Round Rock (40 page)

Libby clapped, and Gustave ran free for the first time since the day Red died.

Okay Red, now this. Lewis says, since he’s finished his dissertation, he has to have a big project, one that will keep him going. He’s going to write a novel. A novel for our entertainment. Starring him, he says (big surprise). But we can all have supporting roles (such largesse). I promised I’d read through my journals for the juicy bits. He already wrote the prologue and read it to David and me last night. We laughed at every sentence; it’s all about the Santa Bernita Valley, and the oddballs who live here. He makes some stuff up about people—he made Yolanda into a nun! And you, it includes you, baby. You’re there, you and this crazy drunk farm.

J
OURNAL
in hand, Libby knocked on Lewis’s door. “You can’t believe how good it is to walk again. Even though I’ve metamorphosed into an elephant.”

Lewis wasn’t expecting company. Clothes were clumped everywhere, stacks of papers listed, dust bunnies drifted over the floor. “Sorry it’s such a mess,” he said.

“Looks like a bachelor pad, Lewis. Do you want me to send my housekeeper over?”

“No. Thanks anyway. The inability to take care of myself is one of the few things I have left to attract a woman.”

“Attracting women has never been your problem, Lewis,” Libby said flatly, and pulled out a chair at the dinette. The pile of papers on the chair slid onto the floor. Libby looked on helplessly as Lewis gathered them up. “So,” she said, “is there, uh, one particular woman for whom you’re setting this irresistible bait?”

“No, not really,” he said, straightening the papers. “Sometimes I think about Phyllis.”

“Not the masseuse? Now, she’s a kick in the head,” said Libby. “So funny. But tough.”

“Yeah,” said Lewis. “She fed her ex-husband ant poison.”

“My God! Did he get sick?”

“That’s exactly what I asked. Shit, yeah, he got sick. He ate ant poison, for God’s sake.”

“Well, it sounds like she’d keep you in line. And think of all those free massages.” Libby lowered herself carefully onto the now-empty chair and held up the journal. “I brought this. I wanted to read to you about our wedding.”

“It won’t upset you?”

“I’ll probably cry, if that’s what you mean. But I
do
want to read it to you.” She opened the journal, smoothed the pages. Her face had taken on a healthy pinkness. “It doesn’t make you uncomfortable, hearing about Red and me?”

“Oh, maybe a little,” said Lewis. “But I
do
want to hear it.”

She smiled. “Okay, then. I should say that originally, we were going to be married in Bakersfield by George, who used to be the chaplain here. Then we’d go on up to the cabin in the Sierras we’d rented for our honeymoon. It was supposed to be no big deal. But Billie
wanted to be at the wedding, so Red arranged for George to meet us at the park in Fort Tejon. All to pacify Billie. Although I liked the idea of being married outside in the middle of winter. Okay. That’s the intro.”

Libby lifted the journal and began to read.

“The fourteenth, Valentine’s Day, was a beautiful, clear winter day. Glassy white sun. In the seventies in the Santa Bernita, although freezing in the shade. Billie and the Bills pick me up five minutes early. She has a garment bag for our jackets.

“The Bills, that unusual trinity, carry me to my future in the great white truck.”
Libby paused. “Also Billie’s idea. That we’d meet Red there, so the bridegroom wouldn’t see the bride.”

“Right, that traditional thing.”

“Billie has selected Handel and Debussy to accompany us. The cottonwoods along the river, bare but for their high tufts of flame-yellow leaves, light our way. Old Bill dozes. Little Bill snaps pictures. We find the park—it’s right off the highway. Red and George are waiting in the parking lot. Red is in gray slacks, elegant salmon-colored shirt, no tie, jacket slung over his back. (Why are men never cold?) The expression on his face could only be described as comic dread.

“I assume that he’s stewing in hideous second thoughts. What’s up? I ask.

“He says, Oh, nothing really, although I don’t know what it portends for married life: It seems we’ve stumbled into the Civil War.

“And it’s true, as we walk up into the park, there are hundreds of people in Civil War dress milling around. Bluecoats and graycoats, and women in long cotton skirts and shawls, lots of cleavage. The softball diamonds are a battlefield. Regiments assemble in straggly phalanxes. Men carry muskets. The smell of cordite hangs in the air. Sporadic, heart-seizing Rebel yells erupt. Concession stands and vendors sell black powder, medals, bedrolls.

