Fiction: Mother

Mother

Uncle Gary was the last to leave the reception. He said something like “hang in there kiddos”, hugged his nieces, waved to his nephew, and went out the front door.

“Finally,” Jack groaned. Then, proceeded to make himself another heaping plate of crackers with sweaty lox, living room-aged cheese, and not-so-cold cuts.

As he crossed the living room, he could feel the eyes of his older sisters Abigail and Annie boring into the back of his skull. Were they literally trying to read his mind? He shook off a chill (caused by the quick breath from the door or his icy siblings).

He plopped down into the Laz-E-Boy still called Daddy’s chair. A few Chicken-in-a-Biscuits leapt down onto the white carpet. He immediately stooped to the rescue. When he sat up both of the women were indeed glaring at him; the little girls from The Shining tired and middle-aged, but still creepy as hell.

Jack knew better than to ask ‘what?’

“What?” he said with a full mouth. They were going to tell him anyhow.

“Firstly, this is not a conversation any of us want to have. Secondly, it has been in the family since time immemorial. Its fate and care have always been decided by the whole family. No single person has ever had full control. Mother insisted that we handle this situation before Annie and I leave Rockwood, so here we are. Where is it Jack?” Abigail asked.

“Where is what?” Jack said.

Both women just looked him until he squirmed, “Jesus Christ you two!”

“Jack, we are only doing what she asked of us?” Abigail said.

Jack looked over at Annie who nodded with that sad eyed Littlefield family hang-dog look (that old chestnut was a favorite of hers). Of course, they would revert to their time-worn bad cop, good sister routine; devil and angel united in cause.

He clanked the heaping plate on the table, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and leaned forward (like he had seen Mother do so many times when talking to vendors).

“The will hasn’t even been read yet, but if you want to talk. Let’s talk,” he said.

“Jack, there is no need to raise your voice,” Abigail sighed, “I suppose this conversation can wait until morning.”

Somehow Annie made her eyes even more hang-doggy.

“Oh no. By all means, sis, let’s hash this out now! The dirt on her grave hasn’t even settled enough for you to dance on…. But could there be a more perfect time to cast lots?” he said.

“Goodnight, Jack.” Abigail said. “Annie, are you coming?”

“Night, Jack,” Annie said.

When she turned back for one last look, he forced a smile that was more teeth than anything. She looked down and followed her older sister upstairs.

Heartless bitches, Jack thought. He hadn’t even begun to grieve, and they had the gall to start clawing for his inheritance. What right had they to anything? Wasn’t it he who stayed in town? Wasn’t he the one who had looked after Mother all these years? Without complaint no less. They show up to watch her die and think they are in charge.

He knew he had to make his move tonight or those old buzzards and their lawyers would surely make theirs in earnest. It was time to feed the mother dough. This was the ‘it’ the sisters had wanted. They rarely called it “It”. In fact, they all called the ancient sourdough starter by name; they called her Mother.

Jack finished his snack. Then, in the fridge light he filled an Oregon Public Broadcasting tote with bottles and cans of beer. It was going to be a long night. He left by the kitchen door and walked across the backyard hugging the bag to muffle any comingled clinks and tings.

Abigail and Annie had left their bedroom window open. Jack couldn’t help but listen to their plotting. He ducked under the trellis like he used to when he spied on the slumber parties his homely sisters had with Briana C. and Sara Hines (the two prettiest girls in school).

“Abby, do you think we could go a little easier on Jack?” Annie asked. “We all lost her. Maybe we could wait awhile before forcing any major changes. You know, take this opportunity to help him become more independent or something.”

“No, Annie. Mother wanted this finished,” Abigail said.

Jack had heard enough. No way Mother would have told them anything of the kind. This was just another one of Abigail’s manipulations. Jack said fuck that. Then he walked along the fence and into the tunnel made by the cedars that reached for the ground. He ducked under and stepped over the long, curled limbs and made his way to the tallest of the Five Brothers. He climbed up the scraps of two by fours to the tree house that still spanned the trunks of the three middle trees. He reached up through the trapdoor still marked “No Girls Allowed” and lowered an old, green Coleman cooler to the ground by the old rope pulley. He lugged it, step by painful step, to the driveway. By a Herculean effort he heaved it into the cab of his old Datsun pickup.

* * *

Orson Keller shook off the chill of an unseasonably cool burst of wind from the Gorge. He pulled up the collar of his thin fatigue jacket and looked into the grass to see what he would see. Watching the blades flutter and shift in the breeze the turf told him, in its fashion, to go stand on the pedestal of the Pioneer statue.

