The Dead Don't Dance (23 page)
Amanda again.
Nothing gets past her. How does a girl, almost nine months pregnant, working the night shift, with ankles swollen to the size of grapefruits, do all this? I don't get it.
I sat next to Maggs for an hour or so and brought her up to date. I told her the latest about Bryce, the farm, and class, and as I did, her breathing sped up. Her lips tightened and then relaxed. It wasn't labored or fretful breathing, but excited breathing. I told her, “Semester's almost over, and DJC hasn't fired me yet. Some of my students are starting to write pretty well.” I looked out the door toward the nurses' station. “Amanda has come a long way, and this other girl, Koy, has a real gift. A born writer. My football players? Well, they're just like me when I took that class.”
Her breathing skipped, the right corner of her mouth quivered, and her right index finger pointed and then relaxed. Blue laid his head across her leg, and I continued holding her right hand with my left.
“They turned in their term papers almost two weeks ago, so we'll be busy this week. I gave them a few days off to work on their last assignment. Some of them deserve it. Others, well . . . ”
Maggs and I sat in the quiet, and I watched her chest rise and fall with every breath. Her breathing was quiet, but deep, and her nostrils flared with each rise of her chest. She has a beautiful nose. I patted her stomach, which, the doctors say, has healed, and rolled my chair down to the end of the bed to put cream on her feet. Her nails were immaculate. I rubbed her feet, slipped her socks back on, and slid my hand beneath hers. Her right index finger flexed again, and this time it didn't relax. I sat a few minutes watching her finger. Her breathing sped up, and her forehead wrinkled. After a few minutes, her finger went limp and breathing slowed. I looked at her face, and the wrinkle had half disappeared.
I'm a shower person myself, but not Maggs. She has a thing about baths. If we could afford the hot water, she would soak for hours, draining and refilling the tub several times. Maybe it's a woman thing. I went into the bathroom off Maggs's room, shut the door, ran some warm water into the sink, and soaked a washrag until it was just north of lukewarm. Then, careful not to disturb her IV, catheter, or the plethora of electronic nodes, I bathed Maggie. I don't know if that's right or wrong; maybe I just wanted to see and touch my wife. Whatever it was, I know that if the roles were reversed, I'd want her to do the same for me. I'd want my wife's hands on me. I'd want to know she was there, thinking about me, and her hands could tell me that better than anything else she might do.
Every afternoon the physical therapy team, made up of two nurses who look as though they ought to be teaching an aerobics class, spends thirty minutes flexing and stretching Maggs's limbs. Sort of like an involuntary yoga class. Their purpose, while good, is to slow the inevitable atrophying of Maggs's muscles.
My purpose was a bit different. I just wanted her to feel my touch and know I was right there, holding her. “Maggs,” I whispered, leaning my nose against her ear, “you can wake up anytime you want. Even if I'm not here. You can wake up anytime.”
I toweled her dry and kissed her forehead on the wrinkle, and her finger flexed around mine again, like a promise. I stroked her hand, her finger relaxed, and Blue and I tiptoed out the door.
I
SPENT THE AFTERNOON WORKING ON THE TRACTOR,
which really needed Bryce's Liquid-Plumr. Not to start it, but to set it on fire. Late in the afternoon, the mailman came and left me a nice present in the form of the property tax bill.
Sundown arrived and found me idling back from the river on the tractor, pulling a trailer full of wood. I had cut a load, not because Jim Biggins had failed to provide his yearly supply, but because the weatherman said we would need all we could find. I stacked it outside, showered, and the moon reminded me of Bryce, so I grabbed my coat and headed out.
Blue and I slipped over and under the fence and found Bryce sitting in a beach chair, watching
Rio Lobo
and surrounded by empty beer cans.
“Hey, Doc. Have a seat.” He threw a can of Old Milwaukee at me.
I chuckled. Why in the world a man that rich would buy beer that cheap just killed me.
Bryce stood, stumbled a little, grabbed a rusty beach chair, spread it for me, set it next to his, and then threw me another beer. I had yet to sip the first one.
It was early in the movie, and the Duke was buying a drink for two Confederate soldiers just released from a Union prison. Bryce held his beer high, garbled something inaudible, ended it with, “ . . . John!” and chugged whatever was left in the can. He tossed it behind him, popped another top amid foamy spray, and then sat back comfortably.
