Midway through the afternoon, with much of the green cake still uneaten on Jean’s wedding china, one woman said, “Would you look at that?”
“At what?” Jean heard the women laugh—not the easy sound of delight, but forced and phoney, as if indulgence could hide judgment.
“It’s Forrie.” Franny’s voice was protective. She opened the screen door, gathered him up and gave him to Jean. He was naked from the waist down. The little devil, getting off the leash like that. Jean hustled him off to the bedroom. Dressing him there, she smelled something on his shirt. The same smell as washing out Forrest’s hair. Gasoline. She breathed in and then choked. She could smell it on his hands and face, too.
“Did you drink anything?”
“No.”
She hoped it wasn’t fear that made him say that. “Where have you been?”
Forrie only made whining sounds. Was it from the pump by the barn or from the can she’d used to clean Forrest’s head? She didn’t even know where it was any more.
“Do you feel all right?”
“Uh-huh.”
In the bathroom she made him drink three glasses of water, yanked off his shirt and washed him until she could no longer smell the gasoline.
She wouldn’t dare tell the others, except for Franny, later. Though not expressed in words, the criticism in their laughter sounded real. Let them try to do what I’m doing the way I have to do it, she said to herself and jabbed Forrie’s left leg into a clean pair of pants. I do what I have to do.
When she finally got Forrie and Faith to sleep that night, she came back into the living room and dropped down on the sofa, jostling Forrest at the other end. Her movements showed that the day had almost been too much for her. He reached over and drew her to him, resting her head on his chest. He hummed a simple melody as he stroked her temple.
“Do you think he’ll get sick if he drank any?” she asked.
“No. Even if he tried it, it would taste so awful he’d spit it out.”
“I thought he’d be okay out there,” she said, her voice small against his chest. “He’s usually pretty content by himself. He had his toys and he could swing.”
“He probably just saw something out of reach he wanted to play with. He’s no dummy.” Forrest chuckled. “When he wants to do something, he does it. About halfway up to the window at the bank yesterday with Ed he tugged at me and said, ‘Pop, I need to go.’ I told him to hold it, but he was serious. Pretty soon Ed whispered that Forrie dropped a little brown one about two inches right on the floor next to the railing.” Jean gasped. “When Ed asked what he should do, I told him he should kick it under the railing.”
“Oh no!”
“What else were we going to do? When we got outside, he told me it rolled right under the manager’s desk.” Forrest howled. “Isn’t that a garter-snapper? Just picture the old man’s face when he found it.”
Jean laughed in spite of being weary and in spite of being exasperated with Forrie. She shouldn’t laugh at a thing like that—Mother or Miss Weaver would be shocked to hear her—but she was a world away from anything they knew.
“I want to do something,” Forrest said. He stood up abruptly and took her hands, pulling her up off the couch. “You got any shoes on?”
“Yes.”
“I got something to show you.” He hummed the same little tune as he took her outside into the cricket night, holding her hand.
She took a deep breath. “Even the air feels tired.”
“Lazy, sort of. Cool, too.”
They walked out to where the new house was being built. “Look at this, Jean. The walls are almost four feet high now.” They felt along the walls and walked inside, their hands out guiding them through the new rooms, measuring them with footsteps, imagining where windows would be, what views they would look out on.
“It’s big. And it feels so solid.”
“See here, this is the beginning of the fireplace.” Their hands brushed the adobes protruding into the room. “And out here’ll be a screened porch and we can have roses outside and smell ’em sitting right here.”
It felt odd to be inside a house, touching solid walls about waist level and still feel the slight movement of the night air and hear crickets and the gentle rush of leaf against leaf in the Chinese elm.
“Let’s stay out here for a while. The air’s so silky. It’s too hot in the house.” They listened for baby sounds but heard none.
“Follow me.” Forrest took her hand again and walked toward the breeze. Out there in the leafy night he found the swings under the Chinese elm. He turned her around. “Sit down.” It was his velvet voice. She hadn’t heard it for a while. Its smoothness carried reassurance.
“Hold on.” He pulled her back. “Ready? You holding on?”
“Yes.”
The chains creaked when he let go. She swung forward and back again, and she felt him push again gently.
She giggled. “I feel like a little girl.”
Forrest started humming again, the sound becoming louder and softer as she swung. His voice across the night was a caress, melting away the trials of the day.
