The Inheritance And Other Stories Part 5

"Can you legally still do that?" I ask with bitterness that mocks, not her, but the society we live in.

"I think so." She stops speaking and swallows. "Pray, Mom," she begs me after a moment. "Pray that when the other girls scream, she loses her courage and runs away. That's my last hope."

"It's a slim one, then. Our Patsy never lacked for guts. Brains, maybe, but not guts." We smile at each other, pride battling with despair. "Once she's said she'll do a thing, she won't back down no matter how scared she is. She'll let that woman cut her up rather than be seen as a coward by her friends."

"It's the baby I feel sorry for," Katie says suddenly.

"Baby?" All the hair on my body stands up in sudden horror.

"Mary's baby. She decided to have her baby done; the midwife is doing the baby first."

I didn't even know Mary had a baby. She is only a year older than Patsy. "But she can't! She has no right to make a decision like that, to scar her daughter for the rest of her life!"

Again the bitter smile makes Katie a sour old woman I don't know. "It's the flip side of the Freedom of Choice Act. The compromise Congress made to get it pa.s.sed. Under the age of fourteen, a parent can make any choice for the child."

"It's barbaric."

"You had Mike circ.u.mcised when he was three days old."

That jolts me. I try to justify it. "It was a different time. Almost all boys were circ.u.mcised then. Your dad and I didn't even think about it, it was just what you did. If the baby was a boy, you had him circ.u.mcised. They told us it made it easier to keep the baby clean, that it helped prevent cancer of the p.e.n.i.s, that it would make him like all the other boys in the locker room."

"They do it without anesthetic."

I am silent. I am no longer sure if we are talking about Mary's baby girl, or my own tiny son, all those years ago. I remember tending to the fresh cut on his p.e.n.i.s, dabbing on petroleum jelly to keep his diaper from sticking to it. I am suddenly ashamed of myself. I had not hesitated, all those years ago. I had charged ahead and done what others told me was wise.

Just like Patsy.

The silence has stretched long and said more than words. "She invited me to be there," I say quietly. "Do you think I should go? Is that like giving my approval?"

"Go," Katie pleads quickly. "If it all goes wrong, you can rush her to a hospital. She won't tell me where it is, and I won't ask you to betray that confidence. But be there for her, Mom. Please."

"Okay," I say quietly.

Katie has started to cry.

"I love you, baby. You're a good mom," I tell her. She shakes her head wildly, tears and hair flying, and breaks the connection.

For a time I stare at my rain forest. Then I get up. There is a backpack in the hall closet. I go to the bathroom and begin to put things in it. Clean towels. Bandaging. I shudder as I put in the alcohol. I try to think what else. There is a spray antiseptic with a "nonsting, pain-relieving ingredient." Feeble. What else should I take, what else?

I draw a breath and look in the mirror. Katie's face is an echo of mine, made perfect. Patsy, I see you in my green eyes and almost cleft chin. They are mine, the daughter of my body and my daughter's daughter. Born so soft and pink and perfect. I make my arms a cradle and wish they were both still mine to hold and protect.

I grope up behind the towels and take it down. Shining silver, it slips from the holster. There is a horsie on the handle. Fred always loved Colts. There is a dusty box of ammunition, too.

I am suddenly calm. Don't be afraid, baby. Not my baby, not Mary's baby, no one's baby need fear. Granma is coming. No one's going to cut you.

I think for a moment of what a mess I'm going to make of my life. I think of the echoes that will spread out from one bullet, and I wonder how Patsy and her friends will deal with it, and what it will do to Katie. Then I know I am too close to any of it to understand. Maybe we should just leave the midwife's body where it falls. In situ. Perhaps in a hundred years or two, someone else will know what to make of it all.

The Fifth Squashed Cat.

Oh my, this one is one of those stories that has so many roots in different parts of my life that it's difficult for me to remember where it began. Certainly it owes much to my days of working in a restaurant. And to many road trips taken in vehicles held together with string and prayers. There is a nod to the friendships that are based not on mutual interests but on proximity and need. Not to mention those mornings after a full moon when some stretches of rural highway seem to be partially upholstered in small furry bodies.

But I think the biggest influence on this one is a small pet peeve I have with many fantasy tales. In so many of them, the main character discovers that he or she is the chosen one, the one gifted, for no particular reason, with the ability to do magic. The protagonist receives the gift and becomes the hero. Or heroine. In the worst of these stories, the magic and the mantle of being the hero is bestowed without effort by or cost to the protagonist.