It was cold, probably thirty-eight degrees, and Bryce had not changed clothes since I left. Or added any, for that matter. From the looks of things, he was working on his second twelve-pack and doing a good job of it too.
The movie reeled on. The Duke made it to Blackthorn, had a barroom brawl, picked up a girl who fainted. After some classic-John conversation, which was short on verbiage and long on body language, the Duke, a French-Mexican called Frenchy, and the girl headed out after the bad guys to Rio Lobo. Along the way, they stopped at an Indian burial ground where they cooked dinner, drank what was left of their Apache herb tonic, and called it a night.
Bryce was right there with them. When it came time to switch the reels, he was in no shape to do it, so I climbed the steps, switched the reels, fed the tape, and sat back down in my chair.
Bryce was out cold. Both literally and figuratively. It would take more muscle than mine to haul him to his bed, so I grabbed a few blankets from the trailer, covered him like a cocoon, and sat back in my chair with my third beer. The temperature had dropped some more.
The movie ended, and the methodical whacking and slapping of the end of the tape in the projector room woke me. I climbed the stairs, cut the machines off, and considered heading to my truck, but instead sat back down in my chair and found the moon. It was moving around in some pretty wide circles but finally stood still when I put one foot on the ground. The night was clear, my breath showed like cigarette smoke, and Blue was curled up next to me to get warm. Surprisingly, Bryce was a quiet sleeper. You'd think a guy like that would snore like a jet engine, but he was quiet as a mouse and sleeping comfortably. Another lesson from Vietnam, I suppose.
“Blue?”
Blue's ears perked up. I scratched his head and neck, and he dug his front paws under my leg.
“What do you think about all this business?”
Blue raised his head, looked at me, then laid his head on my thigh and took a deep breath, putting one leg on top of my thigh as if to hold me down.
“I'm not going anywhere.”
He dug his paw back under my leg and nestled his nose in between his front legs.
D
ECEMBER 23.
O
UR ANNIVERSARY.
T
HAT SEEMED LIKE
another life and two other people. I had split a lot of firewood to buy that diamond for Maggs.
I've never met Maggs's mom, because her parents divorced when she was eight and Maggs hadn't talked to her since she was twelve. Her dad was a hard nut to crack. Loved Maggs, and me, too, I suppose, but he always looked askance at me. I don't think he ever figured me out.
When I went to see him and ask his permission, he sat across from me at his desk in a white shirt and power-red tie and said, “Yes, D.S., you may marry her. Absolutely. But I worry about you guys. It's a tough world out there, and you've never really decided on a career. How will you provide for her? Sometimes . . .” He paused. “I wonder if you have the fire in your belly.” Two years later he died.
With the money I saved splitting wood, I bought a diamond, then found an old platinum setting at an estate sale a few weeks later. I had a jeweler put the two together and put it in a little box.
On a late summer night, Maggs and I walked down to the river under the moon. It was hot, but I was cold, and she could tell I was a little tongue-tied. We made small talk, but I was useless. Finally, on the way back through the cornfield, my palms were sweating so badly that I had to do something. I didn't know how to start. Mr. Stupid. I reached in my pocket, grabbed her hand, tried to say something and couldn't. So I just knelt down. Right there in the middle of the cornfield.
She giggled. I opened the box, and she lit up like ten thousand fireflies.
“Dylan Styles!” she screamed. “Where did you get this? Did you pick this out by yourself? What have you been doing?”
I gently took her hand again, as if I could calm her down.
Tears filled her eyes and she nodded. “Yes.”
I slipped the ring on her finger, and to my knowledge, the only time it ever came off was on our wedding day. And that was just so I could put it back on her.
We walked back down to the river and sat on the bank, talking about life. Where to live. How many kids we'd have. Their names. What kind of flowers she'd plant in the yard. That was one of the happiest nights of my life. The next morning, as the sun came up over the river, we were still sitting on the bank, talking.
Finally we walked back through the field and called Amos. He said, “Well, it took you long enough.”
We married six months later. That was nine years ago today.