She began pumping herself higher, a little bit at a time. Forrest moved to the other swing and began, too. She could feel the movement of his swing affecting her own.
They swung for a long time, Forrest adjusting until his swing was in rhythm with hers. The cool air moving through her hair felt free.
“Oh, my stomach.” She groaned and then laughed.
“Gives you the collywobbles? Then one more and we’ll stop together.” At the next peak they both relaxed and let the movement carry them slowly to stillness.
“Can you smell the mint?” she asked.
“Yeah. We must have stepped on it. There’s a lot of it here under the elm.”
“It smells like it painted the air.” That sounds like Icy, she thought. The ache stabbed again. “What’s that song you were humming?” she asked. “I’ve never heard it before.”
“It’s about a swing.” He put words to the melody.
“Swing-ing, swing-ing,
We look all around
And hear the sweet sound
Of swing-ing, swing-ing.” Forrest’s child voice singing had a new softness, it seemed to her, an innocent wonder at what the world had to offer.
“All around us there below
Birdies sing and flowers grow,
Ponies prance and breezes blow.
Life is joyous, this we know;
Love’s around us where we go.
There’s nothing quite so gladdening
As summer in a swing.”
“Oh, that’s precious. Teach it to the children.” She turned her face toward him with a new admiration, this man who could do heavy work outside, who made bricks, raised cattle, but who, in the privacy of the night, could sing a child’s song and make it eloquent. “Where did you learn it?”
“In third grade. But I sang it at a talent show in high school. After about three or four lines people started to laugh, but I finished it anyway.” He chuckled. “Then I sang it again.”
That’s Forrest, even then unwilling to succumb. She felt enfolded in peace.
“Forrest?”
“Hmm?”
“I love you.”
She felt him pull on her swing chain until they were close together. He found her face with his other hand and kissed her, a fine big kiss sufficient in itself. They sat, their swings drawn together, each one waiting for the other to move first.
“Do you think there’s a moon tonight?” She wanted there to be one.
“Yup.”
“How can you tell for sure?”
“I can feel it.”
She thought of the moon smiling down at them through the vast, empty air, amused by two children playing in the darkness.
“Me, too.”
Chapter Twenty-six
The next morning Jean sat at the picnic table in the kitchen with a cup of tea and toast. Faith made baby sounds from the playpen and Forrie moved around near her, doing just what, she wasn’t quite sure. She sang dreamily, “Life is joyous, this we know. Love’s around us where we go. There’s nothing quite so gladdening as summer in a swing.” She took a sip of tea but drew the cup away. Something tickled her mouth and gave her a queer, repulsive feeling. She dipped her spoon in, brought it up and gingerly touched the bowl of the spoon. Something was in it. Two flies. Ugh. Disgusting. She dipped in again and brought out some more. She threw down the spoon and pushed back from the table. Her throat tightened and she swallowed and grimaced, squinting her eyes.
A muffled little-boy sound came from behind her, a mixture of glee and fear accompanied by an intake of breath. The realization struck. She knew there probably were dead flies on all the windowsills. With horses and turkeys nearby, flies were always in the air. But Forrie using them as a way to tease her—that was too much, too cruel. She winced at the imaginary hyena laughter of the gods. In one flash, the source of her happiness in motherhood had become a vehicle for the world’s taunt, reminding her of her limits, snatching back the settled happiness of the night before. It seemed an unexpected swipe taken at her by the universe and it flattened her.
She knew she should discipline him. “Forrie,” she said, but she didn’t trust her voice. It wavered and lacked authority. The old problem. “That’s an awful thing to do.” Forrie slunk away out of her hearing. The cup rattled in the saucer when she stood up to pour the tea down the sink. The morning was soured irrevocably.
A week passed before she could tell Forrest about the episode. After dinner and children’s bedtime, she took his hand. “Got your shoes on?” She took him outside to the Chinese elm and they sat in the swings again. With a steady voice she explained what Forrie had done. His silence told her he knew the significance—deceit and exploitation by their children, as well as by the world. The swings hung motionless. The off-key sound of crickets filled in the empty time. Jean knew he would chafe at the incident, but she hadn’t expected it to silence him.
The swing chain creaked as Forrest shifted his weight. “Tell me something good about Forrie.” His voice was a monotone, flat and tired.
