All Hallows Page 12

  Oblong shadows were thrown by the occasional hardwood or fruiting tree, none of them towering. Desert sycamore, beaver hackberry, stone pine—none of these were, technically, indigenous species—but, as they were suitable to the soil and climate, they had been installed to provide a conservatory, shading ground installations and the occasional human visitor.

  The largest trees were dull, stalwart cottonwoods that had been worked-around by the earthmovers. These provided privacy on the street side and shaded much of the outer walking path, an oval track made of compressed cinder.

  The bench went with the gazebo, but a bigtooth sapling completed the picture, its foliage casting a cloud of birds onto the ground. It offered scant cover to those on the bench—yet the bigtooth rustled and the shadow-birds danced, and the young tree supplied more relief than the gazebo, which offered none.

  Abby had a fever. That’s why the sun was so warm.

  It made sense of the yellow gunk in her eyes, which she had attributed to a year’s worth of allergies resurrected by the crisp, ground-whipping winds of late autumn—decaying leaves and old pollen going airborne in a last hurrah.

  Pink eye, red eye… whatever it was, the tiny, squishy cubes of yellow fit a fever. Running a temperature helped dismiss some of her more horrible thoughts, too.

  Abby burped softly in the back of her throat, swallowing… ick. Sour stomach, Tina called it. Nell gave the ailment a name no more specific than “and all that”—an umbrella term that included pecan-sized bladders.

  It had been a while. Her sour stomach’s return was… stress, maybe? A bout of the blues? A case of the sleepies? Whatever went with a fever?

  The taste wanted her to believe she’d swallowed a bat wing dipped in marinara; limp lettuce dabbed with cilantro and cat litter. A flaky baklava dunked in battery acid. A mouthful of boba.

  It was none of those things: it was just sour stomach (and all that). A blessing in disguise, her girlfriends would say. Who needed to diet when you had a daily purge on your side?

  Her pal Nell still looked like a bloated cow—so said Nell. It would not surprise Abby to see bloated cows walking the fashion runways of Paris. And Tina, why, Tina had such a nasty jelly-belly, she’d begun socking-away for plastic surgery long before her last push. Tina had a couple of grand to go. After that, it was bye-bye, jelly-belly and hello, boob job.

  Abby couldn’t imagine having work done. She was grateful that John thought implants and tuck-work were unattractive. He said it was the height of insecurity, the ultimate in vanity, and a hell of a lot of money to throw at a watery softball lodged under the pectoral muscle. Each one cost thousands.

  John had said he’d rather start a college fund for Kenna than see Abby get subcutaneous bazookas. If he wanted stripper titties, he wouldn’t have married a nice girl like Abby. He’d kissed the top of her head when he’d said that; smelling her hair, tickling the nape of her neck in the way that drove her crazy.

  Nell and Tina could say what they wanted about how all men lied, but John had been serious. Abby was sure. He had been at the time, anyway.

  It wasn’t like he was seeing much of anything in the Stan. It was dangerous to look at the women wrapped in curtains, and you wouldn’t want to if you could.

  Abby suspected the military was not quite so pure as that—there would be pin-ups or calendars or a dirty screensaver in a command tent. Private quarters would be worse.

  If she wanted to doubt him, she could.

  Her girlfriends said it was best to assume the worst. Men were dirty dogs, and nobody wanted to be a sucker. Nell knew damn well her husband had flings on the road—she’d had a couple herself, just to keep things fair.

  Abby adjusted the disgusting red rag that Kenna refused to go without—no argument, no compromise, the end. Kenna would throw a hissy fit if the red rag left her sight. Abby had to steal the nasty thing, wash it in the sink, and have it dried and ready to go whenever Kenna woke.

  Leave it to John to bring his daughter a grimy cloth for her blankie: it was stained, redolent of petrochemicals, and probably flammable. Leave it to John to keep working on his first car—the one he’d wanted to give to Samuel someday. Leave it to John to teach their daughter to pull the disgusting red rag from his pocket like a noxious weed; to put it back, to let Kenna pull it again and again, exuberant, associating the rag with her father, a man of green coolant and carb cleaner; of red brake fluid and black oil.

