Adrift in the Sound (12 page)

“No, he needs to lay off … “ Lizette started to say
drugs
, but decided against it, waited.

“He doesn’t crowd me,” Marian finally said. “I come and go as I please. I don’t worry about him getting uptight. Some midwives have had to stop because their husbands don’t want them running out the door all the time, especially if they have kids. He doesn’t tell me what to eat and drink, who to be friends with, what time to be home. Basically, I love him because he doesn’t have any expectations of me. But, I expected he wouldn’t have sex with some other chick, at least not without a warning.”

“What about you?” Lizette mumbled, pressing her butt against the warmth of Marian’s thigh.

“I’m so busy, it’s not an issue,” Marian said, snuggling closer to Lizette. “I’ve been known to have some pretty hot pants, but I haven’t been interested in anyone since I’ve been with Greg.

Since your father died
, Lizette thought.

“I’m lazy.” Marian rolled onto her side. “Obviously, I can’t say the same for him. I mean about seeing other people. Wouldn’t you agree?”

She waited for Lizette to respond, heard the steady rhythm of her breathing and got up to pace the dark house.

FOURTEEN

“WAKE UP, SLEEPYHEAD.”
Marian stood in the bedroom doorway, a steaming coffee mug in each hand. “We’ve got lots to do this morning. Sandy called. She’s on her way, coming up with Fisher, says she has some news. Fisher’s working at the Moran tonight, playing the organ, filling in for the regular musician. But, he said he’ll switch back and forth from the organ and the piano”

Lizette took a sip of coffee, so hot it made her eyes water. She blew into the cup. “He’s nice. I love listening to him play the piano. At the Dog House, we’d be alone a lot in the afternoon and he’d play things that made me smile.”

“He’s supposed to bring up some Sumatran coffee beans for the party. Said he’d stop by Pike Place Market on the way.”

“He’s working out here now, I mean, on Orcas?”

“Sometimes. Comes up on weekends. Gigs at the tavern in town in the summer, plays Bluegrass banjo. They give him a room in back of the Moran when he plays at the hotel, but he usually sleeps here.”

“My parents used to take me to the Moran once in a while. Once they got into a fight there. Not an out-in-the-open argument, but I remember tight-lipped hissing, like snakes. Made my sandwich stick in my throat.”

“Well,” Marian said, choosing not to comment on her parent’s unhappiness. “They say Fisher played with the Seattle Symphony or something, but got messed up on drugs, started playing in jazz clubs, dealing dope on the side. Got busted for possession. He has a following. Did you know that?”

“You mean fans?”

“Yeah. People who go out of their way to hear him play. Mostly old people.”

Is he famous and I just didn’t figure it out?
Lizette thought and wondered what else she’d missed in her confusion.

“Not like the Rolling Stones,” Marian added, shaking her head, amused at Lizette’s perplexed look. “Just local folks. Apparently his family’s pretty nice, too. They have a glass shop in Kent. His father and brothers fix windows. But they’re kind of Christian, wanted him to play at church. Then, after he got busted, they didn’t want him around anymore. Sweet guy, really. Great hands. You might consider …”

“Consider what? He’s a Dog!”

“I guess.” Marian sat on the side of the bed and fluffed Lizette’s tangled hair. “If you call crashing at Rocket’s house so he can play his piano being a Dog. He doesn’t even play softball that I know of. I’m not even sure he’s on the team.”

“No one else can actually play the piano, except him.” Lizette said. “He’s his own team. Rocket plays chopsticks and acts like he’s some kind of maestro. But, Rocket and the Dogs don’t know the first thing about music.”

“Or anything else.” Marian said and bent to pull Lizette’s jeans from the floor, handed them to her. “Only Fisher can play, like I said. He’ll be here in a while with Sandy. They’ve been hanging out. But, I already told you that, didn’t I?” Lizette looked blank to mask her surprise that Sandy and Fisher were spending time together.

“You’re wooly,” Marian said. “Drink your coffee. Wake up!”

From the kitchen they heard footsteps and Poland’s familiar “Hullo.” Marian hurried down the hall to greet him. Lizette heard them talking while she dressed. She splashed water on her face in the bathroom and combed her hair with her fingers.