“Okay, okay. Give me a sec to get over there,” he said. He hated to leave his post at the retired bus stop, but this seemed to be of great import.

He crossed the crosswalk to Town Hall Square and stopped a few paces from the Pioneer. Statues had always given him the creeps, even in broad day light, so getting up close to this silent giant was not something he wanted to do (not even a little bit). His desire to honor Mrs. Littlefield is what ultimately stirred the courage in him to approach the damn thing. Orson had not attended the funeral. The old lady would understand. Too many people. Just the thought, of all those sweaty bodies uncomfortably stress testing the seams of moth-balled dress while sighing and sobbing all over one another and hovering over the cold empty body in the silk-lined box, turned his stomach. This vigil was a more fitting and less nauseating way to honor the old bird. Mrs. Littlefield’s own grandmother had been the model for the great seated statue of the Pioneer Mother on the other side of Rockwood City Hall.

Orson ambled through the ferns and ground cover and up the base of the Pioneer. As much as he hated to, he forced himself to put an arm around the larger-than-life figure like they were frat bros walking home from a kegger. He braced himself. Then, there it was, the pinch behind his left eye. A tiny prospector was in there with a pickaxe going for broke on a nerve until there played plain as day another vision of the future or the past…

The woman gathered up the babe whose fussing was well on the way to a full-throated shriek. She went out the front of the covered wagon and pulled the heavy flaps closed behind her. The instant she freed one heavy breast little Lizzie hungrily latched on and began to nurse; making little sounds like a dreaming kitten. She looked eastward back to the perfectly fine home they had left. All them stars, are closer than Ohio now, she thought.

She gasped at the sudden pain. The baby was starting to teeth. When they had begun this God-forsaken journey the little lamb was but two months old. From inside the wagon came the sounds of stifled sobs.

“Is that you cryin’and carryin’ on?” Abigail asked sternly.

No response from behind the canvas was forthcoming.

“Lee, you’ll wake the children. Come out here and sit with me,” she said.

Lately, it felt as though the big, strong man who had started this journey had been stolen away by wolfman faeries and a sniveling changeling had been left in his stead. The man came through the flaps put his head in his hands and cried.

Suddenly, the stars fell. No, it was snow. Some time had passed, and Orson saw a circle of ragged wagons sitting in axle deep snow. Again, the woman from before issued from the canvas flaps of the front of her wagon.

* * *

In the parking lot of Freddy’s One-Stop Shop Jack ran back to the truck and dropped a 10 lb. bag of Bob’s Red Mill flour and a 2-gallon jug of distilled water on the passenger side floor. He buckled and cinched the seat belt around the Coleman and was back on the road.

At the Main and Stark four-way stop in Rockwood proper Jack noticed that Orson Keller was not sitting at the old bus stop. Strange, Jack thought, he should be out there belting out the soundtrack of St. Elmo’s Fire and dancing with his boombox. Jack hit the gas and found the old man in his headlights. He slammed on the brakes skidding to within a foot of the man who didn’t even blink.

“Orson! What the hell?” Jack yelled.

“I knew you wasn’t gonna hit me Jack,” Orson graveled in reply.

Jack palmed his forehead.

Unphased, Orson asked, “Brother, you got a beer to spare?”

“What makes you think I’ve got any?”

“If you don’t that’s cool. But seeing as how you nearly mowed me down in the crosswalk…”

“Alright, hold on,” Jack said as he wrestled with his engaged and jammed seat belt to reach into the OPB bag.

“…and you didn’t come to a full and complete stop.”

“You’re a cop now?” Jack said as he handed Orson a tall boy of Oly.

“Hey thanks. I hate to be a bother. Any chance you got a Budweiser?”

Jack rolled his eyes, “Jesus, Bud Light okay?”

“Even better,” Orson said as he cheerfully exchanged the can for the bottle. “How come you ain’t keeping your beer in there?” He said pointing to the cooler. “And what’s all that stuff for?” He said nodding at the flour and water.

“You know Orson for a man who claims to “see all” you sure ask a lot of questions,” Jack said covering the goods with the tote bag.

Orson wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his fatigue jacket.

“Jack, I’m real sorry about your ma,” he said looking like he was about to break down and cry.

Jack thought, Yeah you’ll miss the free loaves she gave you every day, but said, “Thanks pal. I hope you know that she considered you a great friend.”

