Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (12 page)

“I'm not,” I say. “It's for—for someone else.”

Joanne's smile disappears. She doesn't look me in the face again. “That'll be $12.58,” she says, stuffing everything into one bag. At that moment I hate myself. And I hate Sarah. Damn it! She's screwing up lives of people not even kin to her! I plan to say that to her, too. To tell her what she's done. Right after we finish breakfast. And if I'm sure she's not drugged or brainwashed.

When I get home, Sarah's already up. She's wearing one of my shirts. She's sitting on the kitchen floor, playing with Bilo. My throat lumps up again and I want to fall all over the two of them, to hug them long and hard. But I keep control.

“Good morning,” she says, looking up but not directly at me. “Hope you don't mind.” She pulls at the shirt. “Couldn't put that black suit back on. Synthetic. Hot as blazes. Nice of Donna to get it, but I hope I never wear it again.” She goes back to playing with Bilo. “I think he's grown some,” she says.

“He was full grown when you left,” I say. She doesn't answer. “Got some breakfast stuff, here,” I say, sliding the bag on the table. She starts to get up. “No, I'll cook.” I look into the grocery bag. “You catch up with Bilo. He's probably missed you.” She still doesn't say anything. I reach for the eggs and notice they're on top of the bread. So are the grapefruit. I wonder if Joanne realized the way she packed.

I cook the bacon in a frying pan, like Tommy always did. Sarah used to microwave it, but it gets too hard and crunchy that way. At least for me. I twist the oven knob to broil and slide in a pan of bread slices. Toaster's still at the office. Then I beat five eggs—three for me, one for Sarah, one for Bilo. He's gotten used to having breakfast with me. Likes eggs and bacon better than Pop Tarts, but he'll eat whatever I give him.

I don't fool with grits. Never did like them. Andrew and I have that in common, that and being married to two Crawford women. That's enough.

Sarah's watching me so I say, “You can do the grapefruit.” I fix two plates and Bilo's bowl. I keep it under the table. Then I fix a cup of coffee for me and tea for Sarah. The whole time I'm thinking what all I'm going to say to her after breakfast. But I'm having trouble figuring it out. She gets the grapefruit done and we sit down to eat. I don't ask a blessing or say grace or anything. Haven't in over a year. For some reason Joe's blessing runs through my head.

“Thanks for the tea,” she says, wrapping her hands around the cup.

“You're welcome,” I say with flashbacks of Joanne's face at the Dixie store. We start eating, and the meal goes pretty well until I say, “Haven't had grapefruit in a while.” Sarah stares at her half of grapefruit like she doesn't know what it is. Then she starts crying. Quiet-like at first, then higher and higher and louder until she's shaking with these high-pitched mournful sobs. I don't know what to say or do. I've never seen her like this. In twenty years of marriage I've hardly seen her cry at all. She always said she looks ugly when she cries. Sitting there watching her, I have to agree. But she also looks like a lost child. She may not be drugged or brainwashed but something's sure wrong with her. Our talk, I decide, will have to wait. I get up, go to her, and hold her again.

SARAH

“Sit where you want to,” Donna says, holding a platter of roast beef close against her like it might get away. We all sit where we've sat for the past four Sundays. Daddy on one end, the chair at the other end nearest the kitchen left for Donna, Andrew on the side next to Donna, Charlotte and Scarlet beside him, and Aunt Kate, Jack, and me across from them. A full table. Donna and Andrew's table. Their dining room furniture is finished in antique white with deep pink cushions in the chairs. A huge arrangement of silk geraniums sits on the sideboard. The room has a garden-like look. A real switch from Mama's mahogany.

The first Sunday dinner without Mama was the hardest, but Donna insisted on us eating together “for Daddy” she said. She moved it to her house. “Smart idea,” Jack said. It surprised us both. His saying “smart” in connection with Donna.

“Daddy, will you say grace,” Donna says more than asks. She sets the roast in front of him.

“Let Jack do it,” Daddy says staring at the meat. Some slices are black, others are red.

Jack hesitates. I wonder if he's forgotten the words. Andrew glances at Donna but she's not looking. Then Jack says, “Bless this food to the nourishment of our bodies, amen.”

“Y'all start on the meat,” Donna says heading into the kitchen. “I'll get the rice.”

