What Love Sees Page 30

  “Go back inside.”

  Shock mixed with confusion. Forrest went back into the corral and felt for Honeybunch again to confirm what he thought. Her skin was motionless when he touched her. She didn’t breathe. He stood up in numb incomprehension and wandered slowly around the corral, trying to piece together what had happened, listening to see if maybe there was another animal in there. He walked over to the small enclosure where he heard Mort moving around, checked his pulse and his breathing. “You okay, buddy?” he asked. Then he followed the rail to the water trough. He smelled a chemical odor and stretched out his hands to feel around the ground at the base of the trough. His hand touched a metal container. It was empty. He picked it up and went back toward the gate.

  “Jean, you still here?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’d better call the slaughterhouse.” The word stabbed the truth home. Together they started back toward the house and the waiting children. “Wait a minute.” Forrest turned back, clapped once and walked toward the barn. He felt for the weathered wood of the door. It wasn’t where he thought it should be. He felt further to the left. The door was wide open. “Go be with the kids, Jean. I’m going to find Skippy.”

  He called to his mother when he got near her house, and she came out.

  “I saw,” she said flatly.

  “Honeybunch too?”

  “No, just Skippy.”

  “Where?”

  “By the fence.” They walked together to the fence by the highway. Forrest felt for Skippy’s bloated belly, found a barbed wire across her neck. Her legs were angled abnormally, one on the opposite side of the fence. She didn’t respond to his touch.

  “What do you think happened?” Mother Holly’s voice was soft.

  Forrest turned to her. “What do I have in my hand?” He held up the can.

  “DDT,” she said softly.

  He picked his way back to the house, his shoulders slumped. The incline of the dirt road seemed steeper. He heard wails and sobbing coming from the house, a chorus of hysterical voices. Jean must have told them. He walked past the house back to the corral, felt for the water trough and pulled the plug.

  He took a deep breath when he approached the house. “It’s the wrong time to cry,” Forrest said when he entered. His flat comment changed the children’s cries to sniffling whimpers.

  “Who’s here?”

  “Everybody.” Faith’s voice was low.

  “What’s printed on this can?” He held it out.

  “DDT,” said Forrie. “What’s that mean?”

  “Insect poison.” His voice sounded defeated, not angry.

  In that moment, everyone knew all. The realization struck like a hatchet into green wood. Forrie, sitting on the floor by Jean’s feet, buried his face in her lap. Numbness silenced the whole household. “Was anybody playing with it by the water trough?” Hap scraped his feet on the Mexican tile floor and sniffled. Forrest let the question go unanswered. Too much at one time. “I found the barn door open, too.” Forrie shrank in Jean’s arms, even though the words came without accusation, just as fact. “Everybody, go wash. With soap. Don’t touch anything, don’t eat or drink anything until you do.” Forrest took the can into the kitchen, wrapped it in a grocery sack, put it deep in the trash container and washed his hands up to the elbows. In near silence Jean bathed Hap. A pall settled like a fog blanket, muffling all movement except his. For more than an hour, nobody said anything. The Santa Ana wind had stopped and, by contrast, the air seemed lifeless. Rusty hung around close to the family, his tail down, his head drooping.

  Just before twilight a truck clattered up the dirt driveway and stopped by the corral gate, too narrow for the truck to go farther. Forrest went outside alone. Billy crept off to his bedroom, but Faith and Forrie pressed their noses against the window. The sign on the door of the big truck said, “Ramona Slaughterhouse, Maurie Schneider, Proprietor.” They couldn’t hear what Pop was saying. The two children slipped out another door and came round to watch. In the leaden end-of-day gloom, they could see the man strap ropes around Honey’s stiff legs and tie the other ends to the truck. Forrest tugged at the saddle to get it free from the body, then undid the bridle and worked the bit out of Honey’s mouth. The man got in the truck and drove slowly. Honey’s body made a heavy rasping noise as it scraped the dirt. At the corral gate her back leg caught on the fence post, stiff enough to slow the truck momentarily until the body twisted. The truck dragged Honeybunch past the two children. Her tongue hung stiffly out of her gaping mouth so that it bounced slightly when Honey was dragged over the earth. Her eyes were open. Then the man turned a heavy crank on the back of the truck to hoist Honey onto the flat bed. It creaked with her weight.