“Red says, I’ve always sort of admired Stonewall Jackson.

“Billie says, I told you we should’ve had this wedding in my courtyard.

“We find a semi-quiet space on the far side of a large, covered pergola. George says, This won’t take long.

“Billie and I go to the bathroom, a stone building with hosed-down concrete floors, rust-stained sinks. It’s full of war wives.
Women dressed like ancestors. I feel self-conscious pulling on the crisp ivory jacket to my suit. Billie pins a corsage to my lapel and tells all the women, She’s tying the knot. The women cluster. I hear Oklahoma twangs.

“Gettin’ married in pants? That takes nerve! says one woman—admiringly, I think.

“Billie looks terrific in a gray Armani suit and pearls.

“I take a deep breath.

“Billie tells me to join the men while she hauls our discarded sweaters to the car. I walk over, heels poking into the grass, and stand awkwardly, squeezing—no, wringing—Red’s hand. I’m afraid to sit on the picnic benches in these glowing, tusk-colored clothes.

“Red has wet and combed his hair, his face has a naked look. Big eyes. Little Bill’s snapping a lot of pictures. Billie takes her time. I spot her talking to two women who scuttle off like plump partridges. Oh god, I mutter. She’s up to something.

“We move into the small grassy space enclosed by a fence covered in dark green honeysuckle; it’s quieter. George positions himself in the corner. Red and I stand together, facing him. Old Bill is next to Red, Billie next to me. Little Bill is our diligent chronicler. Some of the women from the bathroom watch from a respectful distance. I shiver, though the sun is strong. Guns pop. Trucks lumber and downshift on the highway. George starts talking. It is a reasonable ceremony—I can’t recall a word of it. We manage the vows although one prolonged Rebel yell during Red’s recitation makes me giggle and briefly I’m afraid I’ll never stop.

“It’s done, we kiss.

“And shots explode, ring out, so close and loud, I’m sure we’re already dead. Red and I leap apart. Behind us, a dozen laughing men, blue and gray, raise their smoking muskets.”

Libby closed the book, wiped at her cheeks.

Lewis handed her a paper towel. She blew her nose loudly. “Thanks for listening, Lewis,” she said. “I really wanted you to hear this.”

L
ITTLE
B
ILL
came bearing gifts. He brought his own copy of
Goodnight, Moon,
a clever wooden rattle, and a tiny Stanford T-shirt sent from Joe.

“So you know about my dad and all,” Little Bill said.

“Yes,” said Libby. “And I’m sorry. Having parents shouldn’t be so difficult.”

Little Bill shrugged. They smiled awkwardly at each other. “Mom just closed on a house in Bel Air.”

In a recent conversation, Joe had told her that Billie was househunting, but this information caused in Libby a general physical loosening, as if all her muscles had gone flat. So. Now she knew.

“I hope she finds what she wants,” Libby said. “And what will become of the house here, and the ranch?”

Little Bill shrugged. “Rogelio will run the groves. Some producer wants to lease the house. If that doesn’t work out, she might sell.”

“How do you feel about that?”

“I don’t know. I don’t want to live here. Maybe later, but not now.”

Libby could hear David’s timing in Little Bill’s careful way with words, and see the same inimitable sweetness in the boy’s eyes and face.

“And Old Bill—what’s he going to do?”

“Grandpa’s moving into Uncle John’s,” Little Bill said. “He lives only two blocks from Mom’s new place.”

“Well, that makes sense,” said Libby, “the family close together like that. It’s still hard to imagine your mother living anywhere but here.”

Little Bill smiled his kind smile. “I keep telling her she’ll be miserable not walking her irrigation lines every night. She says no,
that
was misery, and she’d much rather walk the aisles at Barneys. Who knows, maybe she’ll marry a movie star.”

“Think you’ll ever tell her that you see your dad?”

“I want to. I told my uncle John when I went to work for him. He was pretty cool about it. He thinks we should tell her, but only after she moves, so he can keep an eye on her. Actually …” Little Bill frowned. “Uncle John says we should check her into a hospital and then tell her, in case she flips. But I think,
Right,
and how do we get her into the hospital?”

“You might feel relieved when everything’s out in the open.”

“Maybe,” he said. “Maybe not.”

Billie must have done many things right with this boy, Libby thought, for him to end up so measured and quiet and wise.

“I’ll miss you,” she said.