Orson looked up with glistening, grateful eyes and nodded. There was an awkwardly long silence.

“Hey, I’ll ride out there with you if you want some company,” Orson proffered.

“Out where?” Jack replied.

“Wherever you’re headed.”

“You know, Orson, I really appreciate that. It’s been a long day. I think it best I keep my own counsel tonight,” Jack said hoping to let the old guy down easy.

A serious look clouded Orson’s features as he said, “Oh. Well, ok…just whatever you’re scheming. Don’t do it.”

“Thanks again for your invaluable advice,” Jack said as he pulled away.

At the end of the block he could hear Orson and the boombox already going, “I gotta be a man in motion…” Jack stomped the accelerator to the floorboard.

* * *

“No, Annie. Mother wanted this finished,” Abigail said.

“Did you hear something?” Annie asked.

“We have to put our collective foot down. Mother spoiled Jack. He has no idea what she gave to keep the bakery up and running for him. She gave her blood, sweat, and tears for him.”

“Mostly, blood,” said Annie.

“Oh shit. He really doesn’t know does he?”

Annie said, “We have to tell him. Like now.”

* * *

The gate at the top of the quarry was closed. Strange because no one from the company had been up there in years. Jack got out and inspected. No lock, just a chain wrapped at the handle. He pulled it loose, pushed the left gate open, and drove in.

He went over the plan:

1. Go down to the cave.

2. Feed the mother dough flour and water.

3. Wait. Catch a few Z’s in the truck.

4. Take a hunk of the dough.

5. Hide the mother.

6. Return to town.

7. Bake it and open the shop like nothing had happened.

8. Prove to his sisters that he knew how to run the place…and the town would see that he had talent as well.

The first step went off without a hitch. He drove down to the mouth of the large hole in the rockface. It was originally called the Party Cave because it was where the Littlefield Wagon Party had sheltered during the blizzard of 1847. By the time Jack was in high school it was only known as the Party Cave because it was where Juniors and Seniors partied.

The second began easy enough. He placed the cooler with the dough, flour and water, and his measuring cups out onto the hood of the truck. He would work by moonlight. He washed and dried his hands, cracked the cooler, and gingerly pulled out Mother’s pot. He measured out the flour and the distilled water.

He had never fed her before. No matter how early he arrived at the shop his mother had already finished the daily maintenance of the ancient sourdough starter. Jack took a deep breath and plunged his hands in and went to kneading. The cool dough squished between his fingers and enveloped his hands like lambskin driving gloves. It was very sensual. Inexplicably, there was a sudden warmth as if the dough had started to bake itself. The heat radiated up Jack’s arms, over his shoulders, and at the same moment up to his scalp and down his back and chest. This twinkle of feeling ran all the way to his feet. But like a bad water tap this subtle warming quickly ran from tepid to scalding hot. Jack screamed bloody murder.

* * *

Orson saw Abigail with little Lizzie bundled in a shawl at her front and a rifle slung at her back. In the hush of predawn she crunched away in the snow, as quietly as she could, from the circle of wagons. Lee would never allow her to go out like this. But when had he last brought any meat back to camp? She’d be damned if she was going to let her babies go hungry another day for his pride.

She thought she would hike down and sit a spell by the creek. Animals, hopefully deer, might come get a drink to start their days too. She found a spot between two large rocks that blocked the worst of the wind piping down the valley. From there she could see the nice flat part of the bank where it was easiest to reach the water. She closed her eyes and smelled the top of Lizzie’s head. God bless the little thing, Abigail thought, she was like a warm loaf of bread from the oven. She prayed or wished she never saw much of a difference.

There a some rustling of leaves from the direction of the beach. Whatever it was it sounded much smaller than a deer, but Abigail’s heart leapt into her throat, nonetheless. She opened her eyes and slowly peered around the rock to her right. A few dusky brown rabbits sat on the sand sniffing the air. She carefully laid Lizzie down a few feet up the bank away from the water. She crawled back to where she had been sitting. She cocked the rifle. The rabbit closest to the water turned one of its ears but didn’t move. Abigail raised the gun to her shoulder. She sighted the animal, breathed out slowly, and pulled the trigger. BANG!

