CHAPTER
twenty-six
The first time my dad took Mother for a stay at the sanitarium he sat us girls down on the couch to explain. Clara and I sat as close together as we could, the lumpy filling uncomfortable under our behinds.
He told us that our mother wasn’t well and that it was best for all of us if she went where the doctors could fix her, that they knew just what to do to make her better. When we’d asked how long she would be gone, he said that he didn’t know but that it would be a long time.
My sister and I sat on that couch for an hour, arms wrapped around each other and sobbing.
“Would a story make you feel better?” I’d asked her, using the sleeve of my sweater to wipe Clara’s eyes.
She shook her head, pushing my hand away.
“What would make you feel better?”
“I don’t want to feel better,” she said. “I don’t want to stop crying.”
“What do you want, then?”
“I want to be sad.” She frowned. “And I want you to be sad with me.”
And so I didn’t try to make her forget about the hurt. We just sat together, not leaving each other’s side for the rest of the day.
We felt and feared and grieved together.
I didn’t leave Clara alone for a moment. I didn’t dare. After I got her out of the tub, she couldn’t even manage to towel herself dry. She wept as I helped her into a fresh pair of underwear and a clean nightie.
When she spoke, she made little to no sense at all. Her words slurred even long after the alcohol wore off. She moved so slowly and leaned on me heavily when I took her to my own bed to sleep.
While she rested, I bandaged her wrist, grateful that she’d lost her nerve.
By then it was nearly time for Albert to leave for the bakery. I peeked my head out the door to let him know he could go.
“I think I should stay,” he said, whispering, and looked past me into the room. “I already called Stan to let him know.”
“You don’t have to . . .” I started.
But then I stopped, hearing stirring from upstairs. Hugo.
“You go on up,” Albert said. “I’ll stay with her.”
I nodded and passed by him in the hallway. He went into the room, sitting on the edge of the bed and holding his hands in his lap, his eyes on Clara’s face.
I might have stayed there, watching, had it not been for Hugo calling out again. I rushed up the steps, feeling light-headed by the time I reached the top.
When I didn’t see Hugo in his room—his covers rumpled at the end of the bed—I put a hand to my chest, afraid for an instant that he’d wandered away somehow.
But then I heard him whimpering. Turning, I saw that Clara’s door was open. He was there, sitting on the floor in nearly the same spot as he’d been after she pushed him out of her bed. He had his knees bent, peaks held against his chest by his arms. Rocking, he never took his eyes off the place where his mother should have been.
“Sweetheart,” I said.
“She’s gone.” He didn’t look my way. “You said she’d be back when I woke up.”
“She is. She’s downstairs,” I said. “In my bed.”
“Can I see her?”
“In a little bit.” I took a step toward him. “She’s resting right now.”
He let go of his shins, letting his legs stretch out in front of him. The fabric of his cowboy pajamas made a whisper sound against the hardwood floor.
“Would you like to go back to bed?” I asked. “Maybe sleep a little longer?”
He shook his head, not moving from his place on the floor. He looked so lonely, I decided to sit with him.
“Can you tell me a story?” he asked.
“If you want one.”
“Yes, please.”
I tried to think of one to tell, one that might give him comfort or encouragement, but found myself at a loss. Shutting my eyes, all I could see was that picture of Clara and me on the tractor with Uncle Gerald.
That was all it took for a memory to spark in my mind.
“Would you settle for one that’s true?” I asked.
“When your mommy and I were little girls, we’d sometimes visit family at their farm,” I started. “They had barns and silos and fields of corn that seemed to go on for a whole mile.”
“Did they have cows?”
“I think they only had one for milking.” I shut my eyes. “But they did have a whole coop full of chickens. All different kinds. Black ones and orange-colored ones. I think they had a few that were white and another one that was striped.”
“Why’d they have them?”
“For their eggs,” I said. “My aunt used to send home a couple dozen eggs with us when we left.”
“Did they hatch into chicks?”
