Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian

Why Sarah Ran Away with the Veterinarian

Liz Newall

New York

This book is dedicated to

Anna Dean and Curtis Pennington

for life and love

PART I

ANNIVERSARY

DONNA

This is the anniversary of what Daddy calls the most shameful day in the Crawford family history—the day my sister ran off with a veterinarian. Andrew says “recent” history. He's my husband. Not a Crawford by birth and not always sympathetic to Daddy's sense of pride. Andrew's from Massachusetts.

Getting back to Sarah, my sister, I think it had something to do with her reading
Lonesome Dove
. This is why. Sarah's vet was a horse specialist. In
Lonesome Dove
there were herds and herds of horses and rugged men, too, the kind that sleep in their boots and nothing else. It may have put her in the cowboy mood.

I say so too. Right at the Sunday dinner table. I expect Mama and Aunt Kate to agree. They both read the book. But they don't say anything. Nobody does. Daddy just keeps scraping across Mama's good china with his knife. Mama always uses her good china on Sunday. Daddy keeps scraping and scraping with that knife until finally Aunt Kate speaks up, “Bad Creek's playing down at the Wayfarer again. Heard them last night.”

Then Mama lifts the rice bowl. “Rice is a little sticky today,” she says, handing it to Daddy. But Daddy doesn't take it. He just sits there looking in his plate. Then he lays his knife down real slow and says, “A book don't make a woman just up and leave her husband! Or the rest of her family! Sarah read all the time growing up and she never did anything crazy before!”

Mama sets down the rice bowl and cuts her eyes at Daddy.

“Not that crazy,” he says, a little lower. Then he takes the bowl and spoons out a wad of rice. Mama goes for more rolls and the rest of us let Sarah's anniversary rest in peace, at least at the dinner table.

But Andrew and I talk about it at home. He says maybe it was more “lonesome” than “dove,” not that he's faulting Jack. None of us are. Jack's her husband. In twenty years of marriage he never did anything bad to Sarah, that we know of. Maybe her birthday had something to do with it. Andrew says turning forty is hard on a woman like Sarah, especially with no children. She's loved my two girls like her own but I don't guess it's the same.

I miss Sarah more than I'd miss Andrew, I think. I lived with her longer. Not that I'd run off and leave my husband, you understand. But since she's been gone I've had to do things by myself, things we used to do together. Like driving. Sarah always drove when we went anywhere together. Now I have to drive that old Honda. And I hate changing gears. Time you're in one, you have to get in another one. Then you come to a stop sign and you have to start all over. I've had to shop alone, which I hate to do, pick out Mama and Daddy's birthday gifts by myself, cook for Sunday dinner twice as often. And I haven't had anybody to really talk to, not about sister stuff—like what was happening on our programs and things about people we grew up with and how Mama and Daddy were getting along.

Andrew says I should get a job. To be honest, sometimes he gives more advice than I want. Not that I mind working. But he expects me to go to the library, dig through a bunch of heavy books, and do all this research on jobs of the future. He says, “Donna, you've got to become acquainted with the market.” It's not like I'm planning a career. I already have one—taking care of him and the girls. I told him the only thing I wanted to get acquainted with is a new face now and then and a little mad money. He can't understand that. Sarah would.

Maybe I just need a make-over instead of a job, the kind you see in magazines, a little picture of what some woman really looks like and a big picture of the way she looks after a man with a pigtail or some other expert spends a few hours on her. When I have time, I flip through the new magazines at Bi-Lo looking for make-overs. Bi-Lo is a grocery story, pronounced “buy-low.” The first time Andrew saw it he thought it was “be-low” which made me laugh, but then he's not from around here. But getting back to the makeovers, they always amaze me. I see the “before” and think, poor thing, she'd stop a clock. Then I see the “after” and quit feeling sorry for her real fast.

My favorite part is looking at “before” and figuring what I'd do if I were the expert. Like on this redhead with freckles and pale blue eyes. I would have told her, “Leave your hair straight, trimmed a little but not ‘chemically altered,' add some eyeliner, and SMILE.” That's one thing I learned from being Local Little Miss Sunbeam, that and how to tear bread so it splits right down the middle. It's harder than it looks. You've got to pinch the crust just right and tear fast. But as for the redhead, those New York experts permed her right up to her scalp, gave her “blond highlights” they called it, lined her lips, and turned her eyes green. I missed completely, except for the smile. She was smiling—that's half the make-over.

The “befores” usually look like they just had a tooth filled and the “afters” like they're headed for a date with Harrison Ford or some other hunk. Maybe the experts tell them something like, “Put on this yellow shirt and think of mud.” “Now, put on this royal blue cashmere sweater and look like you think all this is free.”

Still a make-over might be just what I need. Sarah never cared much about makeup, but I bet she'd tell me, “Go for it, Nonna!” She always called me “Nonna.” Mama said she couldn't quite get the “D” right in Donna when she was little, but I think she called me Nonna to be different. God, I miss her.

Sarah's written a few times on motel stationery, a Travel Lodge in Raleigh, then a Howard Johnson's in Tennessee. Now her letters are postmarked Texas but they're still on motel stationery. Guess she stocked up while they were on the move. Don't know what they did with the horse. The letters don't really say much. Just that she's okay and something about the countryside, like dust storms in Lubbock are orange fog, and if you see a big tree in Amarillo, there's always a house underneath it. And there's more windmills out West than back home.