Herewith, my protest to such tales.

That's the fourth squashed cat we've pa.s.sed today," Cheryl observed as the left front wheel b.u.mped gently. I didn't trust myself to reply. I was trying to remember why driving cross-country to New Mexico with Cheryl had seemed like a good idea. Had working at Ernie's Trucker Inn really been that bad? The grease. The noise. The rude customers. Ernie's flatulence. The peepholes poked through the wall from the men's room to the ladies' room that Ernie would "repair" by poking full of wet paper towels. The witty way Cheryl would shout, "Hey, Sheila! Drop another order of chicken t.i.ts in the fryer. This guy's no leg man." Watching her turn back and simper at some infatuated trucker while I tried to fix six orders at once. All of that had added up to make me believe there must be a better job somewhere.

Chicken t.i.ts. I pulled irritably at my seat belt. Resettled, I focused my eyes down the endless stretch of rainy afternoon freeway. So I had quit my job, to drive to New Mexico, where it was warmer and maybe there would be better work. That much made sense. But why had I chosen to take someone who thought "chicken t.i.ts" the epitome of humor? Why hadn't I realized that the same person would find counting squashed cats an exercise in higher mathematics?

"Hey, where are the Cheetos? I know we had nearly a full bag back here somewhere. You eat them while I was asleep?"

"No, Cheryl, I didn't eat your Cheetos." Nor your Ding-Dongs, Nerds, Twinkies, not even your Jalapeno and Sour Cream Flavored Pork Rinds. G.o.d only knew how I had resisted them, but I had.

She had twisted around and was hanging into the backseat, rummaging for food. I glanced over at her and saw only a pair of blue-jeaned cheeks. She continued to rustle papers and toss unwanted items to the floor. Reminded me of a black bear ransacking a garbage can.

"You sure you didn't eat my Cheetos?" she asked again, a small whine slinking into her voice. " 'Cause remember, when we bought them, you said you didn't like them, and I said, *Okay, I'll eat them, then,' and you said okay. Remember? 'Cause I don't think it's fair if you ate them like that, after you said you didn't like them. If you'd said you'd liked them, I woulda bought two bags and then there would have been enough for both of us. But you said you didn't . . ."

"Cheryl," I said in a level, reasonable voice. "I didn't eat your crummy Cheetos."

"Well, jeez, don't get all bent out of shape about it." She dived deeper into the wreckage in the backseat. "I just wanted to, you know, ask . . ." Her rear end pressed against the ceiling of the car. I wondered what pa.s.sing motorists thought she was doing.

It was then that I saw the hitchhiker. He was carrying a backpack with a green sleeping bag strapped to the bottom of it, and his worn felt hat was dripping water off the brim. He wore old green fatigue pants and a red checked wool jacket and high-laced hiking boots. The hair that stuck out from under his hat was gray. He was hoofing along the side of the road, his querying thumb stuck out almost like an afterthought. I like that, when hitchhikers are walking while they hitch. I never pick up the ones who just stand there with their thumbs stuck out. They're too much like beggars. I like the ones who look like they're determined to get somewhere, whether you help or not. I hit the turn signal and tapped the brakes to get a station wagon off my b.u.mper before I swerved to the shoulder of the road. Cheryl gave a squeal of distress.

"What are you doing?" she demanded, plopping back into her seat.

"Giving a guy a lift," I muttered.

A big grin was splitting his weathered old face as he jogged toward us. I was impressed. The guy had to be at least seventy. Gutty old man, hitching his way somewhere at that age.

"Well, you didn't even ask me! I don't think that's a good idea; I mean, all that stuff you read in the paper, he might have a knife or be an escaped convict or anything. Sheila, pull out quick before he gets here. I never pick up hitchhikers."

I ignored Cheryl, something I was getting better and better at doing. She folded her arms across her chest and started that huffy breathing she always did when she was p.i.s.sed. Used to drive the truckers crazy, big b.o.o.bs bobbling up and down like corks in a swell. Didn't bother me at all. By this time the hitchhiker was standing outside her door, but she wasn't moving. He grinned at me and tried the back door on her side of the car. It was locked, and she didn't move to unlock it. I unlocked the one on my side. He came around right away and opened the door and pushed Cheryl's junk over to make room for himself. He squished in with his backpack on his lap. As soon as he slammed the door, I pulled back onto the freeway. I glanced in the mirror, but all I could see was backpack and hat.