  The two children slipped back inside the house without Forrest or Jean knowing what they’d seen.

  Chapter Thirty-two

  Eventually, Jean roused herself to cook an ordinary supper. No one ate much. Only the parrot talked. “O-oh, say can you see” he screeched again and again, high and jarring. Jean had an uneasy feeling the children had seen too much.

  What was left of the evening passed in restlessness. “No one’s to blame,” Jean said to break the oppressive silence, even though no one accused anyone else. They had all fallen.

  Billy clanked a spoon against a half-filled glass of milk. When he moved the spoon up and down, the pitch changed. He kept it up for a long time. In the silent house, it was the only noise. “Cut that out,” Faith snapped. The spoon clanked two more times and then clattered on the table. He went into his bedroom.

  Tucking-in ritual would demand all Jean could muster. She knew that Hap was too young to know the part he had played in the disaster. When he found the open can of powder, he was probably curious to see what patterns it would make sprinkled over the water in the trough. Any four-year-old might have done the same. Billy asked no questions, said little. Jean was relieved that at least on the surface, he could take care of his own grief. That left only two.

  When she went into Faith’s bedroom, Faith finally let go the aborted tears of earlier in the day. “I kicked her. I kicked Honeybunch.” She sobbed without restraint. Jean sat down on the edge of the bed, letting her cry. Faith’s heavy-hearted remorse was probably a new experience for her. Obviously it didn’t feel good.

  “You didn’t know,” Jean said. “When you know someone’s hurt and you hurt him more, then that’s wrong, but you didn’t know. The rules change when you don’t know.” She held the chubby hand gently, tracing the dimpled knuckles. “We can love them even though they’re gone because they’re still in our thoughts.” She stroked Faith’s head, separating her fingers so that her hair slid through. The short curls were wet at her temples. Jean continued, moving her hand more and more slowly, until her breathing became regular.

  Down the hall she heard Forrie’s sounds of crying slightly lower than those she’d just quieted.

  “I killed them,” Forrie wailed. “I killed Honeybunch and Skippy.” Forrie’s voice didn’t seem to disturb Faith, lost in her own thoughts, but the words made Jean wince.

  “No, you didn’t,” she heard Forrest say.

  “I left the barn door open.”

  “I know.” Forrest’s voice sounded tired. Jean took her hand away from Faith who moved slightly but said nothing. Sobs from the next room subsided some. “There are reasons why we have rules, Forrie. Rules aren’t made just to be mean.” That velvet tone of Forrest’s voice could calm anyone, she thought, but she worried that the words would set off Forrie’s tears again. She stood up slowly, trying not to jostle the bed. Faith didn’t make a sound, so she made her way quietly down the hall.

  Forrie sniffled one big sniffle after another and then let out his breath in a squeaky sigh. “Why did Mort kick Honeybunch?” Jean stopped outside Forrie’s door and listened.

  “He was frightened. I guess Honey wasn’t moving normally. Sometimes it happens with animals that the strong, healthy ones destroy the weak ones.”
/>   “But they were friends.”

  “It’s different with animals, Forrie. They don’t think like we do. There’s something primitive or wild in animals that makes them shun the imperfect ones. They don’t like to have them around. Well, maybe people are a little that way, too, only they try to hide it and animals don’t.”

  “Why didn’t Mort—?” Apparently the word stuck in his throat.

  “I guess he was too dumb to take a drink on a day like today.”

  “I was dumb, too.”

  “No. We all—we’ve just got to be more careful from now on. Actually, dumb old Mort might have been smartest after all.”

  Jean went into the room and sat down on the bed next to Forrest. She reached over and found him slumped, his arms resting on his spread knees, his hands hanging down between. Wearily he hauled himself upright and left the room, giving over Forrie to her.