“No. They weren’t that kind of eggs.” I grinned at him. “We used to chase the hens around the yard, trying to catch them. All of us kids—your mommy, our cousins, and me—would see how many we could catch in three minutes. Whoever caught the most would get the first piece of pie at dessert.”
I could just about hear the clucking of the chickens and see their feet kicking up a cloud of dust as they scrambled away from us.
“Once we caught a chicken, we’d put them in the coop, so we couldn’t catch the same one over and over again.”
“That would be cheating.”
“I guess it would,” I said. “Your mommy went last because she was the youngest. She was determined to get every last one of those chickens. You see, nobody else had been able to, not even the cousins who were raised on that farm.”
Clear as day, I could see Clara interlacing her fingers, stretching her arms out in front of her and cracking her knuckles, the look on her face fierce, focused.
“She dashed around the yard, grabbing chickens and rushing them back to the coop.” I couldn’t help but smile. “Faster than anybody else, she got all the hens. I was happy for her and clapped my hands. My cousin Paul, though, was madder than the dickens.”
“Why?”
“Because he was very competitive and hated losing to girls.” I leaned down to whisper in his ear. “She loved to beat him at games because of it.”
This made Hugo smile.
“Just as your mommy was about to let us congratulate her, she saw something near the barn,” I said. “She took off like a shot for the chicken she’d missed, even though the cousins called after her to leave it alone.”
I hadn’t understood why they tried to make her stop and hollered after her to get it, thinking the cousins just wanted her to lose.
“She ran at that bird, hands out in front of her and ready to snatch it,” I went on. “When she got closer to it, I expected it to turn and run away from her. But it didn’t. Instead, it took off toward her.”
Clara had let out a ferocious cry, like a warrior dashing into battle. The chicken had equaled her scream.
“That was when Paul yelled, ‘It’s gonna get her,’” I said. “And he took off running to help her. I followed, not having any idea what the fuss was all about.”
Hugo shifted so he was facing me and crossed his legs in front of him, leaning forward.
“I ran after Paul until we were just a few feet away from your mommy and the chicken,” I said. “That was when I saw the spurs.”
“It wasn’t a hen. It was a rooster.” I caught his eyes. “Just then, that mean old coot spread his wings and jumped into the air, aiming those sharp spurs at your mother. I yelled for her to run, but she thought I meant to go after that bird harder, which was what she did.”
Clara went even faster, spreading her own arms and leaping until she met that rooster in the air. Her body weighing more, she knocked him down on the ground.
“I’ve never seen anyone wrestle harder or longer than your mommy did with that rooster,” I said, shaking my head. “It put up a fight. That rooster was mean. But your mother was meaner.”
Hugo’s smile widened, a good sight for me.
“We tried to pull her off him, but she wouldn’t give up. She was going to win.” I stopped, I had to. The memory had me choked up in a way I hadn’t expected it to. Swallowing hard a few times, I tried to ease the tightness in my throat.
“Did she win?” Hugo asked.
“Of course she did,” I answered, even though the words were pinched. “That rooster eventually let her pick him up. She lifted him over her head and yelled, ‘I win!’”
“And she got dessert first?”
“Yes. But not until after she got a few of her scrapes and scratches tended to,” I said. “Goodness. Did that wrestling match ever make her dirty.”
“I like that story,” Hugo said.
“I do too.”
He crawled into my lap, grabbing my arm and wrapping it around him, his head on my chest. His little body was warm, and I didn’t want him to leave even if I melted into a puddle from the hot room. I could have let him stay there for the rest of the day if only he’d sit still that long.
“I’ve never known anyone as strong as your mommy,” I whispered. “She doesn’t give up easily.”
I kissed the top of his head, feeling his soft hair against my lips and breathing in the still-fresh scent lingering from the bath he’d taken before bed.
Closing my eyes, I pictured Clara standing next to that red barn, rooster in hands raised over her head. Hair a mess and falling out of its braid, dirt scuffed on her arms, legs, and face, dress torn from the scuffle.
Clara the conqueror.
Let there be a little fight in her yet, I prayed.