  Leave it to John to leave.

  Kenna sputtered and blew a raspberry of warning as Abby took the rag by the corners to fold it. The strings of panic pulled again, and Abby decided she could do worse than to try a conversation—anything to distract herself from her thoughts, the sloth in her limbs; from the voice.

  9

  “Maren, was it?”

  “It was. You are Abby, if this is a test of my faculties.”

  “Oh, no, I was just—”

  “—I’m joshing you,” Maren said. “It’s too nice a day to be serious.”

  “Yes, it’s… it’s nice here. So warm.”

  “That’s the fever talking,” Maren said, her words surprising Abby into silence. The older woman unzipped her stamped leather purse, its durability and shape suggesting a disco-era bowling ball transport.

  Maren rummaged slowly, not looking, her tongue jutting through bloodless lips.

  “Heck and bother,” she said, set her jaw, closed her eyes, and ceased an active search.

  “Lose something?” Abby asked.

  “Not lost. Absconded.”

  “Oh.”

  “I call by the salt sweat of sailing men; I call for false tears shed by sirens,” Maren intoned. Noticing Abby’s look, the older woman pointed to the purse. “I need to catalyze a sea-widow’s burden,” she said, as if that put a bow on her behavior.

  Abby bit her lower lip and put her arm around the child carrier, the smooth gesture of a confident first date in the dusk of a dollar cinema. Had Abby not felt so low, she would have found the strength to stand, make a pleasant excuse, and take leave from what she was beginning to ascertain was a homeless person.

  “Hah!” Maren exclaimed. A tiny blue phial and a packet of folded waxpaper, crinkly-dry and yellow at the creases, emerged from the durable purse.

  With a stern glance at the nearby tree, Maren pulled an elaborate, noisy necklace from her clothes. She removed a tiny measuring spoon, held it flat, and tapped the browning cellophane until a fine dust slipped into the curve. Maren poured the portion into her palm and swept the clanking necklace inside her blouse.

  The phial’s cork popped with a note of brass and water. Maren shook the blue bottle, upended it, and Abby could plainly see that there was nothing inside. Maren rolled the cork to the corner of her mouth, muttering oaths. The cork, Abby noticed, was a pink eraser removed from a school pencil.

  She smiled indulgently. “Empty?” Abby asked, feeling she should say something.

  “Shouldn’t be. There was a good, long cry in here. Gets thick as bearing grease after a time.” Maren stared at the tiny mouth of the phial for some seconds. “Horsefeathers. You may be right. Oh, but that is a difficult journey for old bones to undertake.”

  “Is it from the pharmacy?”

  “What? Don’t be daft. There’s no signature for these; I nearly died to obtain what little was here. Young I was, too—and not alone. Revenge is yet sought for our survival. Thank the starlight they do not stray far from their island. If this has dried, I’ll have to… no, here is one now. Look, a scout is coming.”

  A tiny bead formed on the lip of the phial. Cod liver oil, if Abby had to guess. Her elderly companion’s hands were completely steady, and the breeze that had accompanied much of the day stilled suddenly.

  “Come out and sing for us,” the old woman urged. “Do you not smell the lives lost? Sailors adrift, their fear spicing the air?” Maren brought the finely-ground powder nearer to the lip of the little bottle.

  “Sailors?”

  “Hush.
It’s coming around. We must have woken it, don’t you think? I don’t know if teardrops keep a schedule. Could they hold to a routine in such a dark bottle?”

  “I—” Abby said, decided the question had no answer that normal discourse had prepared her to supply, and fumbled to a halt. Maren was in a new moment, watching as the droplet hit the tiny scoop of dust.

  Bulging knuckles cracked as the old woman balled her fist around the two ingredients. She stoppered the phial and slid her tongue along the packet of cellophane, adhering the edges like an old-fashioned postage stamp. Both objects disappeared into the bowling bag.

  “There, that’s ready then,” Maren said, and leaned back, kneading the droplet with finger and thumb. Maren cackled happily to herself, and Abby’s mood lifted despite the absurdity. Maren’s energy reminded her inexplicably of Gramma.