  She knew Forrie felt the weight of responsibility too heavy for his years. He turned on his side, curving his body around hers, and cried some more. She caressed him gently. “We should remember them for the good times and for the happy horses that they were.”

  “All I can remember is Honeybunch jerking around and crumpling up, and then it was like she exploded or something.”

  “Try not to think about that.”

  “I can’t help it. I’ll probably remember it forever.” Jean felt helpless to try to make him forget a sight so vivid. She knew she’d remember the thud of hooves against belly for a long time herself.

  “Why did they have to die?” he asked. “Why couldn’t they just be sick for a while?”

  “Sometimes we can’t understand everything right at the time, but maybe later we can.”

  She could see Forrie clearly in her mind, a narrow form covered only by a sheet, hurt and confused, with the drawn forehead of an old man who wants to sleep but whose thoughts are too active. He never had a chance to be a kid. He was forced to grow up early, and it made him too serious sometimes. He had to be their leader in public places as soon as he could walk in front of them. Even when he was six, he had to read airline tickets, guide the whole family through airports. She knew things like that were hard on him, especially with Forrest’s too-demanding expectations. Always Forrie shouldered the burden that circumstances laid at his feet. She wished she could lift some of the responsibility he felt, not only for the horses, not only for watching out for the others, but even the responsibility he probably felt for her.

  A half hour later Jean and Forrest sat at opposite edges of the bed in their room. Jean drew in her breath wearily and let it out in one long sigh. She felt Forrest sink down under the covers and draw her to him. She nestled his head under her chin and stroked the back of his neck. She searched for an attitude that wouldn’t hurt so badly. “At least it wasn’t a child.” Her voice was a near whisper. He pressed his face against her, and his arms around her tightened. In a moment she felt his tears trail across her breast.

  The days that followed were difficult. Forrie remained inconsolable. Often, in the middle of play with cousin Lancey at the turkey ranch or with Billy, he’d drift off by himself. Lancey told Jean, “He’s always scowling, like he’s mad at me or like he’s doing arithmetic. He just sits in his fort and scrapes a dumb old stick on the ground.”

  Judy complained, too, about Faith. “She won’t play with me anymore. She just goes up to the cemetery, but if I catch up with her, she turns around and goes home. I watched her there, walking around moping. She won’t even ride none of the headstones. She just sits in front of her favorite grave, the one we put the bow on, but she won’t talk.”

  The solid gloom became impenetrable, mesmerizing the family into heavy melancholy. Jean knew that four woebegone little people dragging around the house would eventually wear on Forrest, but she didn’t know how to combat it.

  Eventually Forrest blurted out, “All you long-faced, sad-eyed, sorry-voiced, sick-hearted, gloomy-Gus little critters are so droopy I don’t know what I’m gonna do or where I’m gonna sleep tonight.”

  His efforts to cheer up the others by being momentarily playful were transparent to her. Better that than anger or more depression. With overzealous attention he tried all his usual methods to get a rise out of the children. While walking with Forrie, he swung his left leg out behind him and across to the right side, trying to get Forrie just behind the knee to make him collapse. He put his fingertip in Faith’s ear, made a noise pretending he’d found wax or dirt, and wiped it on her shoulder. He marched his fingers across the table to Hap and Billy. One night too hot for clothes, he did a little dance down the hallway in his underwear and cowboy boots. It was the first time the children laughed. That encouraged him. He continued into the kitchen by the screen door, kicking his feet and singing a silly song until a knock and a frail voice at the screen door interrupted.

  “Excuse me, but may I use your telephone, please, sir?”

  The children howled, especially Forrie. “You should have seen her. Her eyes bugged out, and then she ran away.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know. Never seen her before.”

  There was bravery in Forrest’s attempts to cheer the children—he would miss the horses no less than the children would. Jean wanted to support him in his efforts to ease the gloom. She had to do something, too, but what? She announced that she’d make their favorite Sunday dinner, roast lamb with mint jelly. “And you can swish all the jelly you want all over it.”

  “Can we have mashed potatoes?”

  “Yes.”