Jack still thinks she was kidnapped. I told him about the letters. He read a few but just flipped them back at me and said, “They don't prove a thing since she doesn't say anything about me. Maybe they're forged!”

“Maybe you don't know her all that well,” I told him.

“I've lived with her longer than you have, Donna Jean!” He and Daddy are the only two in the family who call me Donna Jean and believe me they don't say it the same way. He turned his back on me after that, so I left.

I haven't talked to him since then. He doesn't eat Sunday dinner with the rest of us now. I hadn't even heard his name mentioned the last few months until I stopped at the Dixie store a week ago Friday. I go there for the chicken specials and ice cream. They have German chocolate crunch, low fat. Anyway, I talked to Joanne McJunkin who runs a cash register out there. She brought his name up.

Joanne said, “Donna, tell me about that brother-in-law of yours.”

“I don't see him enough to tell one thing or the other.”

Joanne rolled her eyes and lowered her voice. “I see him every week or so.”

“What's he buy?” I asked, but I was watching her real close to make sure she didn't run my chicken across that little beeper twice. She's been known.

“Beer,” Joanne said, “sometimes breakfast stuff and dog food, Jim Dandy I think, but always beer. He looks real bad, Donna, like he's had the flu or something.” Joanne straightened her name tag which she always wears on the end of her left boob. “I speak to him, you know, try to cheer him up.” She cleared her throat. “Is Sarah coming back any time soon?”

I didn't answer.

Then she said almost defiant-like, “A man like Jack needs a woman to look after him.”

I shot right back, “He's got one. Now give me a freezer bag for that ice cream.”

That's Joanne for you. A female vulture waiting to swoop down on what's not protected. She'd probably act the same way about my Andrew if I was to go on vacation too long without him. Of course, I never have. But if I did, there'd be ole Joanne in a tight red sweater and Ambush perfume hovering over Andrew to see what she could “do” for him. I wouldn't have anything to do with her except she's Aunt Lonita's second cousin. But she might be right about Jack. He prides himself on knowing things, being in control, and it breaks him up when he misses. Like with Sarah. Not knowing her like he thought he did. It probably did give him the flu.

But, growing up, you do things you might not tell your husband later. “Personality clues,” Andrew calls them. Games for instance. Like when Sarah and I used to play stretch with Mama's ice pick. Sarah made it up. What you do is fling the ice pick so that it sticks in the ground. Then you keep one foot where you are and stretch the other one to the ice pick. The winner is the one who stretches the farthest without falling. I was always careful. I'd drop the ice pick where I knew I could reach it. But Sarah would flip it out so far she'd have to do a split to get there. She usually won except one morning when the grass was wet. She had me beat but when she pulled up the ice pick, she slipped sideways and slammed it right into her thigh. I can still see it—the handle looked glued to her skin. She turned white and blank. Then she told me quietlike, “Pull it out, Nonna. Pull it out.” I couldn't. I wanted to but I just couldn't.

I ran for Mama and she came out screaming, “ICE PICK!” like it was the single most horrible object in the human existence. By then Sarah had jerked it out and was lying back on the grass, one narrow stream of blood easing across her thigh. Mama sent me inside for iodine and a towel. She wiped off the blood and poured the whole bottle on that tiny red circle. Mama took Sarah to Dr. Sams and got a tetanus shot. Sarah's arm swelled up, her leg stayed browny-orange for about a week, and a wide circle rose up around the ice-pick hole. Dr. Sams said that's because the pick went in so far. Mama stayed mad about as long as the iodine stain lasted. Looking back, I guess she was worried but it seemed more like something else was bothering her. I can still hear her wailing “ICE PICK!”

I never heard her use that tone of voice but one other time and that was with Sarah too. This time it was “RODEO!” It was the summer after Sarah graduated from high school. She was working at the Dixie store when the Southern Circuit Rodeo came to town. It was a first-rate rodeo, not the amateur kind the fire department used to put on once a year with donkey ball and cow plops. It lasted three days but the riders came in a few days early to settle in. Most of them made a trip to the Dixie store and stocked up for the week. But this one rodeo rider, he kept coming back and coming back, two or three times a day. And he always went through Sarah's checkout line.

All she could talk about was Johnny. I can hear her like it was yesterday. She said, “Nonna, he looks just like Little Joe.” And after that we'd go around the house humming the theme to “Bonanza.”

We went to all three nights of the rodeo. Sarah and I sat off by ourselves as close to the arena railing as we could and rated the cowboys. Three points for good riding, three for good-looking, and a bonus point if we liked their boots and minus a point if we saw them spit.

“Look at that one!” Sarah said, pointing at a cowboy balancing on the arena fence. He had on a red shirt, black hat, and tight, tight jeans.

“I can't see his face for his hat.”

“I can,” Sarah said, wiggling the whole bench.

“He's got a mustache,” I whispered, caught up in Sarah's wiggle.

“I wonder,” Sarah said, running her fingers across her lips, “if it tickles when he kisses.”