Yet there was something about the idea that I also liked. It was pure Frank through and through, all crazy and no sense. But maybe it only seemed crazy because no one had done it yet. There was something noble about its futility. The seed of it, the core idea, was what was truly important. Frankie was right on one count—there were people in the world who needed help getting their voices back. A lot of people. Maybe it was something I could think about in the future, after the baby was born and things were a little more stable. If they ever were going to be stable, that is…which seemed to me, at the time, to be a pretty big if.
“Franks?”
Nothing.
“How much longer are you going to stick around?”
I don’t know.
“Try not to spook me too much, all right?”
If spirits could smile, this one did. The old Franks was still there, though not quite as loopy. I guessed whatever had ailed him in life, his schizophrenia and his Fanex problem, was gone now; but he was still essentially Frankie, whatever that meant. That part was never going to change.
I sent away for catalogues of baby things and paged through them, disbelieving the prices. Almost everything was out of my range. My child was not going to have the Busy Hands Play Table or the Roll-n-Ride Fire Engine. Neither would it know the pleasures of the Brain Teether or Baby’s First Cell Phone. It would play with the same dolls I had played with as a girl, and it would learn to love the woods as I had loved them, as soon as it could walk. That would have to be enough.
Neither, it appeared, would my baby have a father. It would have me, and my mother, and Miz Powell, for as long as she was around. That, too, would have to be enough.
In the first week of December, when the third storm of the season had come and gone, there came a hesitant tapping at my front door. I opened it to see Chester Burgess, hunting cap in hand, a light dusting of snow on his shoulders.
“Howdy, Chester,” I said. “Come on in.”
“Thanks,” he said. He stepped inside and stood in the vestibule, smelling of cold, kicking the snow from his boots. I helped him out of his coat, trying to hide my excitement at having my first customer. I’d set up two chairs and a table in the consulting room, and I offered him a seat now, sitting down across from him.
“Early snow, eh?” he grumbled.
“Yeah. How’s things?” I asked.
He cleared his throat, looking embarrassed, scanning the bare room meanwhile. I didn’t bother apologizing for the lack of furniture.
“I just come by t’ask if there would be anything else needed of me,” he said. “I was going t’drop off another box last week but the missus said I oughta check in first, see if it was still needed. Word is,” he said, dropping his voice, “she ain’t around anymore. Herself, I mean.”
“She’s, ah, moved on,” I said, knowing he meant Grandma. “I don’t think she’ll be back.”
“Right,” he said. “So she don’t need anymore—”
“There’s nothing else you need to do, Chester,” I said. “You’ve paid in full. I know she appreciated everything you did for her.”
Chester sat back gingerly in his chair, still holding his cap, looking neither relieved nor displeased.
“Right,” he said. He made no move to leave.
“Was there anything else? Anything troubling you?”
“Um,” he said.
I looked him over quickly with a critical eye. There was something, all right—I could tell by the way he was sitting.
“You peeing a lot, by any chance?” I asked.
He breathed a sigh of relief, as if he was glad he didn’t have to say it himself. “Lord, Haley,” he said, “it’s getting’ so bad, I’m afeared to go to sleep at night, lest I wet the bed. Ten or fifteen times a day, seems like. And nothin’ to help it.”
“Painful, too?”
“Oh, is it ever!”
I nodded. “You haven’t been to a doctor.”
He colored. “Heck,” he mumbled. “Ain’t got any insurance. No way to pay for a doctor.”
“Give me your hands,” I said.
He stuck his reddened and callused meat-hooks over the table, and I took them in my hands and held them with eyes shut. I only needed a moment, but I took a little longer. I didn’t want to appear unprofessional.
“Stick out your tongue,” I commanded.
He did. I looked at it carefully.
“It’s your prostate,” I said. “It’s enlarged, and it’s pressing on your bladder. Your urethra’s affected, too. Pretty common in men your age. How old are you, Chester?”
“Sixty,” he said.
“I can make the swelling go down,” I said. “Eventually you’re going to have to get it looked at. But for now, I can give you some things to take that will help you. All right?”
Chester looked almost happy. “Right,” he said.
“Wait here,” I said.
I went into the basement and got some dried horsetail, enough for a few months. I added a jar of tincture of buchu, rare and almost impossible to grow in this climate—one of the few herbs that actually required attention to cultivate. I put it all in a plastic shopping bag and came back upstairs. Chester was standing by the door, his eyes wide.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
“I heard somethin’,” he said. “Somethin’ weird.”
“It’s an old house, Chester,” I said. “I hear things all the time.”
“Yeah, but I heard me a voice,” he said.
“Your imagination,” I said, knowing full well it wasn’t. “Come sit down again.”
Chester came, reluctantly. I emptied the shopping bag on the table and spread everything out.
“Take this stuff and make a tea out of it, three times a day,” I said, indicating the horsetail. “Before you drink it, add a few drops of the stuff in this jar here. It’s got alcohol in it, so be careful.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
“What do I owe ye?”
“Tell you what,” I said. “I need some wood. I’m about out and this house is freezing. How would half a cord sound?”
