Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian (8 page)

I still call Joe, Mr. Crawford to his face. Did the same with Vivienne. And that's after knowing them all these years. Right after Donna and I were married, I called them by their first names. You would have thought I proposed incest. Donna said it just sounded a little strange, my being younger. She tried to get me to call them Mama and Daddy. That didn't work either. Now the twins call them Mama C. and Daddy C. which is all right with the Crawfords. But they have their own standard of propriety and etiquette around here that is unlike the rest of the country, the world for that matter.

That's just the way these people are, and sometimes it takes an unencumbered observer to recognize it. Take the civil war at the fire station. When I was first dating Donna, all Mr. Crawford could talk about was the mess at the volunteer fire station, and his garden, of course. For several months, the community had a problem with fires—brush piles, open fields, vacant tenant houses, that sort of thing.

Then one night, Mr. Crawford caught a boy in the middle of a field with a gasoline can in hand. The boy ran away but not before Mr. Crawford recognized him. The fire chief's son. Then the proverbial ash can hit the fan. When Mr. Crawford reported his findings, the chief denied it, his son denied it, and half the firemen couldn't believe it. The other half not only believed it but wanted the boy publicly whipped.

I tried to explain to Donna's father that whether the fire chief denied it or not, he'd keep an eye on his son and the fires would stop. And as for the boy, the fires were probably a plea for attention. But Mr. Crawford insisted that he had been called a liar and as far as the boy's need for attention went, a public whipping would work just dandy. You can't tell Joe anything. At least I can't. Donna said, “It's not what you say, Andrew, but the way you say it. Daddy doesn't trust anyone with an accent.” As if he speaks the King's English.

Donna's not that stubborn. She usually listens to reason. That's more than I can say for the rest of them. Not that the Crawfords aren't smart. At least the women, they all read. And Donna's Aunt Kate is almost a scholar. I enjoy talking philosophy with Kate. She says literature is truer than history, and she has a point, although she oversimplifies. But she's a little loosely woven sometimes, morally speaking. She goes through boyfriends as fast as she reads novels. Not the best example for Sarah and Donna, growing up. She hasn't had one around lately. Thank God. The twins were beginning to wonder why Aunt Kate had so many men and no husband. I told her what they said. She said to tell them she hadn't found one with a long enough plot. She didn't crack a smile, as though it were the normal way to behave and she wondered why I asked.

She's not shedding a tear this morning, but she looks hungover. I suppose she tied one on last night. It's her grief release mechanism—superior, if you ask me, to stuffing one's face. She's not wearing black either, thank God. Donna is. I've never seen her in black up close to her face like that. Something about women in black that sets me on edge. Like boards on an old house, burned tree stumps, coal. I don't like Donna in black. Not even black underwear. She belongs in soft blues and yellows and pinks.

Donna was wearing a pink evening gown the first time I saw her. Every summer the town organizers have some kind of festival. My first year here, it was a peach festival to increase sales for the fruit growers and local merchants. These people can't have a festival without a beauty pageant, whether it's Miss Peanut, Miss Pork, Little Miss Water Fall or whatever they're celebrating. This is where I came in. My being from Massachusetts and a psychology professor and a bachelor at the time evidently made me a likely candidate for judge. I'd never even been to a beauty pageant before, but I'd helped judge a science fair and a few declamation contests, so I supposed there wouldn't be too much to it.

The pageant started at 6:00 which I thought was a little early until I found out we had to select Miss Wee Blossom and Little Miss Nectarine before the main event, Miss Peach Queen, even started. By 8:30 I was sick of crinolines, whining children, and weeping mothers. If I had thought it wouldn't affect my chance for tenure, I'd have walked out. But then they brought out the older girls, ones who'd undergone puberty. I relaxed a little and started enjoying the view. The first eleven contestants ranged from mildly cute to quite pretty. But the twelfth one looked like a P.E. coach with a wig. That's who I thought it was at first, a clown of sorts to ease the tension. I laughed out loud. Alone. No one else was laughing. I couldn't believe it. I asked the judge next to me who number twelve was. He said it was Crystabelle Dean. We weren't supposed to know their names so I asked him how he knew. He said everybody in town knew her, her four brothers, her father, and her uncle in prison. All wrestlers, professional, including Crystabelle.