"So where you headed?" I asked. Cheryl was still huffing.

"Where you going?" he asked in return.

"New Mexico," I said, swerving slightly to miss some b.l.o.o.d.y fur on the road.

"Sounds good to me," he said.

Cheryl muttered, "That's the fifth squashed cat we've pa.s.sed today."

"Actually, that looked more like a c.o.o.n to me, missy. Didn't ya see that ratty kind of tail it had? More likely a c.o.o.n. Dead cat, its tail don't look like that lessen it's been rained on a lot, and it hasn't rained all that much yet today. Besides, that one looked near fresh. Cat's tail don't look like that until it's been out there, oh, two, three days. Probably a c.o.o.n. Dumb old thing. Nothing dumber than a roadkill."

About then I was thinking there were at least two things dumber than a roadkill. Possibly three, if you counted the person responsible for getting both of them into the same car.

"You see any Cheetos back there?" Cheryl asked him, her voice brightening. Nothing like shared interests for bringing people together. I heard the sounds of dedicated rummaging, and Cheryl turned, presenting cheeks once more. Great. Well, maybe they'd occupy each other and leave me alone.

"Here they are!" announced the old man, and handed her the bag after helping himself to a generous handful. Cheryl flopped back into her seat again and thrust the bag into my face.

"Here, Sheila, you want some?"

"No." I pushed her hand away and she sat back. The crackle of cellophane and the rhythmic grinding of teeth filled the car. "Why are you going to New Mexico?" I asked the old man. Anything to cover Cheryl's feeding sounds.

"Me? I thought you were going to New Mexico."

"Well, yeah, we are, but when you got in, I thought you said you were going to New Mexico too."

"No." The old man had a cheerful, hearty voice. Nothing old about the way he sounded. "No, I don't think I said that at all. I think I said, *Sounds good to me.' That's what I said. And it does. New Mexico. 'Bout time those Mexicans got a fresh start somewhere. Maybe in New Mexico they'll do things a little better. Their biggest mistake, I always thought, was in having Mexico so close to Texas. Bound to be a bad influence. Glad they got a new place now."

I forced a chuckle at his humor and then glanced at the rearview mirror. His eyes were blue and calm as a summer sky. Not joking. I couldn't think of anything else to say.

"Hey. Hey, missy. Did you say that was the fifth dead cat you pa.s.sed today?"

"Yeah. Only if that's a c.o.o.n like you say, then it's only the fourth." Cheryl sounded disappointed.

"Yeah?" The old man sounded incredibly pleased. "Well, that's good, really, actually, that's good. Fifth dead cat you see is always the lucky one. When we get to number five, now, you just pull over and I'll show you a thing or two about a number five squashed cat. Thing most of you young folk don't know nothing about."

I really wished the radio was working. Maybe I'd check the fuse box at the next gas stop. Maybe it was only a blown fuse and there was an alternative to listening to a dialogue about dead cats.

"Why's it got to be a number five dead cat?" Cheryl was asking earnestly.

"Well, it just does, that's all. You can work it out any way you like. Crystals, pyramids, channeling, or tarot. No matter how you compute it, it always comes out to a number five dead cat. And if you don't believe me, just have your aura checked. Number five, every time." The old man chuckled happily. "Guess I'm just lucky, throwing in with you and having you folks be on cat number four already. Know how long it usually takes me to pa.s.s five dead cats on foot? Days, sometimes. Days! And an old man like me, it's hard for me to go days between number five squashed cats. Gimme a few more of them Cheetos things, missy."

Cheryl obligingly pa.s.sed the bag back to him.

"Only fifty-two more miles to the California border," I observed brightly as my contribution to the conversation.

"There's some Kool-Aid Koolers back there in little boxes, if you want," Cheryl offered. "Would you pa.s.s me one, too?"

The Cheetos bag and a little waxed box of Kool-Aid were pa.s.sed forward. Sensitive as I am, I realized they were ignoring me. Childish as I am, I felt piqued by it. "Wait a minute," I interrupted loudly. "How do you know which cat is the fifth one? Doesn't it all depend on when you start counting?"

"It sure does!" The old man was delighted. "And I'm real glad you saw it right off, like that. Only the fifth dead cat will work, and it all depends on when you decide to start counting them. Ain't that real Zen, now?"

I didn't think it was Zen any more than I thought it was tapioca pudding, but I didn't say so. The conversation lagged.

