbled out between sobs. “And Pop. He’ll whomp me if he knows.” He flung himself at her and buried his face in her lap. “I know I did wrong.” The words were muffled.

Her heart ached for him. She had felt the same fascination when she was his age. Still, she knew that remorse was necessary to bring the lesson home. His shoulders shook, and he made funny gasping sounds reaching for air. She stroked his shoulders and they shook some more.

She let him cry in tortured suspense for a while. “I’m glad you told me. You did the right thing by telling me, even though it was wrong to do it just because Chucky did.”

“I know,” he wailed with all the pain of hearing what he already knew.

“You don’t need to do it anymore, do you?”

“No.” His voice was hardly more than breath. He sniffled. She let him keep his head on her lap until no more sounds came.

Forrie stayed in the bedroom with her and sorted the socks while she folded the rest of the laundry. When they were through, she opened the door and heard the television. She walked across the living room up close to the TV so as not to trip over a child on the rug. Briskly she felt her way, an arm’s length from the wall, but even there, within two feet of the television, she stumbled into someone and had to catch her balance quickly. “Who’s that up so close?”

“Me,” Hap said.

The one muttered syllable clutched at her heart.

The afternoon wore on with clucking of chickens, an occasional sneeze of a horse, doors constantly opening and swinging shut, child talk. In a way, she felt privileged to hear Forrie’s agonized confession. It meant he trusted her and that was precious to her. The motor on the well hummed a high whine. A cow mooed its hunger, and a killdeer repeated its thin, three-note whistle. She loved the sound, all the sounds—cows, dogs, footsteps, birds, even Forrie’s sobs. They were sufficient. Children and animals and breezes moved around her, but did not penetrate completely. Maybe not seeing was a way to be alone, to experience a semi-solitude, peaceful and reflective. A million things could be going on around her, she realized, but none of them as significant as her own thinking. Perhaps she had, after all, a filtering process that eliminated the trivial in order to embrace something truer.

She stirred the spaghetti sauce on the stove. The oregano smelled rich and musty and the steam made her eyes water. The day had passed so quickly she hardly had a chance to value it. Living was good today. Bursting with love for everything around her, she felt close to the Creator of it all. Forgive me for not appreciating it enough, she thought.