Now I didn't know if he was kidding or not but I didn't laugh anymore when she came out on stage, not even when she modeled her Jantzen swimsuit and the little diving girl insignia was stretched horizontally instead of vertically, not even when Crystabelle played “Old Black Joe” on a handsaw. Nobody did. We all clapped and looked straight ahead.

The one bright spot that got me through the night was watching Donna on stage. She was beautiful. She had a perfect little coed figure back then. Every outfit was pink, even her swimsuit and she had a little gait in that swimsuit that made me want to jump up and chase her behind the curtain. She played “Exodus” for her talent, mostly one-handed, but with such passion I almost had goose-bumps. I didn't know her then but I knew I would very soon. She won Miss Peach Queen. The decision was unanimous and every judge except me had Crystabelle as first runner-up. I held out for second runner-up as a matter of principle.

That's the way I met Donna. Love at first sight. Strange thing for a doctor of psychology to admit, but it's true. If I could have gotten over her after I met the rest of the family, believe me, I would have. But she was so sweet and soft and sexy in a prissy kind of way that I had to marry her. I took her for better and the rest of the Crawfords for worse.

I hate funerals. Not that anybody likes them, except Lois Turpin and morticians. For me, they're suffocating, a black sea of emotion. Reminds me of my father's funeral. Mama, Nana, Aunt Ruth, all in black and all around me. I couldn't see beyond black. I was no older than the twins. The only child of a dead man. And suddenly expected to become one's own father, reincarnate.

Sarah looks as though she's suffocating too. Hers has another source: guilt, I would venture a guess. As a professional, I sympathize. As brother-in-law, well … I'll admit to some resentment.

I knew Sarah was ready to come home, and I told Donna that very fact. Vivienne's illness was the perfect excuse, not that I don't think Sarah loved her mother, as much as she could love anyone other than herself. I told Donna that too, but she didn't like me saying Sarah was selfish. But she knows I'm right. I'm proficient at analyzing handwriting. Sarah's t's are prime examples of self-centeredness. Your t's tell on you.

I'm right about her being ready to come home, too. She probably was bored with the vet and got enough roaming around. Her hormones have no doubt started to settle back down, leaving her less sexually inclined and more domestic. Not that she couldn't control her actions. What she did was totally selfish and without regard as to what it would do to the rest of the Crawfords. Look at Vivienne. She already had problems but not this bad. Joe has become even more disagreeable and hard of hearing. And Jack. I never have thought he deserved his success but he certainly didn't deserve this either. I don't see how he's kept his dealership going all year. I haven't seen him since before Sarah left. He doesn't come around here or to Joe's at all. Everyone thought he and Joe were so close. It's as if Sarah were their sole connection.

Donna and I have suffered the worst. Donna depended on Sarah so much for girl talk. Now she stores up bits and pieces all day long and unloads them on me with no thought to rhyme, reason, or chronological order. She's had to take over her parents' household and I've had to just about take over ours. Or I would have if it weren't for this tenure project hanging over me. I haven't decided what it is yet, but I have to come up with something soon or I'll miss my chance.

As for sex, you can forget that at our house. For example, last Thursday, Donna came in tired and grumpy. She'd been at Joe's house and then taken the twins to register for school; unfortunately, Charlotte was sick, and Scarlet had piano lessons. I'd been at the library researching ideas for my project, and when I came home, quite understandably, Donna didn't have dinner prepared. But I didn't complain. I knew she'd had a hard day as soon as I stepped inside the doorway and she started down the list. Not exactly down the list, more here and there and back again.

Then she said, “Am I getting fat?”

“No,” I told her. “You don't need to gain any, but you're fine, especially for a woman your age who's had twins.” Then I offered to rub her back, that's all, just rub her back. She wouldn't let me touch her.

“Rub yourself!” she snapped and went to bed.

That's not like my Donna. It's this Sarah thing that's done it to her. Kate's the only one who hasn't suffered, and I swear, I think she was happy for Sarah. Kate's a little unbalanced at times; I can see it in her signature.