“That’s nothin’,” he said. “I can have it here by tomorry.”
“All right, then,” I said. “One other thing, Chester.”
“Yeah?”
“Tell your friends about me. Let everyone know I’m open for business.”
When he was gone, I went and got a bowl from the kitchen and filled it with water. I lit a candle and set it up on the table. Then I sat down and stared into the water. Within moments I had the image I was looking for: Frankie’s face.
“Now you listen to me,” I said. “If you scare one more of my customers I will never, ever speak to you again. I’ll trap your spirit in a jar and bury it, and you’re going to be stuck there forever. Understand? I won’t be pushed around like this, Frankie. Not for a second.”
The Frankie in the bowl wasn’t the real Frankie, or even the real Frankie’s spirit. It was more of a representation, but I knew he was hearing me. The face in the water, as still as a photograph, looked back at me calmly. He seemed more relaxed now that he was dead. Passing on had done him wonders. Also, I had no idea how to trap someone’s spirit in ajar, but I was hoping he didn’t know that.
“Put the candle out if you can hear me,” I said.
The candle sputtered out.
“Right,” I said. “Just so we understand each other.”
My next customer came the following day. There was that same hesitant rap on the door, and when I waddled downstairs and opened it, there was none other than Mr. Shumacher.
“Well,” I said, my heart stopping at the sight of my unborn child’s grandfather. “What a nice surprise.”
“Haley!” he said. “I heard you was liffink here now. Can I come in?”
“Please,” I said. Chester had delivered the wood early that morning, before I was even awake, but the stove hadn’t had time to heat the house yet and I was wearing
about three layers of clothes, which hid the size of my belly. There was no denying now that I was large. I hoped Mr. Shumacher would simply think I was still fat. Yet he made no mention of my belly, or of Adam. It was as if he had just stopped by to say hello.
“You take over from your grandmudder, yah?” he asked, merrily stomping his feet on the welcome mat and taking off his coat. “Dat’s goot. Family tradition.”
“That’s about the size of it,” I said. I sat him down at the table.
“Ve heffent seen you in a vile,” he said accusingly. “You hidink?”
My God, I thought, is it possible he doesn’t know? Has the telegraph broken down?
“I’ve just been busy,” I said.
“Yah, efferyone’s busy dese days,” he said affably. “Vell, I tell you, Haley. I heff a kalt.”
He didn’t know. He really didn’t.
“A cold, huh? How long you had it?” I asked.
“T’ree days. Most times, I get sick, I eat soup, I get better. Not dis time. I don’t know what’s going on. I’m neffer dis sick.”
“Fever?”
“Yah.”
“I don’t have to ask about the runny nose. I can see that for myself. Headaches?”
“Naw,” he said.
“Throwing up?”
“Naw.”
“Diarrhea?”
“Aw, vell,” he said, looking embarrassed.
“Give me your hands,” I said.
Mr. Shumacher’s hands were the largest I had ever seen—he could have held a basketball like an egg. I closed my eyes and felt the blood pulsing through him, and I thought to myself: Oh, shit.
“Is there ever blood in the toilet?” I asked. “After you go?”
His eyes widened, and his hearty demeanor changed. “How you know det?” he asked meekly.
I didn’t answer. “You’ve had this cold longer than three days,” I said. “Right?”
“Vell,” he said, “I didn’t t’ink it vas such a big—”
“Tell the truth,” I said. “It’s very important that you tell me everything. How long have you been sick?”
He looked down at the table.
“A mont’,” he said.
“Right,” I said. “Listen. I don’t want to scare you, but you need to go to a doctor. Today. All right?”
“But, Haley,” he said. “I come to you because—”
“Mr. Schumacher,” I said gently, “I can’t help you. This is beyond what I can do. You need a doctor.”
It’s depressing to see a man that big crumple in his chair, with the look of defeat in his face even before the battle has begun. He sagged, letting his hands fall back into his lap.
“I kent be sick,” he said. “Not dat sick. I heff no time.”
“You have Adam to help you,” I said. “And the other boys aren’t far off, in case it turns out to be something serious.” The in case was for his benefit—it was serious, very serious. And it was the first time I had said Adam’s name out loud since the day I told Mother and Miz Powell I was going to raise the baby on my own. It fell out of my mouth like a stone and sat there between us on the table. At least, it seemed that obvious to me. But Mr. Schumacher didn’t notice it. He had heard nothing.
“Haley,” he said. “Vat is it?”
“It’s your colon,” I said. “There’s something wrong with it. It may not be all that bad. But it is important that you have a doctor check you out. It’s up to you how far you let it go.”
“Ach, mein Gott,” he said. “Em I dyink?”
“We’re all dying, Mr. Schumacher,” I said. “It’s the bargain we made when we agreed to be born.”
His large, pale eyes watered briefly, and we looked at each other for a long time. I had known this man all my life, and I loved him as one loves a neighbor who time after time has bent over backwards to help out, often without being asked. When my father died, Mr. Schumacher had mowed our lawn every week for four years, and never accepted anything for it except a cup of his beloved coffee. The only reason he stopped was because I finally grew old enough to do it myself.