The rabbit popped up and dropped back to the sand a few feet away and the recoil kicked her flat onto her backside. Baby Lizzie wailed. Abigail saw to the girl, retrieved the rabbit, and started back. She was just thinking how nice it would be to have bread to dip into rabbit stew when she stubbed her toe on a tree root. She tripped headlong almost falling onto the baby. She dropped the rabbit and caught herself at the last moment. Miraculously, Lizzie did not wake. Still on her hands and knees Abigail gave the offending tree the evil eye. There in a hollow in the base of the trunk sat a large, smooth off-white mass. It was clearly not snow. Upon closer inspection the thing had the tell-tale pungency of sourdough starter just like her mother used to keep. She touched it. It was dough! She looked down at her hand which moments before had been covered in tacky rabbit blood. It was spotless. Abigail looked around, pulled the stuff from the hollow and cradled it. She didn’t dare cry. Tears would surely freeze.

Camp was just beginning to stir when she got back. The whole wagon party watched her hike out of the rising sun. She had her husband’s rifle slung over her shoulder and the sleeping babe strapped to her front. From one hand a limp rabbit hung. With the other she carried what look like a white rock. She set the things down and handed Lizzie to a furiously silent Lee and went about skinning the bunny with a rapt audience.

Everyone heaped praise on Abigail. Over the stew and bread, she made and shared with the party she said that it “had been a lucky shot is all.”

Not so lucky when it came time to turn in for the night. Lee had not spoken a word of thanks or said anything to Abigail all day. However, when she had gotten the kids down and gone back outside to do the cleaning up Lee followed her.

“Abigail, how dare you defy and shame me in front of the party?” He spat.

Taken aback she replied, “That was never my intention. I got lucky. Went down to the crick for water and was blessed with a rabbit and that dough.”

“You needn’t have done it. I bring home the game and you keep house,” Lee said.

“What game? What house?” Abigail asked turning on him.

“You, ungrateful whore!” Lee said and he slapped her hard.

Abigail was knocked against the table and both she and the pail with the remainder of the sourdough starter fell to the snow. Just as he lunged to really start the beating, she picked up the bucket and blocked the first and only punch. With his right hand and most of his forearm sunk deep into the dough he wrenched it from her. He tried to shake it off, but the pail held fast. He pulled and pushed with his other hand to free himself. Nothing worked.

“Get this damn thing off me, you bitch!” He cried.

She couldn’t help but laugh.

He issued forth an inhuman scream and suddenly his arm was free…most of it. The pail dropped heavily to the ground from what was left of Lee’s arm. He ran from the circle of wagons spraying a jagged red laceration into the snow. Some of the others ran out to Abigail and she could only point to the dark figure retreating into the night. She dug into the dough. Where had the hand gone?

The men found Lee’s body in the morning. His pooled blood had melted him a shallow grave in the snow. Abigail found a few stray fingernails in the starter which she threw into her cook fire. The others in the party began to see her as the de facto leader. She did her best to play the grief-stricken widow. Gawd, how she hated to be false! Every night in the dark under the canvas of her wagon she went to bed with a smile.

* * *

Jack’s sisters ran out to the garage in nothing but housecoats. They pulled the dusty tarpaulin from Mother’s strawberry malt Cadillac. Annie said she would drive. It was about time Abigail let someone else take the reins. She turned the ignition and the car roared to life like it had been waiting to pounce. She slammed the accelerator floorward and they tore down the alley to Stark Street.

They raced through downtown. As they ran the four-way stoplight. Abigail saw old Orson Keller singing St. Elmo’s Fire with an arm around The Pioneer like they were old drinking buddies. She guessed they were. She heard him holler, “Jack is at the Party Cave!” She told Annie to turn at Quarry Road.

Annie fishtailed the Caddy from turn to turn until the gravel road straightened out on the last leg to the cave. Annie slammed on the brakes. This caught Abigail off guard. When the car settled some, she pushed herself back from the dashboard and said, “What the hell?”

Annie only pointed out of the windshield. Staggering down the middle of the road was Jack. Their little brother was covered in a mud of flour and blood. His right hand and arm were missing up to the elbow. He held the mess of a stump with his left.

The women jumped out of the car and Abigail fashioned a tourniquet from a length of fabric she tore from the hem of her housecoat.

“Jack, oh, Jack!” she cried as Annie helped the broken man into the backseat.

“Abigail.” Annie said, “Abigail! You coming?”

As they barreled back through Rockwood’s tiny downtown toward Columbia General Jack thought he saw Orson Keller raise a hand to wave. Then, the old man shook his head as if to say silly me. Orson pulled his hand back into the sleeve of his parka like a kid feigning amputation. He waved with the “stump”.