“Can I help?” I call after her. Jack looks at me but doesn't say anything.

“You get the corn,” Donna shouts over her shoulder, “and the string beans.”

I slip back from the table. Jack holds onto my chair and gives my elbow a little lift as though I'm too weak to stand by myself. What's he thinking? I wonder.

I've wondered that over and over since I've been home. Since the morning after Mama's funeral when I woke up in our bedroom. Jack was already standing, facing away from me. A wedge of sunlight slipped around the corner of the window shade and landed on his back. He's thinner, I noticed, and that little roll around his waist is gone. The hair on his back looked gold in the sunlight. I was always amazed that a brunette could have that fuzzy light hair on his back, but Jack did. Michael was darker than Jack, yet his back was smooth, almost hairless. It didn't make sense.

I pretended to be asleep but I watched Jack get dressed, as though I hadn't seen him dress a thousand times before. He pulled on his boxers, then stepped into his khakis. Michael didn't wear underwear. Said he didn't need it unless it was cold. Then he wore long johns, the thermal kind. Jack buttoned a striped shirt and slipped on his loafers. No socks. For some reason that seemed funny and I wanted to laugh. He turned toward me as though he heard my thoughts. I closed my eyes tight. He stood there about ten seconds more, then walked out. In a few minutes I heard him drive away.

I got up, found one of Jack's shirts thrown up on the dresser, and wrapped myself in it. It was deep red with tiny green lines crisscrossing all through it. One I'd bought a few years back. I was surprised he still wore it.

I wasn't hungry but thought I'd better try something, maybe toast. I checked the bread box. A crumpled bag with two moldy heels. I'd forgotten about bread mold. Things didn't mold so easily in Texas. You could leave a box of Saltines open for a week and they wouldn't even get floppy. Nothing in the cupboard except some canned spaghetti and a bag of chips, opened. I was almost afraid to look in the refrigerator. With good reason. Sour milk, slick lettuce, black tomato juice, and all kinds of beer. Probably whatever brand was on special at the time. Jack's not cheap but he gets fascinated when he sees those discount signs that say “REGULAR PRICE $6.50, SALE PRICE $5.99.” He goes over to the display, figures out the price per can, then cents per ounce, then decides he'll try it while it's on special. Anyway, looks like he'd tried a lot of specials lately.

I gave up on food when I heard scratching at the kitchen door. “Bilo!” I shouted, opening the door. If dogs can look surprised, he did. I sat down in the middle of the floor, threw my arms around him, and cried like a baby. I was glad Jack wasn't there to see me. I was still hugging Bilo when he came back but I wasn't crying anymore. He was carrying a bulging grocery bag. He gave the door a backward kick and set the bag on the table. Then he moved quickly unloading eggs, bacon, grapefruit, bread, and some other things I couldn't see.

I'm still thinking about our own kitchen as I walk into Donna's.

“Hope the rice isn't sticky,” Donna says.

“What?” I say.

“The rice, hope it's not sticky. You know Mama's never was.” She hands me a bowl of corn and a bowl of green beans. Mama's good china bowls.

“Hers was sticky sometimes,” I say, “but yours isn't.” Donna smiles pretty enough for a photogragh. She picks up the bowl of rice and the gravy boat and we head back into the dining room. Donna sets the rice and gravy in front of Andrew. He stares at the gravy boat like it may be dangerous.

“Help yourself to whatever's in front of you,” Donna says, “and pass it on.”

I take a little corn and hand the bowl to Jack.

He looks me in the face. “You need more than that,” he says. His eyes are soft and blue.

We didn't look each other in the face, not right away, the morning after the funeral. Jack unloaded the groceries and started cooking the bacon. He used the heavy black skillet Mama gave us for our first anniversary. I always microwaved bacon but Jack fried it, turning and smashing the strips like they were snakes about to attack. Then he filled a cookie sheet with bread slices, spread them with margarine, and broiled them in the oven. I looked for the toaster. It was gone. I shot a quick glance in the direction of the microwave. It was still there.

