The Girl from Charnelle (9 page)

Easter Weekend

L
aura noticed that her mother seemed quieter than usual. Laura believed she was the only one who had noticed. Her father had been very busy, working long hours, taking jobs in nearby towns some weeks, leaving for Amarillo before sunrise and often not returning until after midnight, so he wasn't around as much that spring. When they did see him, he was often too tired for talk, slipping into a doze at the kitchen table or in his chair in the living room. Manny was fifteen and a half, just a year older than Laura, and in high school now. He paid little attention to what was going on with the family. He'd gotten a job at a filling station after school and on Saturdays, and he seemed to spend most of the time he was home primping in the bathroom, greasing his hair and combing it into a meticulously groomed duck's ass—probably to impress some girl at school. Gene, who was eight, and Rich, who was only three, weren't old enough to know when people acted different. They just wanted to have food fixed when they were hungry and be tucked in bed by their mother at night. But Laura did notice what seemed to be happening with her mother. She knew her mother had been hurt when Gloria
eloped, before she even graduated from high school, but that had been a while now, almost a year, long enough to get used to. As Laura watched her mother go about her chores—fixing meals, washing clothes, bathing children—she worried that she didn't smile much, that she didn't say much, that she did everything and did it right, but that something was gone that had been there before.

Her mother was also more easily angered and strict, quick to punish the younger boys for the least little thing. Laura found herself walking on eggshells when she was home, not starting any arguments, doing her chores before she was asked, even offering to help with the dishes or cooking or laundry when it wasn't her turn. She had been sick throughout the winter and into early spring, feeling feverish, never quite able to shake the sniffles and the itchiness in her nose and throat and eyes. Even school, which she liked—especially geography and English—seemed to limp sluggishly toward the end of the year, like a wounded soldier.

She was relieved that everyone seemed to cheer up when they decided to visit Aunt Velma for Easter. The whole house brightened and straightened into shape, like a clean, snapped-out sheet. Laura's sinuses cleared—ah, how wonderful to breathe normally again. Her father sang bits and pieces of old songs in the shower, and her mother seemed more tender and tolerant with them all, even softly whistling while she hung the wet clothes on the line.

 

They left for Aunt Velma's shortly after lunch on Good Friday, when Mr. Tate got off work. Mrs. Tate had already packed the suitcases and wrapped the ham she planned to cook for Easter dinner. Fay—who'd been moping about since their other dog, Greta, had run off—jumped around like an excited pup, tongue lolling in a smile as they readied themselves for the trip. She hopped in and out of the truck bed, barking. She was ready to go, right now, let's get on the road and head to the farm
—now, now, come on, people, get moving.

Except for Mr. Tate, none of the family had been out of town since last Thanksgiving. Laura didn't realize how good it was to leave until they were on the highway, driving off—Gene, Manny, Fay, and her in the back of the pickup with the luggage and the food, the sky white and breezy and cool, Charnelle dissolving behind them, the bright red brick of Thomason's Bar-B-Q fading, the tall Armory flagpole thinning, thinning until you blinked, and it was suddenly gone.

They arrived just after three in the afternoon. Aunt Velma was waiting in the yard, her strawberry-patterned apron over her dress, her large mop of gray
hair pinned in a loose bun. She hugged and kissed them all. When Laura embraced her, she could smell baked cinnamon apples.

Aunt Velma said, “You're just in time to feed the chickens,” and she whacked Gene's and Rich's butts playfully with a broom and sent them off to the barn, where they scattered the grain and imitated the clucking, head-bobbing, selfish strutting of the six hens and the rooster.

After a few minutes, Rich ran back up. “I wanna ride Ginger.”

“That's fine, honey,” Aunt Velma crooned, “but you better ask your parents.”

He was off in a waddling run to the house, where he retrieved Manny and Mr. Tate, who saddled and bridled the older horse, Ginger. Manny rode with Rich, while Gene and Laura took turns riding the younger mare, Hayworth.

