Part 3 (1/2)

It was a small detail, but she noticed it at once. To the left of Papa's arm a tiny bubble grew. It popped and was immediately replaced by others. She smiled. Another bubble or two burst and then the mud began to boil. It spit into the air. As if he'd struck oil, it shot up all around him, some of it spattering the wagon's top. The smells of mud, linseed oil and hickory pervaded the air. Papa screamed, lowered his head, and mud filled the sky before slopping back.

And the wheel began to shake.

The hubs of elm, spokes of oak, and rims of ash all set to it. The wagon, all ton and a half of it, trembled. The tailgate opened and closed like a chattering mouth. The tongue shook and the oxen craned their heads, their black eyes stupidly concerned. Papa pulled his arms out, held them to his eyes, black and soaked with mud, and watched the wagon lean forward, disturbing the oxen. They took lumbering steps. After five or six of these, the wheel budged. It turned, then rolled. Painstakingly, they yanked the wheel free of the earth's grasp.

”Why thank you, John,” said her mother, shaking her head, her arms crossed.

Thankfully, the remainder of the morning had been free of concerns. Now, Sarah sat beside her mother, pretending to sleep. ”Can we make it by nightfall?” Mama asked.

Papa nodded, but raised his eyebrows. ”Think so. Not much past, if it comes to that.”

”And he has no idea we're coming?”

He eyed her disapprovingly. ”You know he doesn't.”

”But he'll-”

”Stop it,” he said, glancing past her at Sarah, who quickly closed her eyes. ”She's not like us. We need advice.”

”She's just started the change, John.”

”And who knows what that'll bring?”

They rode on.

The sun was bleeding into the west and smoke rose on the horizon. Sarah's eyes widened and she leaned forward. ”Look!”

Papa jumped. ”What?”

She poked her finger at the smoke. Light beat back the encroaching darkness somewhere in the distance. The town, she knew, lay under the heat of street lamps. She had heard that Tempest was as modern as they came.

”Must not be far.”

”Aren't you excited?” asked Sarah.

Papa kept his eyes on the gray twirling into the gloom. He said nothing. Beside him, Mama stirred. She lifted her head, sat up and stared at the horizon.

Sarah watched as her parent's eyes met and her heart beat faster and faster. She spied a clapboard building. She broke into a sweat. Tempest was coming. It was coming and they weren't going to turn around.

They rolled into Tempest just after the dusk had dissolved into dark. A farmer outside of town agreed to corral their oxen and keep their wagon on his property. After they took a few essentials, they started for town.

The place was larger than Sarah had expected. Main Street was wide enough for three wagons to roll through side by side, and the buildings on either side of the street were too close-there weren't alleys between them, as in most towns. Most of them sported 'Closed' signs hanging in dirty windows. The right side of the street was dark and quiet, while on the left most of the noise in town-and there was considerable racket-was centered within the bright confines of the saloon. Sarah couldn't see over the batwing doors, but underneath them she spotted beautiful balmorals next to ankle jacks and brogans. Unlike in the great city, the cla.s.ses mixed here. Sarah took this as a good sign.

The few denizens they pa.s.sed on the street did not nod their heads or utter greetings. Instead, the moment anyone caught sight of the family meandering down the center of Main Street, they slowed their stride to a luxuriant stroll, eyeing them as they glided by.

The hotel was a block removed from the saloon. It stood two broad stories tall and was lit by kerosene lamps that hung from the eaves. The aromas of coffee and lintel beans wafted from the lobby. Inside, dishes and silverware tinked, and her stomach groaned: she'd eaten only an ear of corn all day.

Papa turned to Sarah and her mother after he stepped under the awning. ”Wait here.” He caught Mama's eye as she was about to protest. ”Just do it.”

Mama sighed, turned, and Sarah followed her gaze. She couldn't tell if her mother was looking across the street, at the various closed establishments, or at the street itself, where blobs of manure hosted flies.

When he returned, he said, ”At least tonight you won't freeze on one side,” and offered an uneasy smile to Mama. He led them inside.

Looming over a wide counter, the innkeeper looked them over.

Chapter Four: Body and Mind.

1.

It rained in Simola Straight all that Sunday. The Liebers stayed in, Veronica reading a Larry McMurtry novel, Jenn playing with her dolls, and Robert scared and alone in his office. Every time he blinked he saw those two dots of blood, and while he knew it could be anything it was exactly this that bothered him: the possibilities.

Although he knew he should, he couldn't stay off the Internet. After consulting a search engine for blood in stool (and eighteen million, four hundred thousand fired back in .18 second) he scrolled through all he could, even telling Veronica he was working on an essay when she called him to dinner. By nine, he was utterly convinced he had either bowel cancer or a positively nuclear hemorrhoid. He knew he should consult his doctor, but found, quite in contrast to his history of hypochondria, he didn't want to know yet. Dogged by aching eyes, he logged off around ten and climbed the stairs, feeling like a ghost. He slid into bed, grabbed the remote and clicked on CNN.

And the world wasn't doing so hot either.

At ten after midnight, his stomach cramped and he bolted up, straight out of a dead sleep. He doubled over, racing to the toilet. After it ended he stayed put, s.h.i.+vering and sweating. He closed his eyes and stood unsteadily, not wanting to look back. But the possibility of an answer was there, the easy answer of a popped blood vessel or a sore. He turned, opened his eyes.

The toilet was filled with blood.

With what seemed a superhuman effort, Robert stepped from the bathroom, tiptoeing to his daughter's room. He pushed at her door and it creaked open. She lay on her side, her arm around a tattered Raggedy-Andy, her opposite hand cupped over her ear. The light slicing through the blinds illuminated the Barbies on the toy chest. The dolls's eyes were like shards of obsidian. He watched her, heard the wheezing her sinus trouble caused, saw her eyes roam behind her eyelids, and his emotions rose. What did Jenn explore in her sleep? Did she have nightmares? More important, did she have dreams? These thoughts made him angry. He didn't want to miss her childhood, or those bad days in junior high when she would believe all the boys despised her. And he certainly didn't want to miss when she discovered they didn't. The tears were hot on his cheeks, and he blotted them with his palm. Jenn's covers rose and fell. He pried his eyes from the form of his only child, scanned her shoe closet, then took a deep breath, reminding himself that there was any number of answers besides the Big C. He had to keep his habit of overreaction in check.

Descending the stairs, he kept his arms out for any light switches. I need a drink, he told himself, hoping that a little alcohol might calm his flighty stomach. Every time he blinked those two p.r.i.c.ks of red wavered on the water, a premonition. ”Calm down,” he whispered. ”You caught something.” His voice, coolly measured as a result of twelve years in the cla.s.sroom, soothed even him.

The bottle was in the cabinet above the microwave. He unscrewed the cap, poured a shot over a cupful of ice. When the whiskey reached the rim, he broke his wrist and the amber liquid splashed over the rocks. He splashed ginger ale over it and raised the gla.s.s. The ice cubes bounced off his lips.

Instead of having the calming effect he'd hoped for the booze just coated him with fresh anxieties. The blood wasn't the scope of his problems. It was a monomania, a distraction. He set the gla.s.s on the counter and crossed the living room to his office.

The complete fifteen-volume set of his mother's diaries was book ended by two unrelated tomes. Sometimes his mother's words calmed him. Always, they mystified him. Every single day, he wished he'd met her.