M
AGGIE WAS SLEEPING WHEN
I
WALKED IN
. B
LUE NUDGED
her hand and then took his place at the foot of the bed. I wheeled the chair around to the right side of the bed, on Maggie's left. I sat and held her ring hand in my hand. It was the first time I had sat on that side of the bed since the delivery. I don't know why. Never gave it much thought. Just habit, I guess.
I gently slid my hand under hers and began rubbing her hand. Maggie's long, beautiful, slender wrist didn't look right wrapped in a hospital tag. I opened my pocketknife, Papa's yellow-handled Case, and cut the tag off. I stroked her fingers and turned her wedding ring in circles around her finger as we sat in the silence. Turning it, I noticed something wasn't right. The diamond didn't sparkle. I angled it to get it under the light, and still no glisten. It was as though the diamond had gone dead. Looking closely, I saw that a red film covered the top and sides of the diamond. Maybe the back, too.
I slid her wedding ring off her finger and ran it under some hot soapy water. As I washed it, little flakes of blood caked off and splattered the sink below. I grabbed Maggs's toothbrush from the drawer beside her bed, loaded it with toothpaste, and went to work. Then I rinsed the ring under water that was so hot it was painful. Having scrubbed and rinsed, I dried it off. There was no need to hold it under the light now. I sat down next to Maggs, gently held her hand, and slipped it on her finger.
“Maggs.” I gently placed my finger on the wrinkle in her forehead. “Maggie.” The wrinkle disappeared. “I know you've got a lot going on in there, but I need you to listen for a minute. I need you to wake up. Let's go home. You and me. Let's get up and walk out of this place. Whatever happened is over.” I paused.
“It's lonely at home. See . . .” I rolled up my sleeve, tore off the bandage, and placed her hand on my arm. Her fingers rested on the scab and scar of my left forearm. The wrinkle returned. “Honey, I need you . . . I need us.”
I laid my head next to her hand, kissed her finger, and closed my eyes. “Baby, I can't get to where you are. So you're going to have to get to me.”
C
HRISTMAS
E
VE DAY WAS COLD AND OVERCAST
and looked like snow. It was probably just one or two degrees below thirty, but who was counting? I think the wind chill was a good bit lower.
Maggie loves Christmas. Our house always showed it too: wreaths, candles, stockings, the smell of evergreen. And she never let us get away with a fake tree. Last year we put so many strands of lights on the tree that when it came time to undecorate it, we couldn't. We ended up taking off all the ornaments, leaving seventeen strands of lights on a six-foot tree, and hauling the whole thing out to the hard road for pickup. A thirty-four-dollar tree and fifty-four dollars' worth of lights. Maggie saw it no other way.
“You can't have a tree if you're not going to put lights on it.”
“Yes,” I said, “but honey, we don't have a Christmas tree. We've got a fire hazard at the cost of about five dollars a night. Between now and the time we take it down is about $150.”
She laughed, batted her eyelashes, and said, “I know it, but it's Christmas.”
The “but it's Christmas” statement really cost us. And shopping? I swear, if the Taj Mahal were on sale and Maggie knew of someone who really wanted it, she'd figure a way to get it. I can hear her now, “But it was only $90 million. That's half off!”
Our house was always neat, but I did my best to dirty it up. I'd leave underwear on the floor, the toilet seat up, the toothpaste cap off, books right where I left them, shoes where I took them off, pantry door open. Not Maggie. We'd cook dinner, and she'd have all the dishes cleaned and put up before we ate. The kitchen looked as if we were never there. Sometimes at night, I'd get out of the bed to go to the bathroom, and I'd be gone maybe thirty seconds. When I got back, the bed would be made up.
Papa and Nanny's house isn't much. Take away my romantic descriptions, and it's basically an old farmhouse with creaky floors, a built-in draft, bowed ceilings, a rusted roof, and forty layers of cracked and peeling paint. But that didn't stop Maggie.
Our front lawn looked like Martha Stewart stopped by on her way south. Plants everywhere. Colors? Honey, we got colors. And smells? If you get downwind, you almost can't smell Pinky. Maggie's thumb is so green you can take dead branches, give her half a cup of water, some mystery juice that she cooks up out in the barn, three days, and whammo! Blooms. I have seen that woman take dead fern, I'm talking crunchy-in-your-hand dead, and in a week's time it needs splitting and transplanting.