“Oh, I’ll be up all the time to see my dad. At least that will be easier. Next week, and Joe’s coming along. He says …” Little Bill paused, suddenly embarrassed.

“He says … ?” Libby prompted.

“He says maybe his new sister will be here by then.”

“Tell him I’m working on it.”

25
October 1:22 a.m. Dearest Red. Labor woke me up. I haven’t called anybody. Nothing severe so far, only the sensation of large hands tightening around my back, almost an embrace—I like to think that it’s you. I’m not scared yet. I’m going to take a bath.

2:39.
My skin’s all pruney, but somehow, warm water felt exactly right. Also, the shower jet on my back was great. Big movement afoot. I’m not uncomfortable yet. Except that I miss you so much. I’m writing this by candlelight. Cat on the chair next to me.

Twelve minutes apart. It’s exciting and strange, and there’s a little pain creeping in. It comes almost after the contraction, almost an accompaniment to the thought, oh, that one’s over. A twinge, a little kiss of things to come, each one a little tighter than the last.

In a way it almost seems polite, this pain. I’ll give you a little glimpse of me, it seems to say. Let you get used to me bit by bit.

There’s a great urge to call somebody, and I’m going to yield to it in a minute. Oh, I wish it was you, Red. I won’t say it again. But I want to state it clearly, before I start this work. I wish you were here. I hate that you’re not. I want to register this complaint, just
once, just here. I have your friends, your trusted servants, but they’re not you.

I do see you moving through them.

Baby, if I don’t write to you for a long time, you’ll know why.

L
EWIS
was deep in a dream of an old section of Los Angeles, where he was driven over a bridge lit with acorn-shaped street lamps and into a realm where nomads’ fires burned across a plain. Something called his name, the syllables squawky, swaddled in static.

“Huh … what?” Speaking, he woke himself up.

“It’s started.” Libby’s voice came from the monitor.

Lewis took in her words with a breath. Then they hit. “Jesus Christ!” he cried, and was out of bed, feet in pants, in one fluid movement. Then, his fingers were so uncooperative that he had to dial David’s number twice. “Libby’s in labor.”

“I’ll be right there.”

The three of them took the Mercedes, Lewis driving.

“It doesn’t really hurt yet,” Libby would say, then make the most scrunched-up face.

“Long, smooth breaths, Lib,” David said. “Don’t forget.”

The moon had set and trees, houses, hills, even the skies were silvery. Gloria, wrapped in a blue shawl, was waiting for them in front of her house. Rafael, small, spry, and white-haired, waved from the porch. A rooster crowed.

They arrived at Buchanan General at four-fifteen a.m. Since the hospital wasn’t officially open, they had to use the emergency entrance. Lewis carried Libby’s overnight bag and stood to one side with Gloria while David and Libby negotiated at the desk. She was preregistered, but they still wanted to check her in and put her in a wheelchair. The wheelchair took forever to arrive, so Libby and David practiced breathing. “I’ll have this girl in the lobby if they don’t hurry up,” Libby said. When the wheelchair finally came, they loaded her bag and coat into it and Libby herself pushed it down the hall, into the elevator, and out into obstetrics on the fourth floor.

The birthing room was painted a rose-tinted peach, with not-too-ugly watercolors of flowers and a baby’s building blocks. There was a rocking chair, a bed, a little cabinet to stash things in.

Libby didn’t want to sit or lie down. She wanted to hike, climb stairs. “I need to move,” she said. “If I keep going, it’s like I can stay one step ahead of the pain. Or maybe I’ll be like that lady in Louisiana who gave birth standing in a bank line. They had to cut open her slacks because the baby was stuck in a pant leg.” Libby laughed and then gasped. David held up a finger to represent a candle, and Libby blew out air as if to extinguish it. “I don’t think this cervix is so fucking incompetent,” she said when the pain receded. “It’s feeling pretty damn competent to me.”

She did have one terrible moment, when she just stood in the hall and wept, head in hands, tears streaming down her arms. She didn’t say anything, but you didn’t need a Ph.D. to guess what she was crying about.

She roamed up and down the halls in Red’s enormous white terrycloth robe. Barbara showed up around six with big hugs all around. She and David and Gloria and Lewis took turns walking Libby up to the sixth floor, down to the lobby and back. Whenever Libby had a contraction, Lewis felt embarrassed by his inadequacy. “Breathe,” he’d say helplessly.