“Good morning, sleepy girl,” Poland said when she came into the kitchen, pinching out a grin. “We got work, Elizabeth. Some guys are coming to help shear sheep. Gotta get the flock ready.” He worked the blades of the shear he was holding, the edges scraping. “May take two days to finish. We need your help with the lambs, you work the dogs.”

“Where’s Tucker?”

“Oh, don’t worry about him,” Poland said. “He’s already in the barn. He wants to work. Come on.”

“She hasn’t had breakfast,” Marian said. “And, get that dog back in here. He’s not ready to work.”

“Plenty of time to eat—when work is done,” Poland said, heading out the door. “Dogs are happy when they’re doing something. You’ll ruin him.”

In the barn, Tucker limped up to Lizette, wagging his whole back end. He had on a clean bandage, smaller than the last one.
Marian
, she thought.
Fixed it while I was sleeping
. Tucker jumped up and Lizette examined his front paws, his injured hind leg buckled under the weight.

“Down,” she commanded and agreed with Marian that he wasn’t ready to work. Tucker looked hurt and sidled off.

“Marian checked him this morning,” Poland said. “Said it’s healing, but maybe he won’t ever be able to herd, may drag a leg. Can’t tell yet, but you can see he wants to get out there.”

Marian was standing at the barn door, watching them, light playing behind her head, veiling her face.

“Tucker’s doing pretty well,” she said. “Considering he was attacked by an orca.”

She laughed and Tucker came to her, rubbed against her leg, as if pleading his case.

“Take him down to the cabin, Liz, and feed him. Lock him in while the other dogs work. He’ll just get in the way and re-injure his leg.”

Lizette picked Tucker up and started to leave, the dog barking in protest, the other sheep dogs coming into the barn, circling Lizette, ready to help him out.

“And, Liz, don’t forget your pill,” Marian said. “You’re doing pretty good, too.”

“I sleep too much.”

“You’re better,” Marian said, nodding approval. “Your father called this morning.”

Lizette shifted Tucker for a better grip.

“He wanted me to remind you about the checks from the county in your mailbox.”

She spoke louder to be heard over Tucker’s barking, said, “He wants to know how you’re doing. Remind you about your appointment with Dr. Finch. Apparently the hospital called. I told him you’re good, invited him to come out.”

“What did he say?”

“Put Tucker in the cabin.” Marian shooed at Lizette. “The barking is driving me crazy.”

When Lizette returned to the barn, she could see Poland and a couple of men far off in the meadow. The young black and white collies worked the edges of the flock with their mother, Old Mollie, pressing the sheep closer and closer together. Lizette went into the meadow and began gesturing with her hands and whistling to the dogs, directing them when they veered off course. They herded the animals toward the open pens beside the barn, moving quickly along the line of sheep they were forming, working front to back, side-to-side, nipping, bumping. A big lamb stopped to graze and was disciplined with a snap to the neck. It kicked out its hind legs, joined itself to its mother’s flank and they ran as a single unit, shoulder to shoulder. The men ran behind the flock, trying to catch up.

“Open the pen gate!” Poland shouted to Lizette.

The flock moved down the meadow, picking up speed. She unlatched the gate to the outside pens, lifted it from its sag, swung it wide and stood out of the way. The flock hung together as the dogs brought them in, moving as one. They crushed into the pen, making pretty little leaps before settling down. Lizette latched the gate behind them.

“Wool’s too wet,” Poland said when he reached her, panting, leaning over the pen and grabbing handfuls of wool.

“Can’t shear today. Open the barn doors and let them inside.”

With the flock secured, Lizette hurried into the barn, swung the door wide and the dogs pressed the sheep into the sheltered pens.

She heard Poland tell the men, cousins of his, it looked like, “Naw. They gotta dry out. A day or two. I’ll let you know.”

The sheep jostled around the water trough, the dogs slipped back into the pen, nudged them as they drank. Poland whistled and called the dogs off, shamed them with his tone for needlessly harassing the penned animals. They slipped away and found the food bowls Lizette had set out for them. Poland went back outside to the men in the driveway. They shook hands and got into their pickups and drove away.