She trailed her feet in the earth and walked her swing seat back and forth slightly. She knew what he wanted, to turn around her thinking. And she wanted it, too. She thought a moment. “Yesterday when I went over to Heddy and Karl’s, Forrie was leading me, and I guess he looked up at the sky or clouds and he said, ‘There’s Mr. and Mrs. Wind.’”
“Yeah?” His swing moved some. “Mr. and Mrs. Wind,” he repeated.
“And on the way to Franny’s once, I think he led me around a puddle in the path.”
“He’s done that for me, too, with a rut or something.”
“When do you think he learned we couldn’t see?”
“Early. Real early. As soon as he could walk. When I used to roll a ball across the floor to him, he’d bring it back and put it in my hand, but Ed said that when he did it with him, Forrie just rolled the ball back. He knew the difference.”
They thought of as many positive things about Forrie as they could to reduce the injury of the flies. The coolness bathed Jean’s face and neck. She felt refreshed by the slight dampness in the night air. Or maybe it was because she had told Forrest and, once the mistreatment was shared, it had diminished. She reached for his swing chain, found his arm and followed it where it rested on his thigh. He put his hand on top of hers.
Eventually, Forrest stood up. “I want to show you how far they’ve gotten on the house. They put the rafters up today, and I want you to see the dandy way they’re put together.”
“I’m not tall enough,” she said as they made their way over to the adobe.
“You can climb up there. I found a way. I did it this afternoon. It’s real easy.”
“Easy! Easy to fall through!”
“No, you won’t. I’ll hold you.”
“I stopped climbing on roofs when I was twelve.”
“Just put your feet where I tell you.”
So here it was again, Forrest getting her to ride western, to walk out into the open pasture, to do things, sometimes absurd things, that she would never attempt on her own. It made her think of Miss Weaver’s, “Of course you can, Jean.” Not too willingly, she climbed up a ladder and put her knees and feet just where he told her, tightly grasping the beams where he put her hands. She reached for the next rafter, stretched, and felt only space. She screamed.
“You okay?”
Her stomach contracted and she regained balance in an instant. “I guess so, but my stomach flipped.”
“Your stomach flipped because you looked down. Don’t look down.”
“I didn’t look down, but my stomach flipped anyway. I’m out of my mind to be up here on an unfinished roof.” She barely breathed as Forrest explained how the joints in the rafters were designed. Feet on the ground moments later, she took a deep, relaxed breath. “This is one I’ll never tell Mother.”
Two months later, Father sent her a plane ticket for a trip back to Bristol. She told them only of the lovely new house that was taking shape with money Father had sent. She told them of the rough texture of adobe walls and the spaciousness of the rooms, of the brick hearth and the Mexican tile flooring. She thanked Father for his help. And she told them she was pregnant again.
When Jean was in the hospital for the third child, Forrest and his crew worked late into each night to finish the new house and move everything in. William Treadway Holly, skinnier than Forrie had been, and quieter than Faith, came home to the new adobe. “He’s purple,” Forrie said the first thing. At three years and four months, Forrie had just learned his colors from Franny. Faith was 17 months and feeding herself—halleluiah—but still too young to help. The feeding battles began again. With Billy so scrawny, Jean knew she had to be victorious. He didn’t fuss or cry or even spit. He just turned his head away. She couldn’t find him, but imagined his skinny purple arms and legs backing away, his wrinkled face retreating from the loaded spoon.
Days were triply tiring with three to keep track of. Faith was at the bells-on-shoes stage and Forrie’s radius of operation was widening day by day. Jean had to get used to not quite knowing where each one was every moment, even with Celerina’s help.
One day Celerina’s husband, Ezequiel, approached Jean at the clothesline. “Señora, Celerina work only eight hours a day.” She didn’t know if that was a request or a statement of fact about some new regime. It turned out to be a statement of fact. Celerina began to come and leave according to her own clock, whose hours, Jean thought, must be shorter than the rest of the world’s. Jean adjusted, fuming at first when Celerina left in the middle of feeding. But she didn’t want to lose Celerina altogether. Her crooning to the baby soothed everyone. “
Callate niño, duermete niño
,” she’d half sing, half say, when it was time for afternoon naps. “
Que tengo que hacer—lavar los panales y ponerme a coser
.” By the time Celerina finished, Billy would be asleep, Faith would be calmed, and Jean could breathe normally for a few moments before she’d have to find Forrie.