Then, later, Laura and Manny galloped the two horses beyond the pasture, through the peach and apple orchards, to the open land that bordered the new highway.

“Hi-yaaa!” Manny yelled, heeling Ginger into a run.

Though nervous—Laura'd almost been thrown from Hayworth the previous Thanksgiving—she tightened her grip on the reins, clamped her legs against the mare's sides, clicked her tongue, and pressed her heels into the rear flanks. The horse galloped faster, and Laura said, “Come on, girl,” then shouted like Manny, and the horse, as if a current of electricity had suddenly jolted through her, snapped into a run, whiplashing Laura's head.

She nearly fell off but righted herself, leaned forward, and clasped the reins more securely. The wind whooshed by, and her hair swirled around her face like a nest of blond spiders. Too scared to let go, she shook her head until her hair streaked behind her, and she let the horse run for a while before she started to relax, to ease her body into the rhythm of the horse's gait, to let the rippling of Hayworth's muscles flow through rather than against her own.

Manny had stopped a couple hundred or so yards ahead, and Ginger was drinking from a freshwater pond. Laura tugged the reins to the right and circled in a fat arc toward Manny. She slapped the horse's side with her reins so they wouldn't slow down. She wanted to prolong this feeling, this wide-open, fast-galloping looseness. She closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and could feel at the core of her body a kind of bobbing.

Then, just as she opened her eyes, Hayworth jumped at something, and the blue sky tilted. Her head bumped the horse's neck. She lost her balance and could feel herself falling, slowly, like dripping molasses, off the side of the
running horse. She clung to the reins, but they were slipping, slipping, slipping, a hot burn of leather on her palms, and she knew, absolutely knew, in those split seconds when she was perpendicular to the horse, like a spear in its side, that she was going to hit the ground, headfirst and hard. The horse would trample her, and she would be dead, gone for good.

 

“Are you okay?” Manny kept repeating. “Are you okay?” His hand cradled her head, and around his darkened face was a corona of sunlight that blinded her into a rapid blink.

“What happened?” she asked.

“I was watching you, but then I turned away for a second, and when I looked again, you were on the ground.”

“How long have I been here?”

“A few minutes. I thought you were dead at first. You feel okay?”

“I think so.”

She sat up and felt a sharp, dizzying spike in her forehead, like when she ate ice cream too fast, but that pain left quickly. Manny lifted her up and helped spank the grass and dirt from her hair and body. Her back and right arm ached, but not enough to gripe about—just stingers that would go away if she didn't dwell on them.

“Don't tell anyone about this,” she said.

“Are you sure you're all right?”

“They might not let me ride again.”

“Maybe you
shouldn't
ride again.”

“I just got her going too fast.”

“You shouldn't have chased after me.”

“You wanted me to.”

“That's not the point.”

“It was fun until I lost hold.”

The horses were drinking at the pond. She and Manny sat down on the bank, broke off a couple of cattails and absently fingered them. The water was smooth, just a ripple from the horses' mouths, every now and again a light wrinkle across the surface from the breeze. A halfmile in the distance, trucks rolled across the highway, and she believed she could smell faintly the diesel in the air, though the horses' sweat was closer, more pungent. The sun had turned from hot white to a liquid red at the horizon, and after it dipped below, she and Manny
climbed back up on the horses. She was a little nervous at first, afraid she might fall again. She clasped her thighs tightly against the horse's flanks, and they started back to the barn in a slow canter.

They tethered the horses in the stall, and when they exited the barn, darkness had fallen quickblack over the sky.