  Maren crossed her legs like a man, stuck the tiny ball of paste momentarily on a neon shoe, and drew a large square of cardboard from within the purse. She began fanning the record album at her face.

  “Are you warm, too?”

  “A tad. Thought I’d wave handsome young men in my face. I’ll be lucky not to overheat.” She cackled in good humor and aimed an elbow in the direction of Abby’s ribs.

  Abby read what she could of the LP’s artwork. “Is that a record?”

  “It is. A band of brothers. I had a recipe that called for rock and roll,” Maren confided, flipping the cardboard over and nervously reading text on the back. “Yes, it’s the right one. Can you imagine if I’d dropped a comedy album? I’d have regretted that batch of spinsters like none other. This is their full-length debut, this group. They’re a throwback.”

  “Are they any good?” Abby pointed to the album cover, mindful that Maren might get off-track.

  “I am told this record is exquisitely uneven, but you know how hype can be. I’ll tell you this: I revolved a single from their EP until I was forcibly ejected from a guitar store. Just had to clap along, don’t you know?”

  “Have you heard it yet? This record?”

  “Nope. Never will. I have this sleeve for a keepsake, but the virgin black vinyl was a sacrificial ingredient. The penalties for listening are severe. You can picture what I mean… say I recognized their heartbeats as one does a catchy riff on the radio—unforgettable. I would become attached. Then they would become attached, and then… one does not simply make attercops,” Maren advised, her voice rough despite a wan smile.

  “Oh,” Abby said, regretting her decision to ask an innocent question, or what had seemed like one.

  Politics, religion, and music. She should have known. Back when small things could cause large fights, she had left John for a weekend when he’d refused to agree “Juke Box Hero” was not the only great track Foreigner had in the tank.

  “They have ‘Head Games’ and ‘Double Vision’ and ‘Headknocker’ and…” Abby sat bolt upright, certain she’d spoken aloud.

  Maren said nothing, although she stopped fanning herself, bent the album cover into fourths, and deposited it into the bowling bag.

  Her watery green eyes scanned the waving grasses and tufts of brush where a light breeze was moving again. Seizing the moment, Abby disappeared beneath the sunshade, holding a one-way conversation with her daughter.

  The elder woman dabbed at her mouth with a napkin—one of many that she’d swiped from a gourmet hamburger stand. Abby cooed and probed and talked about a stinky-dinky pumpkin. Maren rolled her eyes and sucked at hollow cheeks.

  Abby’s head popped back into view. “She needs changed,” the young mother explained, lifting crinkled elastic for confirmation.

  Maren swallowed a mouthful of saliva and blinked as if reviewing the words. “Changed? Into what? No, you won’t want to… does it want a change of scenery? Try a larger park—you could watch the trees blush as they lose their clothes.”

  “I meant Kenna’s diaper. Her diaper needs changed.” Abby made a squinting face of apology and looked at the space Maren occupied.

  The elder woman plucked a leaf from her silver hair and examined it closely. “Change a diaper,” Maren said, returning the leaf to her hair. “Well, best of luck to you there. You’ll consume a cabinet of rarities. I will call you fortunate if you end the day alive and holding a plug of lead.”

  “I’m sorry. I… I haven’t slept much lately,” Abby noted, trying to recall if she’d said that aloud previously. “I’m not following.”

  “I am a poor follower myself.” Maren looked at the diaper. “Used to be you had to scrub at nappies like that, but that’s the newfangled kind. If you want my advice, save yourself an alchemist’s rage and a peck of other trouble: swap the used one for a replacement. I am told diapers are now like wolves. Didn’t that come in a pack?”

  “I’m not… Are you joking? Of course you are!” Abby laughed airily. Kenna gurgled, kicking fat legs from her four-point harness. “I’ll just… I’ll change it, then,” Abby said, looking meaningfully at the insufficient space afforded by the bench, then at Maren… then at the patch of buffalo grass below. Abby sighed.

  Maren watched with detached interest as the carrier was wrestled to the ground. Abby was tall, strong of arm, and she managed a soft landing.

  With the seat on the ground, Abby prepared a changing mat: first was an aluminum solar reflector meant for use on a windshield; this was followed by a thin blanket, and on it went.