So I had mixed emotions when Donna said Sarah was coming back. I knew there'd be problems. Yet I was relieved for Donna to have another confidant and some help with their parents. When I met Sarah at the airport, she seemed glad enough to see me although a little disappointed that Donna didn't come. She looked about the same, a little thinner maybe but still attractive, not as pretty as my Donna but handsome in her own way.

I explained her mother's condition and offered my theory on what caused her illness: lack of calcium, hormonal change, delayed empty-nest syndrome. I didn't mention that her eldest daughter's desertion probably accelerated the whole thing. If Sarah was upset, I couldn't detect it because she kept her head turned, looking out the window most of the trip home.

Something about her at that angle reminded me of her mother, the only time I'd seen much of a resemblance of Sarah to any of the family. They're smaller, more blond and pixie-like, even Joe. Sarah never seemed to fit the Crawford mold before, but for the first time I could see her mother in her. The way the light played off her cheekbone and down her neck, if I were a painter I'd have a word for it. An aura of sorts. She reminded me of a melancholy song without lyrics, one in which you feel the singer's sadness without knowing why. I wondered if Sarah had ever been happy or ever would be.

She has that same expression now, more than a funeral look. Thank God, my Donna's not like that, but I need to get her out of that awful black dress.

SARAH

Dear God, it's hot in here. I'd forgotten how they pack in for funerals. Daddy's so slumped over, nothing in his suit hangs right. It almost looks empty. He's sobbing like he did at Donna's wedding. Only worse. He's not trying to hide it. Aunt Kate is stone-faced. Cried herself out last night. Donna's pretty as ever, even in black. She has a twin at each hand. Andrew looks like he might conduct the service. I can't believe Donna's held up so well, but then she doesn't have the guilt that I do.

When I got her letter, I felt a sensation I'd shut out for an entire year. Raw, unhomogenized guilt. Like morning sickness, starting in the pit of my stomach then rising up my throat through my nostrils, all hot and burny making me feel like a volcano. Guilt does that to me.

Guilt about Mama almost opened a floodgate for what I'd done to the rest of this family the past year. Especially Jack. Sometimes I'd see his face in my mind, his clear blue eyes all red and puffy as though he'd rolled in oats. But I wouldn't let myself deal with more than one guilt at a time and Mama is it. I wanted to thank her for everything she'd done for me and apologize for everything I'd done to her. Like the times I disappointed her or made her cry or said I hated her.

It's so hot. I wish Kate would move over just a little.

When Donna and I were little, it seemed like we were always getting shots for one thing or another. If I felt sick, I'd hide in my room or at Aunt Kate's house. But Mama would figure it out, find me, and take me to Dr. Sams. “Penicillin,” he'd say, every time. And out would come the hypodermic. Donna didn't like penicillin shots any better than I did. She simply couldn't hide anything. And even if we weren't sick, there'd be a vaccination or booster shot due. Mama wouldn't tell us until we were almost there. Then she'd take us into the office, one at each hand. Donna would go in sniffling and clinging to Mama's arm. But I'd hang back, dig my heels in, make Mama pull me through the doorway.

Dr. Sams liked to give his own shots. He had a system for children. He'd turn his hypodermic hand in, the needle pointing toward himself, as though you couldn't see it. He'd bounce the back of his hand on your forearm, saying, “Here comes the bunny. Hop … Hop … Hop!” On the third hop he'd swing the needle around and shove the point dripping into your arm. Then he'd hand you a lollipop. One morning he did just that—the hopping and all. When he handed me the lollipop, a green one, I wouldn't lift my good arm to take it. Mama said, “Take it, Sarah, and tell Dr. Sams 'thank you.'” My punctured arm was still throbbing and I could feel the sting of serum clear up to my neck. Instead of “Thank you,” I said, “I hate Dr. Sams, I hate bunnies, I hate lollipops, and I hate you for bringing me here!” Pain gives you courage or maybe just the motivation to hurt others.

Mama didn't say anything. She just reached for Donna and held her steady while Dr. Sams reloaded and fired away on Donna's arm. While Donna flinched and cried, I watched Mama. She held Donna tight, but she was staring into space and tears were rolling down her face like little rain streams. Donna took her lollipop. It was red. Dr. Sams gave her mine too, but she wouldn't eat it until we were back in the car and I told her it was okay. There were other times I said or at least thought “I hate you,” but the shot incident sticks in my mind.