The Green Lace Corset, стр. 58
The next day, he still hadn’t returned. The weather had grown warm, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. She hoped spring was finally on the way. As she walked onto the meadow, a bevy of quail whirred and scattered from the bushes, and flew away. A red-tailed hawk circled over the pond.
A hefty stag came down the hill. He halted and, although he was still far away, fixed his gaze on her and twitched his elliptical ears beside his six-point-antlered head. Behind him the boulders seemed to move, but as she watched, she saw that it was only more deer, a dozen or so. They traveled toward the pond, drank, and nibbled the grass.
Spellbound, she watched the two young bucks tangle antlers and push against each other in a tug-of-war. They pulled apart and with a crashing sound continued to spar. Mama Doe stared at Sally Sue, then rounded up her family and moved on.
She rushed back to the cabin, itching to write another poem:
Deer
I saw a dozen
this morning
as they crossed
the meadow
under the oaks
to browse on
green grass.
Pair of baby
bucks practiced
sparring, their
twiglike antlers
twisted together
back and forth
in a waltz.
Spotting me,
Mama Doe
froze, circled
her family,
led them away
with a high
hop up the hill.
She stopped, put down the pen. These words didn’t rhyme, but she didn’t care—that was just the way they came out.
Scout must be hungry. She climbed the loft, forked down hay, and brushed his hair until it shone. She struggled to get the bit into his mouth and had to use all her muscles to heft the saddle onto his back. She hopped on him and kept at it until she mastered mounting him and riding around the pen.
The next day, she gathered her courage and rode him out onto the meadow. She practiced shooting her gun. She rolled up the hooked rug, laid it on a fence railing, and beat it clean. Opening the trunk, she pulled out the green satin. She thought about the saloon girl’s outfit and began to dream about what she could make with the fabric and how it would feel on her skin. She wrote poetry and ate leftovers for supper. By nightfall, Cliff still hadn’t returned.
He didn’t return and didn’t return. Determined to shoot as well as Annie Oakley, she practiced for hours, breaking many bottles. She rode daily until her body merged with Scout’s rhythms while he trotted, loped, and galloped. After the fifth day, she could have easily kept going, but didn’t. She had to wait to make sure Cliff returned safely.
Nights were lonely and dark. It was now too warm to make a fire, so she lit the lantern and wrote more poems.
One night she took out the green fabric again, held it up to her body, and considered her options in the mirror. There wasn’t nearly enough to make a dress or a top and skirt. Instead, she devised a design that just might suffice, cut the material, and started sewing a sort of frock.
She had another poem dashing through her head but had run out of stationery. She grabbed her Bible and turned to the 23rd Psalm—her favorite. She dipped her pen in ink, and from her heart to her hand, words spilled onto the Bible’s margin.
Where are you?
Sunset blushes
mountainside
deep pink.
Where are you?
Stars dot dark
velvet sky,
silver sliver
moon rocks like
an empty cradle.
Where are you?
Crickets sing to
welcome night,
owl calls echo,
a coyote wails,
loneliness hovers.
Free to finally go,
but do I want to, though?
39
After Labor Day three weeks later, the first day of residency arrived. Now that Anne was in her second trimester, her belly bulged, but, fortunately, the nausea had passed. To greet museum guests, she should dress more professionally. She opened the closet door and smiled. Maybe she should let out the back strings on the corset and wear that. She donned soon-to-be-too-tight pants and a tentlike top. She folded an old blue dress shirt of Sergio’s she’d brought back from New York into her backpack, brushed her hair, and pulled it back with a headband.
Her phone pinged with a text from him—Bigfoot, good luck today!—along with a gif of a cool Obama in sunglasses that said, You got this! He really knew how to make her smile.
Since the finance-jar incident, he’d checked in daily and sent presents that totally made up for that denigration—sweet gifts like a 100,000 Baby Names book, a rattle charm for her bracelet, and fuzzy slippers that she loved. Her favorite, though, was the miniature fedora just like Sergio’s own. The card had said, Because it’s gonna be a boy.
Even though they weren’t back together, she was lucky her baby would have such a thoughtful father. She didn’t argue with him, even though she was certain it was a girl. The eighteen-week sonogram appointment wasn’t for another three weeks, and Anne couldn’t wait to confirm her sex.
With a sigh, she reread the e-mail Priscilla had sent over the night before: Shared Residency Guidelines from Dr. Priscilla Preston. Oh, for Pete’s sake.
1. Anne will be on the right side and Karl on the left.
2. Arrive thirty minutes before museum opens.
3. Assist each other as needed.
4. Materials are to be kept in an orderly fashion.
That last one was such a dig. Why was Priscilla so horrible to her? Even though at first the discipline plan had been hard to establish, the Saturday group was humming along nicely. Even the twins were behaving. Plus the kiddos seemed happy, and their skills were improving. As much joy as their progress brought Anne, nothing seemed to impress Priscilla.
Just the other day, she’d come in to observe, clipboard in hand and scowl on her face. Spa music was playing. All students were on task, adorning cigar boxes. Anne called them “gawdy boxes” because every inch was extravagantly covered with found objects. The kids and even their parents said this was one of the best projects ever. Still, Priscilla left a note saying the room was a messy disgrace. Hello lady,