Cheryl jabbed her straw into the grape box, took a long gurgling sip, and suddenly choked.

"OmiG.o.d!" she exclaimed, pointing down the road. "What's that?"

"Something dead," I muttered, changing lanes.

The old man craned his head forward. "Cat for sure! Look's like a calico, but it might be a Persian with real good tire tracks. Hit the brakes, kid, this here's pay dirt!"

"You've got to be kidding," I said, not even easing up on the gas.

"Please. You've got to!" The old man's hand closed on my shoulder and squeezed like a vise as Cheryl began bouncing up and down on the seat, squealing, "Please! Please, Sheila? Please stop, I wanna see it. It'll only take a second. Come on, Sheila, be a sport!"

So I pulled off on the shoulder, more out of concern for my car's shocks than for any curiosity. Besides, it was the only way to get the old man's grip off my shoulder. I hate being touched by strangers. And the old man was definitely a stranger, and getting stranger all the time. Maybe if I stopped, I could leave him with his dead cat. I wished I could leave Cheryl, too, but she was paying half the gas and it was her cousin in New Mexico we were going to stay with until we got jobs. So I pulled my old Chevette over and cut the engine.

Cheryl and the old man were out before I got the car into Park. I leaned back in my seat. I wasn't getting out. I'd seen dead cats before. Their little mouths are always open, fangs bare, neat pink tongues curled, as if making a final snarl at death. I like animals. Seeing dead ones always gives me a sense of loss, of waste. Tiny little lives, flame bright and candle brief, snuffed out. Probably had been someone's pet.

I glanced in the rearview mirror and nearly gagged. The old man had found a piece of cardboard by the roadside and had coaxed most of the cat's body onto it. The hindquarters were dangling. Obviously everything in the cat's middle was crushed. He was using a stick to poke the rest of it onto his improvised stretcher. Cheryl trotted back to the car and jerked open a back door. Her eyes were wide, her face pink.

"Get in," I said softly. "And let's get the h.e.l.l out of here. Just push his stuff out the door."

She reached in and grabbed his backpack and unstrapped the top flap. She dug into it, pulling out a single-burner hiker's stove, and then an aluminum pot.

"What are you doing?" I demanded. "Just drag the whole thing out."

"What? No. This is all we need. Oh, and Dougie says it would look better if you got out and acted like you were changing the tire or looking under the hood. Okay?"

She didn't wait for an answer, but stepped away from the car and nestled the stove down into the gravel of the ditch and set the pot on top of it. The car blocked the casual glances of pa.s.sing motorists. "Cheryl!" I hissed, but she crouched down by the pot, not hearing me.

I opened my door just as a semi whooshed past. A gust of damp air sucked at me, and a horn blared aggressively. I staggered out in the wake, slamming the door behind me, and hurried around the car.

"What is going on?" I demanded, but I had a sick feeling I knew. Dougie was sliding the cat off the cardboard and into the pot. It didn't quite fit, so he bent it in half and tamped it down with the stick.

"Now we need the canteen of water," he announced, and they both looked up at me like I was supposed to bring it.

"This is sick," I told them. "And I'm leaving."

"Sheila!" Cheryl whiningly protested, even as Dougie asked her, "Well, what's the matter with her?"

I got back in the car and slammed the door. Cheryl opened the door and leaned in. "You can climb in and go with me," I told her. "Or you can pull your stuff out and stay here. But I'm leaving."

"Sheila, why? What's the matter with you?" She looked genuinely perplexed.

"Look. I'm not sticking around while you two barbecue a roadkill. It's disgusting."

"Oh, Sheila!" Cheryl started laughing. She reached over the seat and fished a canteen out of the old man's pack. "We aren't barbecuing anything, silly."

"Then what are you doing?"

"Just boiling it down," she said reasonably. "Dougie says we boil it down to the bones. Then there's this one certain bone, and you put it under your tongue and . . ."

"Oh, gross!"

"It confers perfect health and vitality upon you. Dougie says that's all he does anymore. He used to work for a living, go after that old paycheck, slave away for somebody, just to keep body and soul together. But no more. All he has to do now is hike along the road until he gets to a fifth squashed cat, boil it down, and put the bone under his tongue. Easy. And his life is his own."

Her cheeks were flushed with more than the wind that was blowing her hair across her face. Her blue eyes sparked through the net of her hair. Oh, you True Believer, you!