  “And lots of gravy?”

  “Yes.”

  “And corn?”

  “Of course.”

  “And candles?” That was Forrie’s idea of a special event, used only when they had company.

  “Mmm, we’ll see.”

  “Aw, Mom.”

  It hurt her to deny him something that children of other families would have as a matter of course.

  “Okay, you can have candles, if you light them with your father. And we’ll eat in the dining room and learn how to pass things in bowls and we’ll say grace.”

  When the time came, Faith set the table without being asked. “Can we have a tablecloth and real napkins and everything?”

  “Yes. Use the blue one with fringe. And why don’t we have some music going, too.” Without urging, everyone worked to buoy up everyone else.

  Just as Jean was finishing, she asked Forrest to call in the others. When he passed behind her at the sink, he asked, “Where are ya? I want to plant a smooch.” He put his arms around her waist from behind, tickled her below her ribs, squeezed, and then kissed her on the neck, a loud, wet kiss that made her smile. They were one in this effort—the dinner, the cheering. Even in happier times, she had never felt closer. “The dinner smells great,” he said. Then he stepped out the back door by the gravel breezeway to do his characteristic whistle, an eerie sound like a mourning dove that the children could hear as far away as Indian Rock. Forrie came immediately.

  “Pop, Mom said I can light the candles if you help.”

  “Okay. We can do it together.”

  That sounded nice, Jean thought. “Faith, will you take these in to the table?” She motioned to the platter of lamb already sliced, the gravy bowl and mashed potatoes.

  Faith made several trips and then asked, “Where’s the mint jelly?”

  “Look left.”

  Faith picked it up. “It wiggles when I walk.”

  Father and son crouched on the Mexican tile floor just beside the table, Forrie sitting cross-legged.

  “Got the candles?”

  “Yup.”

  Forrest pulled out two wooden utility matches from a box with a sliding cover. “I’m going to strike the match and when it’s lit, you take it and light a candle. I’ll do one match for each candle.”

  With his little finger he felt for the rough grout between tiles, struck the match on it and held it aloft. “D’I get it?”

  “Yup.�
�� Forrie took it from him at the base and lit the candle in front of him on the floor, then blew out the match. “Okay.”

  They did it again. Forrie took hold of both candles at their silver bases at the same time as he uncrossed his legs to stand up and put the candles on the table. He lost his balance and tipped to one side, not noticing a flame touch the fringe on the tablecloth. He centered both candles evenly on the oval table, studying to get them just right. Faith came in with a bowl of corn. “That’s where I was going to put this.”

  “But we have to have the candles even.”

  “Move it, Forrie.”

  “No. Put that somewhere else.”

  “Just move everything closer so there’s room,” Jean said. She heard them adjust the bowls. The candles smelled funny. “Everything okay, Forrie?”

  “Yup.” Then she heard a gasp. “Mom, Pop, the tablecloth’s burning.”

  “Where? How much?” Forrest asked.

  The children could only stammer vague replies.

  “Forrie. Take the candles,” Forrest ordered. “And the bowls. Got ’em?”

  A hesitant “yes” came from both children. Forrest didn’t wait. He grabbed the cloth and whisked it away with a magician’s gesture, only most of the dinner was still on the table. Dishes and lamb and gravy and mint jelly clattered to the floor. Instantly Forrest rolled up the flaming tablecloth, raced through the kitchen, out the utility room door and dropped it on the gravel.

  Four children stood immobile, looking at their special dinner spread in a devastation of broken plates and splashed gravy over the tiles. There was a shocked silence; then all four exploded into tears. “It’s my fault,” Forrie wailed. “Again.” He rushed at Jean and buried his face in her waist.

  After a lengthy cleanup with everyone helping, Jean opened three cans of spaghetti. They sat in the kitchenette, all the gloom descending again. Jean slid in beside Forrest. He reached out to each side for someone’s hand, signal for grace. Jean squeezed his hand but he shifted and pulled back, then offered it again. He must have gotten burned. She touched his hand more gingerly. “Start us off, Billy.”