Jack beat and punched the eggs into shape while I fixed the grapefruit. I hadn't had grapefruit in over a year. But now it seemed like I hadn't missed a morning. Automatically, I went for the pointy spoons in the silverware drawer. They were pushed way back, cradled one in the other. Looking at those spoons, I almost cried. But I didn't, at least not then. I put them on the table and sat down. My foot scraped against something. Bilo's bowl. Jack had always made me feed Bilo outside. I wondered about the change. Jack set our plates down, reached under the table for the bowl, and filled it with a third of the eggs. Then he threw in a slice of bacon and a piece of toast.

“He's my buddy,” Jack said, a little defensively.

“Should I fix him grapefruit, too?” I asked.

Jack laughed. Looked me in the face for the first time all morning and laughed again. Then cleared his throat and said, “Let's eat.”

I made myself eat a little of everything on my plate even though the bacon was as chewy as Donna's roast beef. But when I tried to spoon out a wedge of grapefruit, I began thinking about Jack and Mama and Bilo and little pointy spoons. The tears started pouring. I didn't want Jack to see me cry. I tried to get up, but Bilo was woven around my legs, licking my toes like he was looking for fleas. I hid my face in my hands. Before I could shake free, Jack came to me, pressed his palms around my cheeks, and looked me straight in the face. Then he kissed me on the forehead. Like a father. Like Daddy never did.

Daddy doesn't even talk to me anymore. Not to anybody much. I think it's from grief over Mama, but Donna says it's from having his routine upset. I look at him now. He's staring in his plate, his hands flat on the table.

“Y'all won't believe this,” Donna says forking a piece of roast. “What I heard at Holly's Hair and Then Some.”

“You talking about two-tone Holly?” Aunt Kate asks.

“Two-tone Holly?” Andrew says. “Is her hair a variety of shades?” He chooses the smallest slice of roast beef left on the platter.

“Two-tone suntan,” Aunt Kate says. “She only sunbathes on one side.”

“Which side?” Scarlet asks, passing the roast without taking any.

“Lying on her back,” Kate says. She presses little grains of rice into her fork as she talks. “Holly's real tan on the front, but her back's as white as a fish's belly.”

“Maybe it's an abnormal fear of being unprotected,” Andrew says, sawing on his piece of roast. “An instinctive sort of impulse for survival.”

“No,” Donna says, “Holly said she doesn't have time to lay on both sides.” She looks around the table. “Anyway, she won't be two-tone any more. Oh sakes! I forgot the rolls.” Donna jumps up and runs into the kitchen. “Hope they're still warm,” she says when she comes back. She sets them in front of the twins. Charlotte grabs one. The first thing I've seen go on her plate.

“Why?” Andrew says, still sawing.

“So the butter will melt.” Donna passes the rolls.

Andrew's face twitches. “Not the rolls! Why won't Holly be two tones anymore?” He stresses each word like he's hammering nails. Jack nudges me with his knee.

“Because she bought a tanning bed,” Donna says, patting Andrew's arm. “Set it up in her shop so she can rent out times for people to come in and use it. But that's not what I started to tell about, what happened at the beauty shop. Scarlet, honey, hand Daddy a roll. Need some butter, Daddy?”

Daddy nods.

“So what did happen?” Jack asks.

“It wasn't actually at the shop but near it. There was this wreck just right up the road a ways from Holly's Hair and Then Some. Up near Tom's Quick Stop. Only it wasn't exactly a wreck.”

“What exactly was it?” Andrew asks. A little piece of roast breaks loose and he loads it onto his fork.

“It was several things,” Donna says. “You need a roll, Sarah?” She pushes the bread basket toward me. “This couple, I don't know if they were married or not. Anyway, they went out for milk—that's what they told the police, ‘milk'—and they ran out of gas. It was 9:30 in the morning. Holly said she'd just put her first customer under the dryer—I think it was Wilene—when they heard the fire truck.”

“You said they gave out of gas,” Andrews says between chews.

“They did,” Donna says. Even Daddy's starting to look interested. “But when they gave out of gas, the car caught on fire. Aunt Kate, you need some more tea. Anybody need anything while I'm up? Andrew?” Andrew doesn't say anything. His hand is on his jaw. He's still chewing. Kate is holding her piece of roast with her fingers and biting it like it's beef jerky. Donna returns with the tea pitcher.

“What kind was it?” Jack asks.

“A car fire,” Donna says. “Are there different kinds?”

Jack looks at me. “Did anybody get hurt?” I ask.