“Yah,” he said. “But mebbe dis iss not de big one.”
“It doesn’t have to be,” I said. “Not if you go into town, today, and see the doctor.”
“All right,” he said. “I’m goink. Vat do I owe you?”
“Nothing,” I said. “I didn’t do anything.”
He brushed that away briskly, as if he would have none of it. “No, really,” he said. “Tell me.”
“Nothing, Mr. Schumacher.”
He sighed. “All right,” he said.
I knew that tomorrow I would wake up and find something on my porch—a frozen turkey, or a quarter of beef, or something like that. People still did things like that around here. It was one of the reasons I would never leave; I loved this kind of give-and-take of vital sustenance. But he would give me my dignity for now, and go his way as if he would give me nothing else.
Throughout that winter, Miz Powell took to coming over to Mother’s for tea more and more, though she was weak and getting weaker. Pure old age, she said, and nothing more. It saddened me to see this paragon of strength slowly withering away before my eyes, but I was careful to hide it from her. The journey was too hard for her to make alone in the snow now, much to her frustration, so Mother would go and pick her up in the car. Often as not I would join them; then the three of us would sit, complicit in our various secrets, enjoying our sisterhood. Mostly, I let the two of them do the talking. I sat and contemplated my belly, awaiting the arrival of the baby.
“You never told the Schumachers I was pregnant?” I asked Mother one day.
“I haven’t seen the Schumachers in ages,” she said.
“Isn’t that kind of unusual?”
“Why? It’s not like I go over there every day.”
“Yeah, but…Mr. Schumacher was over, and he didn’t seem to know anything.”
“I’m sure he doesn’t,” Mother said. Miz Powell nodded.
“Excuse me,” I said, “but I find that kind of hard to believe. And I can’t believe his wife doesn’t know, either. You know the way people talk around here.”
“Well, Haley, I haven’t been talking,” Mother said.
“Nor have I,” said Miz Powell.
“It’s possible that his wife knows and hasn’t told him,” said Mother. “Though I don’t know why she wouldn’t. And I don’t know for sure. I’m guessing.”
“I see,” I said.
“Perhaps she’s waiting to see what you’re going to do,” said Miz Powell.
“What I’m going to do? I’m going to have a baby. What does she think I’m going to do?”
“Elizabeth means,” said Mother, “that Mrs. Schumacher is leaving it up to you to tell people. She’s not going around doing it for you. Which I think is very good of her.”
“As do I,” said Miz Powell.
“So she does know,” I said. “I wonder who told her?”
Both Mother and Miz Powell looked at the floor. I decided to let it go for now. For once, I was relieved someone had taken on something on my behalf. That was one scene I’d be spared.
“Adam got scared when I told him,” I said. “He walked away from me. He’s probably hoping the whole problem will just disappear.”
“Not Adam,” said Mother.
“Hard to believe anyone would be that irresponsible,” said Miz Powell.
“Oh, please,” I said, disgusted at their naïveté.
We celebrated Christmas together at our house, as one family. When Miz Powell tired before it was even time for dinner, she went upstairs and took a nap in one of the unused bedrooms. An hour later, I heard her calling me, and I went up to see what she wanted.
“I can’t sit up,” she said. She was lying flat on her back on the bed. “Can you help me?”
I put one hand under her and lifted her up with no more effort than if I was batting a balloon. “You all right, Miz Powell?” I asked.
 
; “I’m so damned weak,” she said. “I can’t understand it. I’ve never been this weak before.”
“I can help you, if you want,” I said. “I can give you something to make you stronger.”
She jerked her hand away from me. “Stop it,” she said. “I’m not a child.”
“Sorry,” I said.
“I’m old, Haley,” she said. “And that’s all. So don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Ideas about what?”
“About taking care of me,” she said irritably. “I don’t want it and I don’t need it.”
But soon it became obvious that it was easier for Miz Powell to stay at Mother’s than on her own, and she began to go home only occasionally, to get fresh clothes and make sure the house wasn’t falling apart in her absence. She and Mother seemed to tolerate each other surprisingly well. They were the last two I would have figured to get along so nicely, but then I realized they were coming together over something common: me and the baby.
“Your mother seems to be waking up from a long slumber,” Miz Powell confided in me one day. “We’ve had some interesting conversations about her childhood.”
“I bet,” I said.
“It hasn’t been easy for her, you know,” she told me. “But then, you know all about that.”
“It’s only been as difficult as she’s made it,” I said. “It was her idea to close down for so long. I was afraid she’d forgotten everything she learned from Grandma by now.”
“I don’t think she’s forgotten anything,” Miz Powell said. “I think it’s just been a question of her willingness to use it.”
“And?”
“Well, with this baby coming, she seems to have a new fire burning inside her,” said Miz Powell. “We’re so excited, Haley. Are you sure it’s going to be a girl?”
“Of course it’ll be a girl,” I said. “We only have girls in this family. That’s the way it’s always been.”