  The diaper-change proceeded with an economy of motion: implements and supplies were produced limitlessly from a diaper bag the size of a military satchel.

  Maren reached for her tattered bowling case; her hands locked as the wind shifted. “Pounded glory, its stink has reached me. What did that infant eat? Ribeye?”

  “No, it… she only drinks milk.”

  “Incredible. I had forgotten the scent. It’s to be expected, milk doing that. My stomach won’t take cheese. I love a nice esrom, but I might as well eat a cannonball. Stops me right up.”

  “Oh, that’s… really interesting,” Abby said, worry lines creasing her brow as she worked. She seemed to have more than two arms, her hands filling with moist wipes, baby oil, powder, white paste, and two formerly identical diapers—the full one she held rigidly with her fingertips, high and open, a legacy of three summers as a server in a roadside café.

  Maren rolled the bead of plum-colored caulking in her hand and tossed the ball into the diaper’s vulgar contents. She smiled in wide satisfaction as Abby’s hand drooped.

  The diaper began to sag like a circle of pizzeria dough interrupted mid-toss. Abby added a series of baby wipes to the mess rapidly, frowning as the diaper slumped past her wrist.

  “Sea-widow’s burden,” Maren whispered, reminding the spell of its purpose, and Abby’s arm dipped lower still.

  With her primary objective complete, Maren observed the remaining steps, sucking at a tooth. She nodded with approval when Abby folded the diaper and sealed it with two adhesive tabs.

  The worst of it over, Abby blew a stream of air at the sweaty bangs in her face. “Goodness,” she managed.

  Maren pointed. “Can you take that apart?”

  “The diaper? No, thank heavens. You can reuse the tabs if you go over the places where they… once you touch plastic, it’s game over.”

  “Shall I take that abomination to the garbage pail?”

  “Oh, no, thank you. It’s heavy, and it’s springing a leak. I’ll have to find a way to—” Abby gestured helplessly with the disposable diaper.

  “I meant the child. No matter. Does it want milk?”

  “Not yet. First I need to… it’s too much info, but I… I got poo on my hands. I had an extra packet of wipes. I’m sure I did. Now I’ll have to find a… I could be back in a flash.”

  “Haven’t seen a child give suck in ages,” Maren said, her face wrinkling like a peach gone over. “Time was, they’d burn you at the stake if you flashed a teat in front of God and everyone.”

  “I don’t fla… I pump, then I use a bottle. I
n public, I mean. My grandmother was arrested for burning her bra. Gramma was a special lady. She’s gone now.”

  Maren nodded solemnly. “They have dispatched more of our kind than I care to remember. You look tired, Abigail. Children are the root of that. Is it your first?”

  “It? Oh, Kenna’s… our daughter. She’s what we have. John—”

  “—You hail from the old country?”

  “Hail?”

  “No, you wouldn’t. Never know unless you ask. It’s clannish folk back there. They get easier.” Maren swirled her finger in the air, her knuckles the size of pine knots. “Babies.”

  “Yes, people say… we thought we might stop after… we talked about stopping,” Abby said. She puffed a breath and blew a red ant back into the buffalo grass.

  “We?”

  “John. My husband. He’s overseas. Deployed. We thought we… he wants to try again. He says he doesn’t, but when he looks at Kenna, I can see it in his face. Not that he doesn’t… he loves her oodles. But when we get into the glitter and the ponies and hair clips… so we might try again, you know? For a boy.”

  Maren placed her hands on her knees, rocking as if the bench were a small boat. “What does a man have to do with such decisions?”

  “Sorry?”

  “Men. They like to talk about how many pups to pop. Easy to open your trap when you don’t have to open your legs. Any animal can plant a seed and run away.”

  “Yes, I… you’re probably right,” Abby said absently, wiping at a stain on her hand. “I… I want one, too. Another child.”

  “A male?”

  “Right.” Abby pointed to the infant. “This is Kenna.”

  “I heard you before. Born of fire.”

  “Hmm?”

  “Common name. Used to be—but you’re no Celt.”

  “Oh, we just used a book that… we liked the sound of it. Kenna captures her. I think it does. Now, my name. Abby. Abigail—ugh. Sounds old-fashioned.”