“Too much rain,” Poland said.

He came to stand beside Lizette while she patted the lambs bumping around in their separate pen. He chuckled at their antics.

“It doesn’t take so long for Southdowns to dry. Wool’s not thick, not worth much either. But, we can sell some at the market. The spinners like it. Abaya needs to card it though, clean off the dirt and poop before they can make yarn.”

A car tooted as it came down the drive, a blue Volkswagen with bug-eye headlights, luggage rack on top. It rolled up in front of the barn’s open doors. Sandy got out from the passenger seat, round belly showing first, long blonde hair, to her waist, thick and healthy.
Bug eyes, like the car
, Lizette thought as she watched her. She was wearing a man’s white dress shirt and a long denim skirt, hiking boots showing below the hem.

“Hey. Lizette! How do ya like my belly?” She turned sideways and smoothed the shirt over her round bulge.

Lizette smiled and backed away. Fisher grinned with yellow buck teeth as he unfolded his long frame from behind the wheel. She thought his thinning hair looked like crumpled brown grass.
He can’t be the father
, Lizette thought.
She’s too pregnant for that. I would have known.

“Where’s Marian?” Sandy looked around like she expected Marian to pop up from a rabbit hole.

Lizette pointed toward the house and retreated into the barn. She checked the orphan lambs, again, added feed and water, then walked down the trail to her cabin. She wondered who the father might be, heard laughter coming from the house, the phone ringing, rock music—Janis Joplin wailing “Down on Me.”

Inside the cabin, she settled on the stool and spread peanut butter on a rice cake, took a swallow from the water jug, stared out the window, scanning the water’s surface, waiting for them to come, watching for flashes of black fin gliding through the chop, searching for Looney.

“Elizabeth?” Poland called from outside. She got up and opened the door. “Abaya wants to sell at the market tomorrow. Are you gonna come?”

“Sure. I told you I would.”

“Good,” he said. “We need help and you need money, lazy girl. We can go home in a while and harvest in the afternoon. Now I need to do some orchard work. Won’t take long.”

She followed him along a side trail, through the fragrant cedar forest that protected the fruit trees, past the littered ranch dump, over a small hill, Tucker stumping behind them. They stepped into the bright nimbus that wrapped the cherry trees in golden light. Blue jays argued over perches on the budding branches, a falcon swept overhead, waiting for a clear shot at the noisy jays, jabbering away, innocent of the hunter.

“Put the ladder up on the trunk,” Poland said, showing her how he wanted the ladder set.

“Check again that the ladder is planted, steady before you go up. Always check twice.”

She climbed, steadied herself on a sturdy branch.

“Here are the clippers. I’ll hold the loppers. Clip, right there.” “Here?” She had the clippers set on a thick branch.

“No. More toward the end, at the fork.” He stood beneath her gesturing. “Go out more to the end. I just want the branches lightened for when the fruit comes, so they don’t break. You need to learn pruning, silly girl. Marian’s too busy to know. That way you can show the crews what to do, when I’m not here.”

“You never go anywhere,” Lizette said.

“Someday I won’t be here. The crews won’t listen if you don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She went after a branch, the leaves brushing her face, the birds taunting her on the higher branches. She clipped steadily as he pointed from the ground, her fingers cramping after a while, the tender skin on the inside of her thumb burning.

“If you eat too much fruit, you poop,” Poland warned her as he steadied the ladder. He made a putt-putt sound with his lips and laughed at himself. Lizette laughed too at his silliness, snipped and dropped a cluster of leaves on his head.

She reached for the loppers and took out a heavy branch, dropping it to the ground, just missing Poland’s boot. “Watch out! You wanna kill me?”

In a few of hours they’d trimmed and shaped a dozen trees. Poland went and got the truck and she kept working, her arms and back aching. They loaded the prunings into the truck bed and then they bounced along the rutted orchard road to the ranch dump, heaving the load into the big hollow. They were unloading tools into the barn when Marian came out and called them to lunch. Poland waved to Marian, shook his head “no,” told Lizette to go, that he’d come back and pick her up on the way to the Saturday market. Before daylight, he warned, and got into his truck and headed down the driveway to the main road.