 

Aunt Velma wasn't really anybody's aunt. She was Mrs. Tate's cousin by marriage. Uncle Unser, who was really Mrs. Tate's cousin, died in 1953. During World War II, when he'd served as a captain in the infantry, he lost the vision in his left eye and both his arms up to the elbows when a grenade exploded in his hands as he withdrew the pin. He had metal hands attached at the VA and tried to return to normal life, but he couldn't do the farmwork very efficiently nor of course the fiddle making, which he'd been known for in the Panhandle before he joined the military. He and Aunt Velma had never had children, so they had always treated Laura's family like their own. During the war, he'd sent them odd remnants—pieces of shrapnel constructed into beautiful, strange collages, bullet casings with Italian and Russian lettering on the sides, an Italian military sash for Mr. Tate, a German baby blanket for Laura. And even after he returned from the hospital, he seemed extraordinarily good-natured, letting the kids touch his purple-striated stumps or even play with his metal hands as he sat on a stool or in his big leather chair, smiling serenely.

Mrs. Tate always referred to him as her uncle, as both a term of endearment and because he was almost twenty years older than she was. He'd always been, as she put it, a naturally happy man, quick with a joke or a tease. So they were all shocked when Uncle Unser hanged himself in the barn. No note, no nothing. Aunt Velma found him swinging from the rafters one morning in May. Laura was sure there were explanations, but neither his death nor its possible causes were discussed with the kids. Manny told Laura that he thought Uncle Unser was an alcoholic. Gloria said that was a big fat lie, that he was just depressed, from the war and from his inability to do what he most loved. He just didn't want to live anymore. It was that simple.

But it wasn't so simple to Laura. She could never quite wrap her mind around that notion—not wanting to live—particularly since he seemed so obviously happy. There was some mysterious chasm between the man she had known and the man who had dangled from the rafters, like a secret self had taken over. It had troubled her for nearly a year—she even dreamed of it horribly, this demonic
second self rising out of Uncle Unser's body and knotting the rope, draping it around his neck—but then she had suddenly stopped thinking and dreaming about it altogether. As she grew older, it seemed more and more difficult to remember him very clearly, though every once in a while, especially when they were visiting Aunt Velma's, a charged memory would swim to the surface and overwhelm her for a few seconds—how his suntanned face looked like a sculpture, bronzed and creviced in the sunlight, or the singsong way in which he sometimes spoke, or a snippet of one of his jokes, or his deadpan, teasing manner, his glass eye rolling loosely to one side while his good eye stared straight at you.

 

For supper Aunt Velma and Mrs. Tate fixed catfish, okra, black-eyed peas, two pans of cornbread, and an apple cobbler for dessert. The kitchen smelled warm, buttery, sweet, and greasy. After Manny and Laura washed up, they all sat at the table, held hands, and Aunt Velma said an extended grace. The Tates weren't very religious, though they sometimes attended the Charnelle Methodist Church. But Aunt Velma claimed that the church had saved her after Uncle Unser died, literally saved both her physical and spiritual lives, and she had devoted herself to volunteer work and to intensive study sessions with other members of the congregation, particularly those who'd lost spouses, parents, children, brothers, or sisters. Though Manny made fun of Aunt Velma's devotion, and Mr. and Mrs. Tate seemed to tolerate it respectfully, Laura was fascinated and often moved by Aunt Velma's fervor. Regardless of whether or not you believed what she believed, it was clear, to Laura at least, that it had changed Aunt Velma for the better—not like religion did for some people. It made her generous and forgiving, and sustained her as she grew old, lit her from within rather than turning her cynical and ossified, as Laura could easily see happening to someone else in Aunt Velma's shoes. When your husband kills himself…well, no telling what could happen to you.

Aunt Velma reminded them that today, of all days, is what they must be grateful for, and she painted a vivid portrait of the frail Messiah, nearly naked, thorns digging into His skull, blood and sweat and dirt streaming into His eyes, which He could barely keep open, the spikes being driven through His hands and tender feet, and how the rabble of the town came to watch Him suffer, to throw stones and rotted vegetables, and as He faded into unconsciousness and then death, the sky blackened. It was a day of torment and abject humiliation, but in this suffering were planted the seeds of the world's salvation.

“Amen,” Mr. Tate said, and the rest of them, on cue, chimed in with their amens. Manny looked at Laura and rolled his eyes, smiling, and she smiled, too, but felt bad about it, as if she was conspiring against Aunt Velma.